The rain had just stopped, and the forest was full of soft sounds. I was walking barefoot along the edge of the river, thinking about everything and nothing. My heart felt heavy, but I didn’t know why.
I’m Mei. I’m twelve years old, and I live near the mountains with my grandfather. He says our family has followed the Tao, “The Way,” for many generations. Grandfather never speaks too much, but when he does, his words stay with you—like the scent of rain on warm earth.
That morning, I had messed up again. I knocked over the water pot while trying to carry it, splashing mud all over my clothes. I had tried to help, but ended up making more work. I was mad at myself. I wanted to be better. I wanted to do more, to get it right.
Grandfather didn’t scold me. He only looked up from his porch and said, “Come take a walk when the rain stops. There’s something the river wants you to see.”
So I went.
As I walked, I watched drops fall from the tree leaves. One drop, hanging from a bamboo tip, caught my eye. It trembled gently, just enough to shine. Then, it fell into the river without a sound.
I don’t know why, but something about that made me stop. I crouched by the riverbank, resting my chin on my knees. The water flowed by, never rushing, never still. Just moving, always moving.
Then I heard Grandfather’s steps behind me. He sat beside me, not saying anything at first.
“Did you see the drop?” he finally asked.
“I saw one fall. That’s all,” I answered.
“That one was whole, you know,” he said. “Even though it was small. Even though it fell.”
I looked at him, confused.
He smiled. “You tried to help this morning. That is enough. The drop didn’t cling to the leaf. It let go when it was time.”
“But I messed everything up,” I argued, picking at the mossy rock beside me. “I should’ve been more careful.”
“You tried,” he said gently. “Sometimes, things are best done by doing less. The Way, the Tao, doesn’t need pushing. It just flows—like this river. Like that drop.”
We sat there for a while, watching the river. A butterfly fluttered past us, wings light and bright. I wondered where it was going.
“Do you remember the story of Zhuangzi?” Grandfather asked. “He once dreamed he was a butterfly. But when he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of a man.”
I nodded slowly. I had heard it before.
“It teaches us that things aren’t always what they seem,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s better not to chase meaning. Just be. Like the butterfly. Like the drop.”
I didn’t say anything. But something inside me softened. I didn’t need to fix the morning. I didn’t need to be more than I already was. I just needed to breathe and let go.
We walked home in silence. And though nothing had changed, everything felt different.
I still make mistakes. I still try too hard sometimes. But whenever I feel that heavy feeling again, I remember the drop—how it shimmered, paused, and let go.
And I try to do the same. Let go. Be still. And follow the Flow.
The rain had just stopped, and the forest was full of soft sounds. I was walking barefoot along the edge of the river, thinking about everything and nothing. My heart felt heavy, but I didn’t know why.
I’m Mei. I’m twelve years old, and I live near the mountains with my grandfather. He says our family has followed the Tao, “The Way,” for many generations. Grandfather never speaks too much, but when he does, his words stay with you—like the scent of rain on warm earth.
That morning, I had messed up again. I knocked over the water pot while trying to carry it, splashing mud all over my clothes. I had tried to help, but ended up making more work. I was mad at myself. I wanted to be better. I wanted to do more, to get it right.
Grandfather didn’t scold me. He only looked up from his porch and said, “Come take a walk when the rain stops. There’s something the river wants you to see.”
So I went.
As I walked, I watched drops fall from the tree leaves. One drop, hanging from a bamboo tip, caught my eye. It trembled gently, just enough to shine. Then, it fell into the river without a sound.
I don’t know why, but something about that made me stop. I crouched by the riverbank, resting my chin on my knees. The water flowed by, never rushing, never still. Just moving, always moving.
Then I heard Grandfather’s steps behind me. He sat beside me, not saying anything at first.
“Did you see the drop?” he finally asked.
“I saw one fall. That’s all,” I answered.
“That one was whole, you know,” he said. “Even though it was small. Even though it fell.”
I looked at him, confused.
He smiled. “You tried to help this morning. That is enough. The drop didn’t cling to the leaf. It let go when it was time.”
“But I messed everything up,” I argued, picking at the mossy rock beside me. “I should’ve been more careful.”
“You tried,” he said gently. “Sometimes, things are best done by doing less. The Way, the Tao, doesn’t need pushing. It just flows—like this river. Like that drop.”
We sat there for a while, watching the river. A butterfly fluttered past us, wings light and bright. I wondered where it was going.
“Do you remember the story of Zhuangzi?” Grandfather asked. “He once dreamed he was a butterfly. But when he woke up, he didn’t know if he was a man dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of a man.”
I nodded slowly. I had heard it before.
“It teaches us that things aren’t always what they seem,” he said. “Sometimes, it’s better not to chase meaning. Just be. Like the butterfly. Like the drop.”
I didn’t say anything. But something inside me softened. I didn’t need to fix the morning. I didn’t need to be more than I already was. I just needed to breathe and let go.
We walked home in silence. And though nothing had changed, everything felt different.
I still make mistakes. I still try too hard sometimes. But whenever I feel that heavy feeling again, I remember the drop—how it shimmered, paused, and let go.
And I try to do the same. Let go. Be still. And follow the Flow.
