04/20/2026
There’s a well-known story, often shared in both Taoist and Zen circles, about a farmer and his horse. An old man lived in a small village with his son. One day, his horse ran away, and the neighbors came by to offer their sympathies.
“What bad luck,” they said.
The old man simply replied, “Maybe.”
A few days later, the horse returned, bringing with it several wild horses from the hills. The neighbors returned, praising the good fortune.
“What good luck," they said.
Again, the old man responded, "Maybe."
Soon after, the man’s son tried to ride one of the wild horses. He was thrown and broke his leg.
“What bad luck,” the neighbors lamented.
Once more, the old man said, "Maybe.”
Not long after, soldiers came through the village, drafting young men into the army. Seeing his son’s injured leg, they passed him by.
“What good luck," said the neighbors.
And again, the old man only replied, "Maybe.”
The story keeps turning like this, over and over.
What seems fortunate can turn out to be unfortunate. What looks like a loss might reveal something different over time.
Nothing remains fixed or certain.
What stands out isn’t the events themselves but our tendency to rush to judge their meaning too quickly.
Most of the time, our minds jump to conclusions—this is good, this is bad—and then everything else follows from there.
But the story suggests something else: that we don’t see the full picture. Time often shows what the moment cannot. What we label as “good” or “bad” might just be a small piece of something still unfolding.
The old man doesn’t deny what happens. He simply leaves it open.
In Zen, this is sometimes called not knowing—not confusion, but a kind of clarity that isn’t in a rush to judge.
It’s about being willing to meet life as it comes before it hardens into certainty.
The story is straightforward. A horse runs away, then returns. A son falls, then heals. A war comes, then goes.
Nothing extraordinary. And yet—the moment we decide what something means might be the very moment we stop seeing it clearly.
