The heat of the summer made the stones on the river path warm beneath my bare feet. I was on my way to the capital, trying to become something important—maybe a scholar, maybe an advisor to the king. My name is Wen Bo, and back then, I believed that if I worked harder than anyone else, I could earn respect and glory.
As I walked, I passed a small village near Chu. An old man sat beside the road, a straw hat drooping over his eyes.
“Where are you headed, young one?” he asked as I stopped to drink from the well.
“To the palace,” I said proudly, “to offer my wisdom to the king.”
He chuckled. “Ah, just like the ministers who once visited the sacred turtle.”
I had heard of the Sacred Turtle of Chu, but I had never heard this part of the story.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The old man sat up, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Long ago, the king of Chu kept a sacred turtle in the royal temple. It had been dead for three hundred years. Its shell was covered in silk and placed on a golden pedestal. One day, Zhuangzi, a wise sage, was asked to work in the royal court. He smiled and asked the messengers a question: ‘If you were a turtle, would you rather be honored and dead, or free and alive, wagging your tail in the mud?’”
I blinked, not sure what that meant.
The old man smiled at my puzzled face. “Zhuangzi turned down the palace, just as the turtle might’ve chosen the muddy water over silk and gold. He believed that trying to be important can trap your soul. Real wisdom comes without effort, without chasing fame.”
His words stuck with me. Still, I continued my journey to the palace. I worked day and night, wrote endless reports, and always tried to impress the court. But no matter what I did, something felt missing. I was tired. I didn’t smile like I used to. I wasn’t free.
One quiet evening, I returned to the village by Chu. The old man was gone, but I sat by that same well and watched a small turtle crawl near the water’s edge. It slipped into the mud with a soft plop—and I couldn’t help but smile. It was free. It had no golden pedestal, but it had peace.
The next morning, I packed up my scrolls and left the palace life behind. I began teaching children under the trees, sharing stories and listening to the wind.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel the pull to prove myself, I remember the sacred turtle—and the feeling of cool mud between my fingers. I try to live simply and flow with the Way.
Sometimes, not chasing the river is how we learn to float.
And that, I think, is true freedom.
The heat of the summer made the stones on the river path warm beneath my bare feet. I was on my way to the capital, trying to become something important—maybe a scholar, maybe an advisor to the king. My name is Wen Bo, and back then, I believed that if I worked harder than anyone else, I could earn respect and glory.
As I walked, I passed a small village near Chu. An old man sat beside the road, a straw hat drooping over his eyes.
“Where are you headed, young one?” he asked as I stopped to drink from the well.
“To the palace,” I said proudly, “to offer my wisdom to the king.”
He chuckled. “Ah, just like the ministers who once visited the sacred turtle.”
I had heard of the Sacred Turtle of Chu, but I had never heard this part of the story.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
The old man sat up, brushing dust from his sleeves. “Long ago, the king of Chu kept a sacred turtle in the royal temple. It had been dead for three hundred years. Its shell was covered in silk and placed on a golden pedestal. One day, Zhuangzi, a wise sage, was asked to work in the royal court. He smiled and asked the messengers a question: ‘If you were a turtle, would you rather be honored and dead, or free and alive, wagging your tail in the mud?’”
I blinked, not sure what that meant.
The old man smiled at my puzzled face. “Zhuangzi turned down the palace, just as the turtle might’ve chosen the muddy water over silk and gold. He believed that trying to be important can trap your soul. Real wisdom comes without effort, without chasing fame.”
His words stuck with me. Still, I continued my journey to the palace. I worked day and night, wrote endless reports, and always tried to impress the court. But no matter what I did, something felt missing. I was tired. I didn’t smile like I used to. I wasn’t free.
One quiet evening, I returned to the village by Chu. The old man was gone, but I sat by that same well and watched a small turtle crawl near the water’s edge. It slipped into the mud with a soft plop—and I couldn’t help but smile. It was free. It had no golden pedestal, but it had peace.
The next morning, I packed up my scrolls and left the palace life behind. I began teaching children under the trees, sharing stories and listening to the wind.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel the pull to prove myself, I remember the sacred turtle—and the feeling of cool mud between my fingers. I try to live simply and flow with the Way.
Sometimes, not chasing the river is how we learn to float.
And that, I think, is true freedom.
