Life Wisdom - By Words of Taoism
Oct 31, 2026 · 22 min · 9 segments
This episode is about that habit of haste, which settles so deeply into the body that we stop noticing it, and about the possibility of finding again a pace that belongs to us. **More resources:**…
Chen LiHost
Their gate was said to be the most graceful in the world, light and assured at once, and the young man, ashamed of his own country stride, decided to travel there and learn it.
He spent his days in the streets of the capital, watching the passers-by and copying them, lengthening his step here and lifting his chin there, adjusting the swing of his arms to match theirs.
Each evening, he promised himself that tomorrow he would have it, and each morning he went out again to watch the elegant crowds hurrying along the avenues.
Meanwhile, his old way of walking, the one he had known since childhood, slipped away from him as he kept correcting it.
In the end, he could walk neither like them nor like himself, and Zhuangzi says that he had to make his way home on his hands and knees.
The tale is told with Zhuangzi's usual mischief, and it describes something very common, the loss of one's own rhythm in trying to keep up with someone else's.
A great deal of our haste is borrowed in this way, from colleagues who answer messages within a minute, from a city that walks fast, or from friends whose lives seem to move at twice our speed.
And after a few years, we no longer know what our own pace would feel like, any more than the young man could remember his old stride.
The devices in our pockets set a pace of their own, since every message seems to call for an immediate reply.
The age by which we feel we should have found a partner, bought a home, reached a certain position, or had children.
We measure our progress against friends and siblings as the young man measured his stride against the crowds of the capital.
Many people spend years feeling late for a life that was never on their own timetable.
The result is a peculiar tiredness which comes less from the amount we do than from doing everything at a speed that was never ours.
Why we hurry even when nothing requires it deserves a closer look, because the reasons are often more tender than they appear.
For some of us, haste keeps fear at bay, the fear of falling behind, of being caught out, of disappointing someone who expected us to be quicker.
For others, it gives a feeling of importance, as though a full and rushed day proved that we mattered, while a calm one might suggest that nobody needed us.
For many, it has become the body's habit, learned so long ago that the jaw tightens and the breath shortens even on a Sunday morning with nothing on the calendar.
A sadness, a doubt about the direction of our life, a tiredness we cannot afford to acknowledge.
Their gate was said to be the most graceful in the world, light and assured at once, and the young man, ashamed of his own country stride, decided to travel there and learn it.
He spent his days in the streets of the capital, watching the passers-by and copying them, lengthening his step here and lifting his chin there, adjusting the swing of his arms to match theirs.
Each evening, he promised himself that tomorrow he would have it, and each morning he went out again to watch the elegant crowds hurrying along the avenues.
Meanwhile, his old way of walking, the one he had known since childhood, slipped away from him as he kept correcting it.
In the end, he could walk neither like them nor like himself, and Zhuangzi says that he had to make his way home on his hands and knees.
The tale is told with Zhuangzi's usual mischief, and it describes something very common, the loss of one's own rhythm in trying to keep up with someone else's.
A great deal of our haste is borrowed in this way, from colleagues who answer messages within a minute, from a city that walks fast, or from friends whose lives seem to move at twice our speed.
And after a few years, we no longer know what our own pace would feel like, any more than the young man could remember his old stride.
The devices in our pockets set a pace of their own, since every message seems to call for an immediate reply.
The age by which we feel we should have found a partner, bought a home, reached a certain position, or had children.
We measure our progress against friends and siblings as the young man measured his stride against the crowds of the capital.
Many people spend years feeling late for a life that was never on their own timetable.
The result is a peculiar tiredness which comes less from the amount we do than from doing everything at a speed that was never ours.
Why we hurry even when nothing requires it deserves a closer look, because the reasons are often more tender than they appear.
For some of us, haste keeps fear at bay, the fear of falling behind, of being caught out, of disappointing someone who expected us to be quicker.
For others, it gives a feeling of importance, as though a full and rushed day proved that we mattered, while a calm one might suggest that nobody needed us.
For many, it has become the body's habit, learned so long ago that the jaw tightens and the breath shortens even on a Sunday morning with nothing on the calendar.
A sadness, a doubt about the direction of our life, a tiredness we cannot afford to acknowledge.
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