The wind was wild that morning, kicking up leaves and blowing the shutters open and shut with loud clacks. I sat on the front porch, clutching my tea with both hands to keep warm. My name is Mei, and I lived at the edge of the village, near the hills where the wind always found its voice.
That day, I saw her again.
She was an old woman, wrapped in three shawls and walking slow. Every morning, she appeared at the same time, walking against the wind, her back bent but her steps steady. No one knew where she came from or where she went. We called her, simply, “the Old Woman and the Wind.”
I had never talked to her, only watched. But that day, curiosity tugged at me like the wind pulled at her scarf. I stepped down from my porch and called, “Auntie, may I walk with you?”
She smiled gently, like I was someone she’d been waiting for. I caught up beside her, and we walked, the wind pushing us back with every step.
“Why do you walk when the wind is so strong?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the flying dust.
She chuckled. "Ah, the wind helps me remember to let go.”
I didn’t understand. "But it’s hard. Wouldn’t it be easier to wait for a calm day?"
“Easier, yes. But easy does not always show the Way,” she said, gently. “The wind doesn’t ask permission. It comes and goes. Just like joy and sorrow. If you fight it, you fall. But if you walk with it, you learn.”
We came to a hill where the wind roared loud in our ears. I stopped, but she kept walking without hurrying. Her shawls flapped, her gray hair danced, but her eyes stayed calm.
“How can you be so steady, Auntie?” I asked. “Aren’t you afraid of falling?”
She turned and smiled, her face soft and warm like the sun in winter. “Child, when I was your age, I tried to hold everything—anger, pride, needing to be right. But the wind taught me. It sweeps through and takes the leaves that are ready to fall. It doesn’t mourn. It doesn’t cling.”
I let my breath go and listened to the wind. It was wild... but beautiful too. It made the trees bend, not break. It carried seeds, not just dust.
I walked next to her in silence. The wind still pushed, but it didn’t feel like it was against me anymore. It just was.
When we returned to the village, I felt lighter, though I had carried nothing in my hands. The old woman paused at the path’s end.
“The Tao,” she said, “is like the wind. It does not shout. It does not force. Yet everything moves with it.”
I watched her walk away, and I never saw her again. But now, when the wind picks up, I smile.
I don’t fight it anymore. I walk with it.
And slowly, I’m learning to let go.
The wind was wild that morning, kicking up leaves and blowing the shutters open and shut with loud clacks. I sat on the front porch, clutching my tea with both hands to keep warm. My name is Mei, and I lived at the edge of the village, near the hills where the wind always found its voice.
That day, I saw her again.
She was an old woman, wrapped in three shawls and walking slow. Every morning, she appeared at the same time, walking against the wind, her back bent but her steps steady. No one knew where she came from or where she went. We called her, simply, “the Old Woman and the Wind.”
I had never talked to her, only watched. But that day, curiosity tugged at me like the wind pulled at her scarf. I stepped down from my porch and called, “Auntie, may I walk with you?”
She smiled gently, like I was someone she’d been waiting for. I caught up beside her, and we walked, the wind pushing us back with every step.
“Why do you walk when the wind is so strong?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the flying dust.
She chuckled. "Ah, the wind helps me remember to let go.”
I didn’t understand. "But it’s hard. Wouldn’t it be easier to wait for a calm day?"
“Easier, yes. But easy does not always show the Way,” she said, gently. “The wind doesn’t ask permission. It comes and goes. Just like joy and sorrow. If you fight it, you fall. But if you walk with it, you learn.”
We came to a hill where the wind roared loud in our ears. I stopped, but she kept walking without hurrying. Her shawls flapped, her gray hair danced, but her eyes stayed calm.
“How can you be so steady, Auntie?” I asked. “Aren’t you afraid of falling?”
She turned and smiled, her face soft and warm like the sun in winter. “Child, when I was your age, I tried to hold everything—anger, pride, needing to be right. But the wind taught me. It sweeps through and takes the leaves that are ready to fall. It doesn’t mourn. It doesn’t cling.”
I let my breath go and listened to the wind. It was wild... but beautiful too. It made the trees bend, not break. It carried seeds, not just dust.
I walked next to her in silence. The wind still pushed, but it didn’t feel like it was against me anymore. It just was.
When we returned to the village, I felt lighter, though I had carried nothing in my hands. The old woman paused at the path’s end.
“The Tao,” she said, “is like the wind. It does not shout. It does not force. Yet everything moves with it.”
I watched her walk away, and I never saw her again. But now, when the wind picks up, I smile.
I don’t fight it anymore. I walk with it.
And slowly, I’m learning to let go.
