The wind brushed softly across my face as we climbed higher up the hillside, carrying the scent of pine needles and warm soil. My name is Wei, and I was only ten when my grandfather decided it was time I met the Sleeping Mountain.
“Why do you call it that?” I asked as we walked. “It’s a mountain, not a person.”
Grandfather smiled, his long white beard swaying with each step. “Ah, but mountains sleep in a way people do not. Quiet, calm, and never trying to be anything they’re not.”
I didn’t really understand what he meant. I just thought it would be fun to reach the top and shout so my voice would echo back.
After hours of hiking and resting, we finally came to a small clearing near the top. There, nestled in a circle of smooth stones, was a little fire pit and a wide, flat rock Grandfather called the “Cooking Table.” He unpacked a small pot from his bag and took out some herbs, roots, and dried mushrooms.
“I thought we were here to hike,” I said, watching him gently place each item beside the pot.
“We are,” he replied. “And to hike with a quiet mind, with no rush, and no goal other than to be right where we are—that is also the Way.”
“The Tao?” I asked, remembering the word he had used so many times at home.
He nodded. “Yes. The Tao is like cooking soup. If you keep adding more spices, more heat, trying too hard to make it taste better, you’ll ruin it.”
“But what if it needs more flavor?” I said.
Grandfather chuckled. “Sometimes, the best flavor comes from doing less, not more.”
I sat and watched him. He didn’t stir quickly. He didn’t measure. He sat calmly, letting the water boil when it was ready, not before. He added the mushrooms after a while, then the herbs. Then he just waited.
The sun dipped low, soaking the mountain in golden light. I wanted to be doing something—to climb higher, pick berries, or explore the rocks—but something in the stillness made me curious. Why wasn’t he rushing?
“Grandpa,” I asked after a while, “what are we waiting for?”
“For it to be soup,” he said simply.
I didn’t fully understand until the smell filled the air. It wasn’t like any soup I smelled before. It smelled earthy and calm, like the mountain itself.
As we ate, he said, “You see, Wei, the mountain doesn’t need to prove anything. It doesn’t try to impress. It just is. That is its strength.”
I thought about that. I was always trying to be faster, stronger, or smarter. But the mountain was powerful without doing anything at all.
That night, under the stars, I felt the stillness settle in my chest. The long walk, the quiet boiling soup, the gentle wind—it all made sense somehow.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to hurry or do too much, I remember the Sleeping Mountain. I breathe deep, do less, and let things be. In that quiet, I find something stronger than before—a secret recipe for peace that needs no effort.
The wind brushed softly across my face as we climbed higher up the hillside, carrying the scent of pine needles and warm soil. My name is Wei, and I was only ten when my grandfather decided it was time I met the Sleeping Mountain.
“Why do you call it that?” I asked as we walked. “It’s a mountain, not a person.”
Grandfather smiled, his long white beard swaying with each step. “Ah, but mountains sleep in a way people do not. Quiet, calm, and never trying to be anything they’re not.”
I didn’t really understand what he meant. I just thought it would be fun to reach the top and shout so my voice would echo back.
After hours of hiking and resting, we finally came to a small clearing near the top. There, nestled in a circle of smooth stones, was a little fire pit and a wide, flat rock Grandfather called the “Cooking Table.” He unpacked a small pot from his bag and took out some herbs, roots, and dried mushrooms.
“I thought we were here to hike,” I said, watching him gently place each item beside the pot.
“We are,” he replied. “And to hike with a quiet mind, with no rush, and no goal other than to be right where we are—that is also the Way.”
“The Tao?” I asked, remembering the word he had used so many times at home.
He nodded. “Yes. The Tao is like cooking soup. If you keep adding more spices, more heat, trying too hard to make it taste better, you’ll ruin it.”
“But what if it needs more flavor?” I said.
Grandfather chuckled. “Sometimes, the best flavor comes from doing less, not more.”
I sat and watched him. He didn’t stir quickly. He didn’t measure. He sat calmly, letting the water boil when it was ready, not before. He added the mushrooms after a while, then the herbs. Then he just waited.
The sun dipped low, soaking the mountain in golden light. I wanted to be doing something—to climb higher, pick berries, or explore the rocks—but something in the stillness made me curious. Why wasn’t he rushing?
“Grandpa,” I asked after a while, “what are we waiting for?”
“For it to be soup,” he said simply.
I didn’t fully understand until the smell filled the air. It wasn’t like any soup I smelled before. It smelled earthy and calm, like the mountain itself.
As we ate, he said, “You see, Wei, the mountain doesn’t need to prove anything. It doesn’t try to impress. It just is. That is its strength.”
I thought about that. I was always trying to be faster, stronger, or smarter. But the mountain was powerful without doing anything at all.
That night, under the stars, I felt the stillness settle in my chest. The long walk, the quiet boiling soup, the gentle wind—it all made sense somehow.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the need to hurry or do too much, I remember the Sleeping Mountain. I breathe deep, do less, and let things be. In that quiet, I find something stronger than before—a secret recipe for peace that needs no effort.
