The mountain path had always been there—worn from years of travel, packed with dust and memories. I walked it every day, carrying bundles of wood down to my family’s small home at the foot of the valley. My name is Lian, and back then, I believed the road would always be the same. Solid. Predictable.
But things don’t stay the same forever.
It started the day I met the old man with eyes like still water.
I had tripped over a fallen branch and twisted my ankle. I sat there, angry at myself and angrier at the world. I remember kicking a rock down the hill and shouting, “Why does everything go wrong when I try so hard to do it right?”
That’s when I heard the voice behind me.
“The harder you chase the wind, the more it escapes,” the old man said.
I turned around. He sat beneath a skinny pine tree, calmly sipping tea from a little clay cup.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I grumbled.
He patted the ground beside him. “Rest for a while. The road isn’t going anywhere.”
Reluctantly, I sat. The old man was quiet—too quiet. It made me uncomfortable, fidgety. “Don't you have somewhere to be?” I asked.
He smiled gently. “I am exactly where I need to be. Being still doesn't mean being lost.”
We sat in silence after that. The wind blew softly. A bird sang once, then flew. A few minutes later, I looked up again. The path I’d followed—my mountain road—was gone.
“Wait… where’s the road?” I jumped to my feet, heart pounding.
“It has vanished,” the old man said, not even opening his eyes. “But don’t worry. The Way cannot be lost.”
My mind raced. “How can a road just vanish?”
He opened his eyes this time. “The road you seek is made of stone and dust. But there is another path—the Tao. It does not follow lines in the dirt or cling to maps. It flows, like water. Sometimes forward, sometimes back, sometimes around.”
I frowned. “But how will I get home?”
“Follow what feels light, not what feels forced. The Tao reveals itself not in running, but in resting. Not in control, but in trust.”
I didn’t understand right away. But there was something about his voice. Calm. Real. I looked around—and then I saw it. A soft trail of mossy ground winding through trees I hadn’t noticed. It felt… right.
I walked it slowly, and soon, the trees opened to a hillside, where I could see the smoke from my family’s chimney in the valley below.
When I looked back, the old man and his tree were gone too.
Since that day, I've walked many roads. Some wide, some narrow. But I’ve learned that not all are meant to stay, and not every vanishing is a loss. When things fall away, sometimes it's the Tao showing us a better Way.
I still trip. I still fall. But now, I listen. I breathe. And I wait, trusting that the Way, like water, will carry me exactly where I need to be.
The mountain path had always been there—worn from years of travel, packed with dust and memories. I walked it every day, carrying bundles of wood down to my family’s small home at the foot of the valley. My name is Lian, and back then, I believed the road would always be the same. Solid. Predictable.
But things don’t stay the same forever.
It started the day I met the old man with eyes like still water.
I had tripped over a fallen branch and twisted my ankle. I sat there, angry at myself and angrier at the world. I remember kicking a rock down the hill and shouting, “Why does everything go wrong when I try so hard to do it right?”
That’s when I heard the voice behind me.
“The harder you chase the wind, the more it escapes,” the old man said.
I turned around. He sat beneath a skinny pine tree, calmly sipping tea from a little clay cup.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I grumbled.
He patted the ground beside him. “Rest for a while. The road isn’t going anywhere.”
Reluctantly, I sat. The old man was quiet—too quiet. It made me uncomfortable, fidgety. “Don't you have somewhere to be?” I asked.
He smiled gently. “I am exactly where I need to be. Being still doesn't mean being lost.”
We sat in silence after that. The wind blew softly. A bird sang once, then flew. A few minutes later, I looked up again. The path I’d followed—my mountain road—was gone.
“Wait… where’s the road?” I jumped to my feet, heart pounding.
“It has vanished,” the old man said, not even opening his eyes. “But don’t worry. The Way cannot be lost.”
My mind raced. “How can a road just vanish?”
He opened his eyes this time. “The road you seek is made of stone and dust. But there is another path—the Tao. It does not follow lines in the dirt or cling to maps. It flows, like water. Sometimes forward, sometimes back, sometimes around.”
I frowned. “But how will I get home?”
“Follow what feels light, not what feels forced. The Tao reveals itself not in running, but in resting. Not in control, but in trust.”
I didn’t understand right away. But there was something about his voice. Calm. Real. I looked around—and then I saw it. A soft trail of mossy ground winding through trees I hadn’t noticed. It felt… right.
I walked it slowly, and soon, the trees opened to a hillside, where I could see the smoke from my family’s chimney in the valley below.
When I looked back, the old man and his tree were gone too.
Since that day, I've walked many roads. Some wide, some narrow. But I’ve learned that not all are meant to stay, and not every vanishing is a loss. When things fall away, sometimes it's the Tao showing us a better Way.
I still trip. I still fall. But now, I listen. I breathe. And I wait, trusting that the Way, like water, will carry me exactly where I need to be.
