What the Taoist Farmer Saw: Stories That Reveal True Nature
The Gate Opens: On Listening to Wisdom Tales
A story draws close—sometimes in the hush of a teacher’s voice, sometimes from the unremarkable moments of a farmer’s day. You may hear the first words and expect a lesson. Yet what arrives is an opening. Story as mirror. Story as empty bowl, true nature glimpsed between the lines. Often, what lingers most is not the answer but the presence that remains after the words dissolve, much like the silent depth within wisdom from spiritual teachers.
The Taoist Farmer and His Horse: A Short Spiritual Tale
In a small village stood a farmer others called wise, though he only did what needed doing. One day, his horse ran away. 'Such bad luck,' a neighbor said, and the farmer only replied, 'Maybe.' Days later the horse returned, bringing wild companions. The villagers smiled, 'Such good luck,' and again the farmer said, 'Maybe.' His son, riding one of the new horses, broke his leg. Neighbors grieved, 'Such misfortune.' Again: 'Maybe.' When war came, and young men were taken for the army, the farmer’s injured son remained at home. And still, the farmer said: 'Maybe.' Like many spiritual stories with meaning, the lesson cannot be pinned down—it rests somewhere beyond clear interpretation.
Not Knowing—and the Quiet That Follows
There is something in not-knowing, in not rushing to decide what is fortune, what is loss. The wisdom of the teacher in the tale—the farmer, or the old monk, or the story itself—rests quietly in the gap where judgment falls away. True nature is found in the silence under the words. The field after harvest. The breath before answer. Sometimes, the questioning mind meets a puzzle, like a Zen koan, which opens not through solving, but through simply staying present as meaning arises and fades.
- Notice what stirs after hearing a story that does not resolve.
- Let yourself dwell in the open space of 'maybe.'
- See if true nature, like fog at dawn, reveals itself when nothing is named.
Sitting Beside the Teacher, Sitting Beside Yourself
In every teacher-student story, there is a double presence. The one who asks and the one who answers. Sometimes they trade places. Sometimes, as with the Taoist farmer’s wisdom, you hear both voices within yourself. The story of the blind men and an elephant may come to mind—each touching only a part, believing it the whole, quietly reminding us that sight is limited, but presence is whole. For those drawn to the echoes in such tales, you might linger with the story of the blind men and elephant as another mirror of the not-knowing and the not-grasped.