The wind was strong on the mountain path that day, and my basket of herbs kept tipping to the side. I was nine years old and already tired. My name is Mei, and I lived in a little village near the base of the Yellow Mountains. I was helping my grandmother gather wild medicines used in teas. She said the mountain liked quiet feet and calm hearts. But my feet were fast and loud, and my heart was full of sighs.
“I wish we could just get this done faster,” I grumbled, stomping ahead.
Grandmother chuckled behind me. “The Tao doesn’t hurry,” she said, “yet everything gets done.”
I rolled my eyes. “But faster is better, right?”
She smiled and pointed to a crooked pine tree, growing from the side of the cliff. It was bent and twisted, yet tall and green. “Look at that tree. It doesn’t grow straight or fight the wind. But it grows all the same—slow and true.”
I didn’t really understand, but I stopped walking so fast.
A little later, I tried to climb a hill so I could get a better view and find the herbs more quickly. I scrambled up, but slipped in the mud and tore my sleeve. My basket flipped, and all the herbs spilled onto the ground. I sat down in the dirt, angry and tired.
Grandmother sat next to me, not saying a word. The silence made me angrier.
“Why don’t you say something?” I asked. “Like, ‘I should be more careful!’ or ‘Don’t rush, Mei!’”
She shook her head. “What could I say that the mountain hasn’t already shown you?”
I blinked. “Huh?”
She picked up a leaf from the ground and held it to the sun. “This leaf doesn’t rush to grow. And yet, it becomes exactly what it’s meant to. That’s the Way of Tao—peace through naturalness. We call it Wu Wei, which means doing by not doing.”
“Doing by... not doing?” I frowned, confused.
“Yes,” she smiled. “It means letting things happen without forcing them.”
I didn’t say anything for a while. We sat in the quiet. I watched the wind roll through the trees, each one dancing in its own way. Slowly, I began to see it, the way everything moved gently but never stopped. A bird flew low without flapping too hard. A stream below curled around the rocks instead of smashing into them.
We picked the herbs again, this time walking slowly. I didn’t rush ahead anymore. I listened to the birds and the wind. The ground didn’t feel so slippery. My basket didn’t keep tipping.
When we returned home, I was calm. I even smiled as I hung the herbs to dry.
That night, I lay in bed and whispered to the stars, “Maybe less really can be more.”
I didn’t learn it all in one day. But from then on, when I felt the need to push or rush, I remembered the pine tree, the quiet stream, and my grandmother’s smile. And little by little, I began to let life flow.
The wind was strong on the mountain path that day, and my basket of herbs kept tipping to the side. I was nine years old and already tired. My name is Mei, and I lived in a little village near the base of the Yellow Mountains. I was helping my grandmother gather wild medicines used in teas. She said the mountain liked quiet feet and calm hearts. But my feet were fast and loud, and my heart was full of sighs.
“I wish we could just get this done faster,” I grumbled, stomping ahead.
Grandmother chuckled behind me. “The Tao doesn’t hurry,” she said, “yet everything gets done.”
I rolled my eyes. “But faster is better, right?”
She smiled and pointed to a crooked pine tree, growing from the side of the cliff. It was bent and twisted, yet tall and green. “Look at that tree. It doesn’t grow straight or fight the wind. But it grows all the same—slow and true.”
I didn’t really understand, but I stopped walking so fast.
A little later, I tried to climb a hill so I could get a better view and find the herbs more quickly. I scrambled up, but slipped in the mud and tore my sleeve. My basket flipped, and all the herbs spilled onto the ground. I sat down in the dirt, angry and tired.
Grandmother sat next to me, not saying a word. The silence made me angrier.
“Why don’t you say something?” I asked. “Like, ‘I should be more careful!’ or ‘Don’t rush, Mei!’”
She shook her head. “What could I say that the mountain hasn’t already shown you?”
I blinked. “Huh?”
She picked up a leaf from the ground and held it to the sun. “This leaf doesn’t rush to grow. And yet, it becomes exactly what it’s meant to. That’s the Way of Tao—peace through naturalness. We call it Wu Wei, which means doing by not doing.”
“Doing by... not doing?” I frowned, confused.
“Yes,” she smiled. “It means letting things happen without forcing them.”
I didn’t say anything for a while. We sat in the quiet. I watched the wind roll through the trees, each one dancing in its own way. Slowly, I began to see it, the way everything moved gently but never stopped. A bird flew low without flapping too hard. A stream below curled around the rocks instead of smashing into them.
We picked the herbs again, this time walking slowly. I didn’t rush ahead anymore. I listened to the birds and the wind. The ground didn’t feel so slippery. My basket didn’t keep tipping.
When we returned home, I was calm. I even smiled as I hung the herbs to dry.
That night, I lay in bed and whispered to the stars, “Maybe less really can be more.”
I didn’t learn it all in one day. But from then on, when I felt the need to push or rush, I remembered the pine tree, the quiet stream, and my grandmother’s smile. And little by little, I began to let life flow.
