The sun peeked out from behind the mountain as I climbed higher, breathless and sore. My name is Liang, and I was tired—tired of the noise, the crowds, and the need to prove myself in the city beneath. People in the marketplace kept saying there was a man on the mountain who could answer any question. They called him the Laughing Hermit.
I didn’t understand why they spoke about a laughing man like he was wise. But I had a question. A big one.
“What’s the point?” I muttered under my breath as I stumbled on a root. “I work hard, study harder, and still, I feel lost.”
When I finally reached the top, I expected to see a wise-looking monk in deep meditation, maybe surrounded by scrolls. But what I saw confused me. An old man lay under a tree, laughing loudly as a butterfly flitted about his nose.
“Are... are you the Laughing Hermit?” I asked.
He smiled with twinkling eyes. “I might be. But are you the young man carrying a mountain of questions?”
I blinked. “I guess. I was told you could help. I want to know how to live right—how to stop feeling like I’m chasing something I can’t catch.”
The old man sat up, still chuckling. “Tell me, Liang, did that butterfly worry about the wind today? Did it draw diagrams to plan its flight?”
I frowned. “It’s just a butterfly...”
“Exactly.” He smiled wide. “It flutters when the breeze lets it. It rests when it tires. And yet it dances better than we ever could.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I sat down beside him.
For a while, we just watched the world around us—the trees swayed, birds sang without practice, and leaves floated down without stress.
“Let go,” the old man whispered. “Wu Wei—doing by not doing. When you try too hard, you pull against the current. But the Tao... the Tao is the river. Let it carry you.”
That night, I stayed in the quiet. I didn’t ask any more questions. I listened to the wind and the silence it carried.
In the morning, I found the Laughing Hermit sleeping peacefully beneath the same tree. I smiled and walked back down without waking him.
Later, as I moved through the city again, I began to notice things I hadn’t before. The way children laughed without reason. The way the tea steamed upward like a cloud, not in a rush. The way some things unfolded better when I stopped trying to force them.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push and control everything, I remember the butterfly. I take a breath. I let go. And I laugh.
Just like the hermit.
The sun peeked out from behind the mountain as I climbed higher, breathless and sore. My name is Liang, and I was tired—tired of the noise, the crowds, and the need to prove myself in the city beneath. People in the marketplace kept saying there was a man on the mountain who could answer any question. They called him the Laughing Hermit.
I didn’t understand why they spoke about a laughing man like he was wise. But I had a question. A big one.
“What’s the point?” I muttered under my breath as I stumbled on a root. “I work hard, study harder, and still, I feel lost.”
When I finally reached the top, I expected to see a wise-looking monk in deep meditation, maybe surrounded by scrolls. But what I saw confused me. An old man lay under a tree, laughing loudly as a butterfly flitted about his nose.
“Are... are you the Laughing Hermit?” I asked.
He smiled with twinkling eyes. “I might be. But are you the young man carrying a mountain of questions?”
I blinked. “I guess. I was told you could help. I want to know how to live right—how to stop feeling like I’m chasing something I can’t catch.”
The old man sat up, still chuckling. “Tell me, Liang, did that butterfly worry about the wind today? Did it draw diagrams to plan its flight?”
I frowned. “It’s just a butterfly...”
“Exactly.” He smiled wide. “It flutters when the breeze lets it. It rests when it tires. And yet it dances better than we ever could.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I sat down beside him.
For a while, we just watched the world around us—the trees swayed, birds sang without practice, and leaves floated down without stress.
“Let go,” the old man whispered. “Wu Wei—doing by not doing. When you try too hard, you pull against the current. But the Tao... the Tao is the river. Let it carry you.”
That night, I stayed in the quiet. I didn’t ask any more questions. I listened to the wind and the silence it carried.
In the morning, I found the Laughing Hermit sleeping peacefully beneath the same tree. I smiled and walked back down without waking him.
Later, as I moved through the city again, I began to notice things I hadn’t before. The way children laughed without reason. The way the tea steamed upward like a cloud, not in a rush. The way some things unfolded better when I stopped trying to force them.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to push and control everything, I remember the butterfly. I take a breath. I let go. And I laugh.
Just like the hermit.
