I had always believed that the harder I worked, the better life would be. I was a potter in a busy village near the river, and every day I spun my wheel faster, shaped the clay harder, and tried to make the finest pots in the market. My hands were always sore, my back always aching. Still, I never stopped. I thought I needed to be the best.
One day, after my pots had cracked again in the kiln—too much pressure, the old mayor said—I dropped to the ground near the tall pine tree behind the market and held my head in my hands. That’s when I noticed the stranger sitting in the grass beside me.
He looked quite ordinary. His clothes were simple, and his eyes seemed to see everything around without moving. He was pouring water from a closed gourd into a cup, but I never saw him open it. Somehow, it just flowed.
"Why does everything I try so hard at seem to break?" I asked aloud, more to the sky than to him.
He smiled but didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pointed at the tree beside us.
"See this pine? Does it push itself to grow?"
I frowned. "No, of course not."
"It just grows. In its own time. Without rush,” he said. “It reaches up without straining, and stretches wide without forcing. When the wind blows, it doesn’t fight—just bends. That is why it lives so long."
His words made no sense to me at first. I thought, "If I don't push, how will I succeed?" But something in his voice—it was as calm as the river—made me listen again.
He leaned back into the grass. “Zhuangzi called it 'wu wei'—doing without forcing. Like water flowing downhill. It doesn’t rush, but it gets there.”
I looked at my cracked pots and thought about all the broken ones before. I had been shaping them with stiff hands, rushing to finish more than I needed. My heart was always racing, never still.
I began to wonder: What if I tried less?
The next morning, I sat at my wheel and didn’t hurry. I waited until the clay felt soft and ready. I guided it gently, letting it follow my hands instead of pushing it into shape.
To my surprise, the pot stood tall and smooth.
Day by day, I made fewer pots—but not one cracked. People in the village came not for the most pots, but for the peaceful ones, the ones that somehow made them smile. I started to smile too.
I never saw the stranger again. Some said he was a traveling sage, maybe even one who’d read the teachings of Zhuangzi himself. I’ll never know.
But today, when I sit beneath that tall pine tree, I understand. The perfect man, like the perfect tree or the perfect cup of water, doesn't force. He allows.
I don’t push as much anymore. I breathe. I rest. I work with care, not rush. And somehow, everything flows a little easier.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when life feels heavy, I remember the tree and the stranger. I sit, I wait, and I let the Tao guide me—softly, simply, like water down a hill.
I had always believed that the harder I worked, the better life would be. I was a potter in a busy village near the river, and every day I spun my wheel faster, shaped the clay harder, and tried to make the finest pots in the market. My hands were always sore, my back always aching. Still, I never stopped. I thought I needed to be the best.
One day, after my pots had cracked again in the kiln—too much pressure, the old mayor said—I dropped to the ground near the tall pine tree behind the market and held my head in my hands. That’s when I noticed the stranger sitting in the grass beside me.
He looked quite ordinary. His clothes were simple, and his eyes seemed to see everything around without moving. He was pouring water from a closed gourd into a cup, but I never saw him open it. Somehow, it just flowed.
"Why does everything I try so hard at seem to break?" I asked aloud, more to the sky than to him.
He smiled but didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pointed at the tree beside us.
"See this pine? Does it push itself to grow?"
I frowned. "No, of course not."
"It just grows. In its own time. Without rush,” he said. “It reaches up without straining, and stretches wide without forcing. When the wind blows, it doesn’t fight—just bends. That is why it lives so long."
His words made no sense to me at first. I thought, "If I don't push, how will I succeed?" But something in his voice—it was as calm as the river—made me listen again.
He leaned back into the grass. “Zhuangzi called it 'wu wei'—doing without forcing. Like water flowing downhill. It doesn’t rush, but it gets there.”
I looked at my cracked pots and thought about all the broken ones before. I had been shaping them with stiff hands, rushing to finish more than I needed. My heart was always racing, never still.
I began to wonder: What if I tried less?
The next morning, I sat at my wheel and didn’t hurry. I waited until the clay felt soft and ready. I guided it gently, letting it follow my hands instead of pushing it into shape.
To my surprise, the pot stood tall and smooth.
Day by day, I made fewer pots—but not one cracked. People in the village came not for the most pots, but for the peaceful ones, the ones that somehow made them smile. I started to smile too.
I never saw the stranger again. Some said he was a traveling sage, maybe even one who’d read the teachings of Zhuangzi himself. I’ll never know.
But today, when I sit beneath that tall pine tree, I understand. The perfect man, like the perfect tree or the perfect cup of water, doesn't force. He allows.
I don’t push as much anymore. I breathe. I rest. I work with care, not rush. And somehow, everything flows a little easier.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when life feels heavy, I remember the tree and the stranger. I sit, I wait, and I let the Tao guide me—softly, simply, like water down a hill.
