The forest was quiet that morning. Mist clung to the trees like sleepy dreams, and the sun peeked through leaves, painting the path in gold. I had walked miles, hoping to find words for my next poem, but my mind stayed empty, like a bowl waiting for rice.
I am called Lin, a young poet from the southern valleys. People once said my words danced like clouds and warmed like tea. But lately, I had nothing. I had written too much, thought too hard, and chased too many dreams. So I came to the mountains, hoping silence could show me what noise had hidden.
That’s when I met the old man.
He sat on a flat stone beside a small stream. A single paper lantern hung from a thin stick beside him, even though it was daylight.
I bowed politely. “Master, do you live here alone?”
The old man chuckled. “I don’t live. I just sit.”
I blinked. “But what do you do all day?”
“Nothing at all,” he said, smiling. “And yet, so much happens.”
That made no sense to me.
I sat beside him as the stream bubbled by. A bird called from deep in the trees. My heart beat like a drum, still hoping for a poem to come. But the old man didn’t talk. He just watched the water, his face calm like a pond in winter.
“Master,” I finally asked, “why do you carry a lantern in the day?”
He looked at it gently. “It helps me see.”
“But—it’s not lit.”
He smiled. “Ah, but the flame is not in the lantern. It’s in me. The lantern only reminds me to carry light gently, to walk without forcing my way.”
Still, I didn’t understand. “Are you a sage?”
He shook his head. “No titles. Just a man learning to flow like the river.”
We sat in quiet a while longer. I wanted him to say something else wise, something that I could use in a new poem. But he only tied the lantern to his walking stick, stood, and began to walk away.
“Wait!” I called. “I haven’t written anything! I still don’t understand!”
He turned.
“Then stop trying,” he said simply. “Let stillness speak. Let the poem write you.”
And then he was gone.
I remained by the stream, confused and a little angry. But slowly, my thoughts began to fade, like mist lifting in the morning sun. For the first time in weeks, I felt peaceful. I watched the stream. The birds. The empty lantern.
That night, I didn’t write. I didn’t try.
But when I woke the next morning, words flowed through me like wind through pine.
I still carry the old man’s lantern. It never glows, but it always reminds me: when I stop chasing the way, the Way finds me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel that heavy emptiness return, I remember the stillness. I sit. I breathe. I do nothing.
And somehow, that’s when everything begins.
The forest was quiet that morning. Mist clung to the trees like sleepy dreams, and the sun peeked through leaves, painting the path in gold. I had walked miles, hoping to find words for my next poem, but my mind stayed empty, like a bowl waiting for rice.
I am called Lin, a young poet from the southern valleys. People once said my words danced like clouds and warmed like tea. But lately, I had nothing. I had written too much, thought too hard, and chased too many dreams. So I came to the mountains, hoping silence could show me what noise had hidden.
That’s when I met the old man.
He sat on a flat stone beside a small stream. A single paper lantern hung from a thin stick beside him, even though it was daylight.
I bowed politely. “Master, do you live here alone?”
The old man chuckled. “I don’t live. I just sit.”
I blinked. “But what do you do all day?”
“Nothing at all,” he said, smiling. “And yet, so much happens.”
That made no sense to me.
I sat beside him as the stream bubbled by. A bird called from deep in the trees. My heart beat like a drum, still hoping for a poem to come. But the old man didn’t talk. He just watched the water, his face calm like a pond in winter.
“Master,” I finally asked, “why do you carry a lantern in the day?”
He looked at it gently. “It helps me see.”
“But—it’s not lit.”
He smiled. “Ah, but the flame is not in the lantern. It’s in me. The lantern only reminds me to carry light gently, to walk without forcing my way.”
Still, I didn’t understand. “Are you a sage?”
He shook his head. “No titles. Just a man learning to flow like the river.”
We sat in quiet a while longer. I wanted him to say something else wise, something that I could use in a new poem. But he only tied the lantern to his walking stick, stood, and began to walk away.
“Wait!” I called. “I haven’t written anything! I still don’t understand!”
He turned.
“Then stop trying,” he said simply. “Let stillness speak. Let the poem write you.”
And then he was gone.
I remained by the stream, confused and a little angry. But slowly, my thoughts began to fade, like mist lifting in the morning sun. For the first time in weeks, I felt peaceful. I watched the stream. The birds. The empty lantern.
That night, I didn’t write. I didn’t try.
But when I woke the next morning, words flowed through me like wind through pine.
I still carry the old man’s lantern. It never glows, but it always reminds me: when I stop chasing the way, the Way finds me.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel that heavy emptiness return, I remember the stillness. I sit. I breathe. I do nothing.
And somehow, that’s when everything begins.
