The dew was still on the grass the morning I slipped away from my chores. I was only twelve but already tired of doing things over and over—sweeping, carrying water, feeding chickens. I just wanted quiet. I wanted stillness. So I went to my favorite place, the pine grove behind our house.
I lay beneath a tall tree, watching the sunlight flicker through the branches. Everything was so still, yet alive. That’s when I saw it—a butterfly, small and soft, floating through the air like it didn’t have a single worry.
I followed it, walking slowly so I wouldn’t scare it. Every flap of its wings seemed like magic. It never rushed. Never tried to be anywhere. Just floated. I forgot about everything watching that butterfly. I forgot about chores. I forgot about time.
But then, something strange happened. The butterfly landed on a rock and stayed still. For a long time. I sat beside it, waiting. Then I closed my eyes… just for a moment.
And I had a dream.
In the dream, I was the butterfly. Light, free. I flew over rivers and trees, over mountaintops, and clouds. There was no worry, no fear—just peaceful floating. But when I woke up, the butterfly was gone.
Now, here’s the strange part: for a few moments after waking, I couldn’t tell if I was a boy dreaming about being a butterfly, or a butterfly still dreaming I was a boy.
Later that day, I told Old Master Ren—our village’s storyteller and sage—what I saw.
He smiled, stroking his long beard. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve met the Butterfly Dream. That tale comes from Zhuangzi, a wise man who lived long ago. He once had the same dream. And he wondered, just like you, if he was Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.”
I blinked. “But… what does it mean?”
Master Ren looked up at the sky. “It means the line between things is not always so hard. Between sleep and waking. Between doing and being. Sometimes,” he said, “the best action is no action. The butterfly wasn’t trying to fly. It just did. That is the Tao—The Way. Things flow best when we don’t force them.”
“I just wanted stillness,” I whispered.
“And you found it,” he said, smiling. “Not by grabbing it—but by letting go.”
I thought about that for a long time. I still did chores. I still swept and fetched water. But I didn’t try so hard to finish fast anymore. I slowed down. And sometimes, I’d pause and watch the dust in the air, the breeze in the trees, or the soft light on our clay walls.
That butterfly taught me something. Stillness isn’t found by stopping everything. It’s found by being part of everything—without pushing, without rushing. Now, whenever I feel angry or too busy, I sit quietly and remember…
Maybe I’m still just a butterfly dreaming I'm a boy.
And that’s okay.
The dew was still on the grass the morning I slipped away from my chores. I was only twelve but already tired of doing things over and over—sweeping, carrying water, feeding chickens. I just wanted quiet. I wanted stillness. So I went to my favorite place, the pine grove behind our house.
I lay beneath a tall tree, watching the sunlight flicker through the branches. Everything was so still, yet alive. That’s when I saw it—a butterfly, small and soft, floating through the air like it didn’t have a single worry.
I followed it, walking slowly so I wouldn’t scare it. Every flap of its wings seemed like magic. It never rushed. Never tried to be anywhere. Just floated. I forgot about everything watching that butterfly. I forgot about chores. I forgot about time.
But then, something strange happened. The butterfly landed on a rock and stayed still. For a long time. I sat beside it, waiting. Then I closed my eyes… just for a moment.
And I had a dream.
In the dream, I was the butterfly. Light, free. I flew over rivers and trees, over mountaintops, and clouds. There was no worry, no fear—just peaceful floating. But when I woke up, the butterfly was gone.
Now, here’s the strange part: for a few moments after waking, I couldn’t tell if I was a boy dreaming about being a butterfly, or a butterfly still dreaming I was a boy.
Later that day, I told Old Master Ren—our village’s storyteller and sage—what I saw.
He smiled, stroking his long beard. “Ah,” he said, “you’ve met the Butterfly Dream. That tale comes from Zhuangzi, a wise man who lived long ago. He once had the same dream. And he wondered, just like you, if he was Zhuangzi dreaming he was a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.”
I blinked. “But… what does it mean?”
Master Ren looked up at the sky. “It means the line between things is not always so hard. Between sleep and waking. Between doing and being. Sometimes,” he said, “the best action is no action. The butterfly wasn’t trying to fly. It just did. That is the Tao—The Way. Things flow best when we don’t force them.”
“I just wanted stillness,” I whispered.
“And you found it,” he said, smiling. “Not by grabbing it—but by letting go.”
I thought about that for a long time. I still did chores. I still swept and fetched water. But I didn’t try so hard to finish fast anymore. I slowed down. And sometimes, I’d pause and watch the dust in the air, the breeze in the trees, or the soft light on our clay walls.
That butterfly taught me something. Stillness isn’t found by stopping everything. It’s found by being part of everything—without pushing, without rushing. Now, whenever I feel angry or too busy, I sit quietly and remember…
Maybe I’m still just a butterfly dreaming I'm a boy.
And that’s okay.
