The Farmer’s Morning Ritual

An old farmer named Liang lived in a peaceful valley shrouded in mist and time, where the river whispered secrets to the stones and the mountains stood like everlasting sages. At the edge of a rice paddy that gleamed in the morning sun like a mirror was his humble wooden cottage, which had paper windows and a sloping tiled roof. The sun-dappled rhythm of each day and a cat named Yun were all that remained of his family.

Liang was a man who did not say much and did not want much. He placed his faith in the Dao's teachings—not in books or scrolls, but in the movement of water over mossy stones, the sound of a bamboo flute played by a shepherd in the distance, and the touch of the wind.

Liang always woke up before the world awakened, just as the stars were fading and the eastern sky was blushing pink. An alert was never necessary for him. His breathing synchronized with the changing of the seasons, much like the earth's rhythm. He could smell the aroma of plum blossoms coming through his window as spring returned.

His morning routine started with silence rather than movement.

Liang closed his eyes, sat on the edge of his sleeping mat, and took slow, deep breaths that flowed through him like the tide. He did not refer to it as meditation. He gave it no name at all. It was just listening.

The distant crow of the rooster.

The eaves are being brushed by the wind.

The rhythm of the ground below

He eventually opened his eyes. The contours of his modest life were still visible in the dimly lit room: a straw hat, a wooden hoe, a gourd of water, and Yun the cat, curled at the foot of his mat with her white fur glowing like the moon.

He whispered softly, "Come, Yun," and the cat followed him out the door after yawning and stretching.

The environment was peaceful and cool outside. The bamboo grove next to the home whispered with ancient ease, and mist hovered over the paddies. Liang went barefoot to his yard's little stone well. He cupped the icy water, which had been drawn from the earth's depths, to rinse his hands and splash his face.

He took his time. There is no hurry in Dao.

Every action was performed with presence, including drawing water, giving Yun a bowl of warm rice, and lighting the fire with a steady hand and quiet breath. It was a return to what was always present—the harmony of being in the moment—rather than a performance or forced attentiveness.

Liang was making tea by the time the sun's first rays reached the mountain's ridge. He soaked green leaves from a bush he had cultivated for decades in a clay pot that had been worn from years of use.

As he sipped his tea carefully on his veranda, he observed the sky changing color like a painting and the mist rising. The news was not read by him. He did not look at the time. He heard the

This is a turnip since they enjoy the shade.

They could climb the peas by the trellis.

His late wife had cherished the chrysanthemums by the wall.

He occasionally used peaceful thoughts rather than grandiose words to address the plants, asking them things like, "Are you warm enough?"

"Did you eat well from the rain?"

"Like me, do you miss the sun?"

Sometimes he was referred to as the mountain sage by his neighbors, who were becoming fewer as the valley grew older. But he never claimed wisdom. All he said was peace.

Liang was weeding along the paddy's edge one spring morning when a young guy with worn shoes and an anxious expression came up the dirt road.

He said, "Are you the farmer?"

Liang continued to kneel in the ground and nodded.

You live worry-free, they say. lacking in ambition. How is it done? I feel like a kite without wind, even though I have studied and worked in the metropolis.

Liang gazed into the young man's storm-and-fire-filled eyes. He handed him tea as he slowly stood up.

Yun surprised the young man by jumping onto his lap as they sat on the porch together.

After a while, Liang replied, "You ask how I live." "How the cloud floats or how the fish swims is like asking those questions."

The young man's forehead wrinkled. But you want more, do not you? A larger farm? A name recognized outside of this valley?

Liang steadied his hands and poured more tea.

"I had a lot of desires when I was your age. A good home. A cart.

Like butterflies, I chased after them. However, I discovered that I had never once seen the sunrise with my wife when she became ill and the doctor told me she did not have much time left.

Now that the light was high, he could see the river shimmering like gold over the field.

Thus, I ceased pursuing and began to observe. And I discovered everything in seeing.

The young man said nothing.

Liang grabbed up a handful of dirt with his hand. He let it go like sand between his fingers.

He declared, "This earth has never left the valley." However, it has the power to root trees, grow rice, and feed everyone who passes. Is that insufficient?

For a few days, the young man remained with Liang. He learnt to sit quietly in between breaths, to plant by feeling, and to wake with the light. He struggled at first. He grasped for ideas, plans, and sound. Slowly, though, he could hear the music beneath the quiet.

"Is this the Dao?" he asked Liang one morning.

Liang laughed. "Ask the river. Consult the wind.

Years went by.

As he aged, Liang's hair turned as white as winter plum blossoms. His pace decreased, but his spirit stayed strong and supple like bamboo. More travelers arrived, some in search of answers, some in search of serenity.

He served them tea.

He taught them how to pay attention.

He told them that the morning is a mirror of the self and not merely a beginning.

Liang's ritual was to wake with the stars, breathe with the soil, tend to the garden, drink tea, and live without naming what cannot be named. He did this every morning until his last breath.

There were no loud shouts of mourning in the valley when he went away. On the following morning, however, the mist hung low, as though bending, and the wind blew softly through the bamboo. As usual, Yun, the cat, waited for tea that would never arrive while sitting on the porch.

However, the now-older young man sat next to her. As Liang had shown him, he poured two drinks and watched the sun rise.

According to the Dao, nothing is left undone if you do nothing.

This reality was lived rather than expressed in Liang's morning ritual.

And he reminded everyone who followed him that the greatest journey is not across mountains or oceans by quietly caring for the soil and the spirit.

It goes from sound to quiet.

from aspiration to visibility.

To the Dao from the self.