It had been raining all night. The wind whispered through cracked windows, and the sky wept softly onto the muddy earth outside. I remember because I stayed awake, worried—and yet, Old Ping was sound asleep in the open courtyard.
“Won’t he catch a cold?” I asked Master Shen that morning. I was just a young student learning the Way, and I often had more questions than answers.
Master Shen smiled, his beard damp from the mist. “Ping follows the Tao,” he said simply.
“But Master,” I said, pointing outside where Old Ping now stood stretching in the drizzle, “how can someone sleep in the rain and wake up smiling?”
Master Shen set down his tea and motioned for me to sit. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “It’s about a man who forgot his Self.”
I leaned closer. Whenever Master Shen told a story, something inside me always shifted.
“Long ago in the forests of southern China,” he began, “there lived a man who wandered without a name. People called him ‘the Sleeper’ because he often slept beneath open skies, rain or shine. When the wind blew hard, he did not shiver. When the sun beat down, he did not wipe his brow.”
“Was he magic?” I asked.
“No,” said Master Shen, “he was natural. He had no desire to be rich, no need to be known. He ate when he was hungry and walked when he wanted to move. He lived with the trees and birds, and his heart was calm like a still pond.”
“How did he become like that?”
“He once had a name, a home, and goals. But he was always tired, always searching. One night, a great storm came, and he had nowhere to hide. So he lay down under a tree, thinking, ‘I can’t control the storm. I can only rest.’ He expected to feel afraid—but instead... he slept.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Like much in the Tao,” Master Shen said with a wink. “When he woke, nothing had changed—but inside, everything was different. He laughed, not because he was cold or wet, but because he finally understood. When we stop holding on, the world carries us.”
“So,” I said slowly, “Old Ping… doesn’t fight the rain?”
“No,” said Master Shen. “He lets the rain be rain. He lets himself be himself. That is Ziran—naturalness. That is Wu Wei—doing without striving. And that is the Way.”
Later that week, it rained again. My bed was warm, but I thought of Old Ping and tiptoed outside. I let the raindrops fall over me. At first, it was cold. I wanted to run back inside. But I stayed.
Suddenly, I stopped thinking. I just felt. The water, the sky, the trees—they weren’t around me. They were part of me.
That night, I didn’t sleep in the rain. But I understood something about it.
Since then, I haven't chased so much. I don’t grip so tightly. I still get wet when it rains. But now I know—I can let go and let things be. That, I think, is the beginning of finding peace.
And maybe someday, I’ll sleep in the rain too.
It had been raining all night. The wind whispered through cracked windows, and the sky wept softly onto the muddy earth outside. I remember because I stayed awake, worried—and yet, Old Ping was sound asleep in the open courtyard.
“Won’t he catch a cold?” I asked Master Shen that morning. I was just a young student learning the Way, and I often had more questions than answers.
Master Shen smiled, his beard damp from the mist. “Ping follows the Tao,” he said simply.
“But Master,” I said, pointing outside where Old Ping now stood stretching in the drizzle, “how can someone sleep in the rain and wake up smiling?”
Master Shen set down his tea and motioned for me to sit. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “It’s about a man who forgot his Self.”
I leaned closer. Whenever Master Shen told a story, something inside me always shifted.
“Long ago in the forests of southern China,” he began, “there lived a man who wandered without a name. People called him ‘the Sleeper’ because he often slept beneath open skies, rain or shine. When the wind blew hard, he did not shiver. When the sun beat down, he did not wipe his brow.”
“Was he magic?” I asked.
“No,” said Master Shen, “he was natural. He had no desire to be rich, no need to be known. He ate when he was hungry and walked when he wanted to move. He lived with the trees and birds, and his heart was calm like a still pond.”
“How did he become like that?”
“He once had a name, a home, and goals. But he was always tired, always searching. One night, a great storm came, and he had nowhere to hide. So he lay down under a tree, thinking, ‘I can’t control the storm. I can only rest.’ He expected to feel afraid—but instead... he slept.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Like much in the Tao,” Master Shen said with a wink. “When he woke, nothing had changed—but inside, everything was different. He laughed, not because he was cold or wet, but because he finally understood. When we stop holding on, the world carries us.”
“So,” I said slowly, “Old Ping… doesn’t fight the rain?”
“No,” said Master Shen. “He lets the rain be rain. He lets himself be himself. That is Ziran—naturalness. That is Wu Wei—doing without striving. And that is the Way.”
Later that week, it rained again. My bed was warm, but I thought of Old Ping and tiptoed outside. I let the raindrops fall over me. At first, it was cold. I wanted to run back inside. But I stayed.
Suddenly, I stopped thinking. I just felt. The water, the sky, the trees—they weren’t around me. They were part of me.
That night, I didn’t sleep in the rain. But I understood something about it.
Since then, I haven't chased so much. I don’t grip so tightly. I still get wet when it rains. But now I know—I can let go and let things be. That, I think, is the beginning of finding peace.
And maybe someday, I’ll sleep in the rain too.