The sun was low in the sky, painting the clouds pink and orange. I sat outside my grandfather’s house, watching the dust rise from the feet of the monkeys jumping in and out of the trees. It had been a hard day. I was upset because my plan—and I always had plans—hadn't worked.
I’m Bao, a boy who always wants things to go a certain way. If I feed the chickens early, they should be happy all day. If I help my mother faster, she should praise me. But that day, nothing followed my plan. The chickens ran wild, my mother seemed tired, and the monkeys—oh, the monkeys!—refused every bit of food I gave them.
That was when my grandfather came out with his walking stick, his silver hair tied in a small knot. He was once known in our village as a Monkey Trainer, though I never really believed the stories.
“Grandpa,” I sighed, “these monkeys won’t listen. I gave them three chestnuts in the morning and four at night, but they threw them right back at me!”
He chuckled, lowering himself onto the wooden stool beside me.
“Did I ever tell you about the Monkey Trainer in the Book of Zhuangzi?” he asked, squinting at the sky.
“No,” I said. “Is it about you?”
“In a way,” he smiled. “There once was a man who trained monkeys. He told them, ‘You’ll get three chestnuts in the morning and four at night.’ But the monkeys were angry—they wanted more in the morning! So, the trainer said, ‘Fine, then. Four in the morning and three at night.’ The monkeys cheered. But guess what?”
I looked at him.
“He gave them the same number of chestnuts. Nothing changed but the words.”
“That’s silly,” I laughed.
“It is,” he said. “But it’s also true. People think they need things to be a certain way, but sometimes, when we stop forcing things, everything falls into place.”
I thought about my day—how I had tried to make everything perfect. But in trying so hard, I had only made myself upset.
Grandpa stood up slowly. “Monkeys understand when someone is holding too tight. So do people. Try letting go a little.”
That evening, I offered the same chestnuts to the monkeys. This time, I didn’t shout or wave my arms. I just sat and smiled. To my surprise, they came. Quietly. They took the food and even sat with me for a while.
The sky turned dark. Fireflies blinked above my head. I hadn’t done anything special—but somehow, everything felt just right.
That night, lying in bed, I remembered Grandfather's story. The Monkey Trainer hadn’t changed the chestnuts. He had changed himself. Or maybe the monkeys had changed. Or maybe nothing changed at all, and that was the secret.
I didn’t learn everything that day. But I began to see the truth in doing less. And in that stillness, I found more than I ever could by trying too hard.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
Tomorrow, I would try to do a little less—and be a little more.
The sun was low in the sky, painting the clouds pink and orange. I sat outside my grandfather’s house, watching the dust rise from the feet of the monkeys jumping in and out of the trees. It had been a hard day. I was upset because my plan—and I always had plans—hadn't worked.
I’m Bao, a boy who always wants things to go a certain way. If I feed the chickens early, they should be happy all day. If I help my mother faster, she should praise me. But that day, nothing followed my plan. The chickens ran wild, my mother seemed tired, and the monkeys—oh, the monkeys!—refused every bit of food I gave them.
That was when my grandfather came out with his walking stick, his silver hair tied in a small knot. He was once known in our village as a Monkey Trainer, though I never really believed the stories.
“Grandpa,” I sighed, “these monkeys won’t listen. I gave them three chestnuts in the morning and four at night, but they threw them right back at me!”
He chuckled, lowering himself onto the wooden stool beside me.
“Did I ever tell you about the Monkey Trainer in the Book of Zhuangzi?” he asked, squinting at the sky.
“No,” I said. “Is it about you?”
“In a way,” he smiled. “There once was a man who trained monkeys. He told them, ‘You’ll get three chestnuts in the morning and four at night.’ But the monkeys were angry—they wanted more in the morning! So, the trainer said, ‘Fine, then. Four in the morning and three at night.’ The monkeys cheered. But guess what?”
I looked at him.
“He gave them the same number of chestnuts. Nothing changed but the words.”
“That’s silly,” I laughed.
“It is,” he said. “But it’s also true. People think they need things to be a certain way, but sometimes, when we stop forcing things, everything falls into place.”
I thought about my day—how I had tried to make everything perfect. But in trying so hard, I had only made myself upset.
Grandpa stood up slowly. “Monkeys understand when someone is holding too tight. So do people. Try letting go a little.”
That evening, I offered the same chestnuts to the monkeys. This time, I didn’t shout or wave my arms. I just sat and smiled. To my surprise, they came. Quietly. They took the food and even sat with me for a while.
The sky turned dark. Fireflies blinked above my head. I hadn’t done anything special—but somehow, everything felt just right.
That night, lying in bed, I remembered Grandfather's story. The Monkey Trainer hadn’t changed the chestnuts. He had changed himself. Or maybe the monkeys had changed. Or maybe nothing changed at all, and that was the secret.
I didn’t learn everything that day. But I began to see the truth in doing less. And in that stillness, I found more than I ever could by trying too hard.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
Tomorrow, I would try to do a little less—and be a little more.
