The forest felt still that morning, like it was holding its breath. I was twelve years old, and I had just run away from the village market. Again.
They told me I was too slow, too clumsy. They laughed when I dropped a basket of plums. I didn’t want to try harder anymore. “Nothing I do is ever enough,” I muttered, kicking a stone along the path.
That’s when I saw him—Old Man Bai. Everyone in the village knew him. He lived alone by the edge of the woods, and people said he spoke to squirrels and heard the winds’ secrets. I didn’t believe it, but I liked his quiet way.
He was sitting by a stream, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees like he was made of still water. I tried to sneak past him.
“You’re walking like the wind is chasing you.” His voice was calm, like cool tea.
I froze. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t,” he smiled without opening his eyes. “Come sit.”
I sat across from him, unsure what to do with my hands. The stream bubbled beside us. A leaf floated by, then another. He opened one eye and asked, “Why are you frowning at the water like it spilled your lunch?”
I sighed. “Because I keep messing up. At everything. People think I’m lazy, but I try. Maybe I’m just not enough.”
Old Man Bai didn’t answer right away. He placed a small stick in the stream and we both watched as it gently danced with the current, moving around rocks and bends without struggle.
He said, “The stream does not push. It flows.”
I tilted my head, confused.
“Do you think the stream yells at itself for not getting somewhere faster?” he asked.
I chuckled softly. “No.”
“Do the leaves fight to float, or do they let go?”
“They just float…”
“Ah,” he nodded. “And yet, they get where they’re meant to go.” He leaned back. “Sometimes, doing less is more powerful. When we try to force things, we trip. But when we flow with life… we balance.”
I looked at the stick gliding peacefully. “So, I don’t have to push all the time?”
“You can try less and trust more,” he said. “That is the Tao. Let the Way carry you.”
For the first time that day, I felt my chest loosen. Like all the trying and proving I carried was just a heavy sack I could put down.
We sat there a long time, listening to the stream.
I didn’t change overnight. I still dropped things, and people still laughed. But I stopped yelling at myself inside. I stopped pushing when I didn’t need to. And when I walked the path home, it felt lighter.
Now, whenever I feel lost or not enough, I remember that quiet stream.
And I let myself float.
The forest felt still that morning, like it was holding its breath. I was twelve years old, and I had just run away from the village market. Again.
They told me I was too slow, too clumsy. They laughed when I dropped a basket of plums. I didn’t want to try harder anymore. “Nothing I do is ever enough,” I muttered, kicking a stone along the path.
That’s when I saw him—Old Man Bai. Everyone in the village knew him. He lived alone by the edge of the woods, and people said he spoke to squirrels and heard the winds’ secrets. I didn’t believe it, but I liked his quiet way.
He was sitting by a stream, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees like he was made of still water. I tried to sneak past him.
“You’re walking like the wind is chasing you.” His voice was calm, like cool tea.
I froze. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t,” he smiled without opening his eyes. “Come sit.”
I sat across from him, unsure what to do with my hands. The stream bubbled beside us. A leaf floated by, then another. He opened one eye and asked, “Why are you frowning at the water like it spilled your lunch?”
I sighed. “Because I keep messing up. At everything. People think I’m lazy, but I try. Maybe I’m just not enough.”
Old Man Bai didn’t answer right away. He placed a small stick in the stream and we both watched as it gently danced with the current, moving around rocks and bends without struggle.
He said, “The stream does not push. It flows.”
I tilted my head, confused.
“Do you think the stream yells at itself for not getting somewhere faster?” he asked.
I chuckled softly. “No.”
“Do the leaves fight to float, or do they let go?”
“They just float…”
“Ah,” he nodded. “And yet, they get where they’re meant to go.” He leaned back. “Sometimes, doing less is more powerful. When we try to force things, we trip. But when we flow with life… we balance.”
I looked at the stick gliding peacefully. “So, I don’t have to push all the time?”
“You can try less and trust more,” he said. “That is the Tao. Let the Way carry you.”
For the first time that day, I felt my chest loosen. Like all the trying and proving I carried was just a heavy sack I could put down.
We sat there a long time, listening to the stream.
I didn’t change overnight. I still dropped things, and people still laughed. But I stopped yelling at myself inside. I stopped pushing when I didn’t need to. And when I walked the path home, it felt lighter.
Now, whenever I feel lost or not enough, I remember that quiet stream.
And I let myself float.
