The Man Who Sought Stillness

A traveler arrived at the tea house, his steps hurried, his breath uneven. He bowed quickly to the Daoist master and sat down, barely waiting before he spoke.

“Master, I have heard of the Dao and its stillness. My heart is restless, my mind never stops racing. How can I find stillness?”

The master poured him tea, the steam curling softly in the cool air. “Listen,” he said.

The traveler frowned. “To what?”

“To the silence.”

The traveler strained his ears, but the tea house was not silent. The wind whispered through the wooden beams, the leaves outside rustled, a distant bell chimed from the village below.

“I hear many things,” the traveler said, shaking his head. “But no silence.”

The master took a slow sip of his tea. “Then listen more deeply.”

The traveler closed his eyes and tried again. He heard the wind, but within it, a space. He heard the rustling leaves, but beneath them, something quieter. He listened past the bell, past the hum of his own thoughts—until, at last, he heard it.

Stillness was not the absence of sound, but the space between sounds. It was not something to be grasped, but something to rest within.

His breath slowed. His hands, which had been clenched, relaxed. He opened his eyes and met the master’s gaze.

“I think,” the traveler said softly, “I understand.”

The master smiled and poured him more tea.

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Learn more about Daoism, its philosophy and practice in the book series - Daoist Cultivation.