The sky was blue and still that morning, just a puff of white cloud floating above the rice fields. I remember because I was angry. I had argued with my brother over something silly—who got the bigger dumpling—and I stomped away from the house, trying not to cry.
I was nine years old and convinced I was right.
My feet carried me down a stone path, past the stream, and into a quiet grove where old pine trees bent in the wind. It was here I met the old man.
He was sitting on a smooth rock, his robe a faded gray, his eyes half closed. He looked like he had been there forever. A tiny teapot steamed beside him, and he didn't seem to notice me until a pinecone snapped beneath my foot.
He opened one eye and smiled. “Are you the wind?” he asked.
I blinked. “No, I'm just... walking.”
“Ah,” he said, “then perhaps you are like the cloud.”
I didn’t understand. “A cloud?”
He patted the rock beside him. “Come. Watch.”
I sat, feeling warm in the sunlight. Together, we looked up at the only cloud in the sky. It drifted slowly, changing shape, quiet and calm.
“Does the cloud try to move?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Yet it goes where the wind takes it. It does not fight, and still it dances.”
He poured tea, offering me some in a tiny clay cup. “I once read of a man named Liezi,” he said. “He was a great sage from long ago. One day, he rode the wind—not in a cart or with wings—but simply because he had learned to be light. He trusted the flow of things.”
I sipped. The tea was warm and earthy.
He continued, “Liezi did not force the world to change. He didn’t chase things or resist them. Like the rootless cloud, he let go. That’s why he could fly.”
I frowned. “But if I don’t try, how will I ever get what I want?”
“Trying too hard,” he said, “is like paddling upstream. It tires you. Sometimes, the river knows where to go. Stillness lets you see clearly. Simplicity brings peace.”
He closed his eyes again. “Even the smallest thing like a dumpling... is it really worth so much anger?”
I looked at the cloud again—drifting, soft, easy.
After a while, I stood, quietly. “Thank you,” I said.
He didn’t answer, but smiled.
When I returned home, I found my brother feeding the chickens. I gave him my last dumpling without a word.
He looked surprised and smiled. “Thanks.”
That day, something changed. I didn’t become wise all at once, but now, whenever I feel upset or pushed to act fast, I think of the rootless cloud. It doesn’t try to be anything. It just is.
And sometimes, being like the cloud is enough.
Even now, I sit quietly when things feel too big. I breathe, I remember, and I let go.
Who knows? Maybe one day, like Liezi, I’ll float too.
The sky was blue and still that morning, just a puff of white cloud floating above the rice fields. I remember because I was angry. I had argued with my brother over something silly—who got the bigger dumpling—and I stomped away from the house, trying not to cry.
I was nine years old and convinced I was right.
My feet carried me down a stone path, past the stream, and into a quiet grove where old pine trees bent in the wind. It was here I met the old man.
He was sitting on a smooth rock, his robe a faded gray, his eyes half closed. He looked like he had been there forever. A tiny teapot steamed beside him, and he didn't seem to notice me until a pinecone snapped beneath my foot.
He opened one eye and smiled. “Are you the wind?” he asked.
I blinked. “No, I'm just... walking.”
“Ah,” he said, “then perhaps you are like the cloud.”
I didn’t understand. “A cloud?”
He patted the rock beside him. “Come. Watch.”
I sat, feeling warm in the sunlight. Together, we looked up at the only cloud in the sky. It drifted slowly, changing shape, quiet and calm.
“Does the cloud try to move?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Yet it goes where the wind takes it. It does not fight, and still it dances.”
He poured tea, offering me some in a tiny clay cup. “I once read of a man named Liezi,” he said. “He was a great sage from long ago. One day, he rode the wind—not in a cart or with wings—but simply because he had learned to be light. He trusted the flow of things.”
I sipped. The tea was warm and earthy.
He continued, “Liezi did not force the world to change. He didn’t chase things or resist them. Like the rootless cloud, he let go. That’s why he could fly.”
I frowned. “But if I don’t try, how will I ever get what I want?”
“Trying too hard,” he said, “is like paddling upstream. It tires you. Sometimes, the river knows where to go. Stillness lets you see clearly. Simplicity brings peace.”
He closed his eyes again. “Even the smallest thing like a dumpling... is it really worth so much anger?”
I looked at the cloud again—drifting, soft, easy.
After a while, I stood, quietly. “Thank you,” I said.
He didn’t answer, but smiled.
When I returned home, I found my brother feeding the chickens. I gave him my last dumpling without a word.
He looked surprised and smiled. “Thanks.”
That day, something changed. I didn’t become wise all at once, but now, whenever I feel upset or pushed to act fast, I think of the rootless cloud. It doesn’t try to be anything. It just is.
And sometimes, being like the cloud is enough.
Even now, I sit quietly when things feel too big. I breathe, I remember, and I let go.
Who knows? Maybe one day, like Liezi, I’ll float too.
