The water was quiet that morning, but my heart wasn’t.
I stood at the edge of the wide river, clutching a smooth pebble in my hand. The village festival was coming, and I wanted to win the boat race. I had been practicing for weeks—rowing harder, faster, longer than anyone else my age. But the more I pushed, the more I seemed to struggle. My boat slapped awkwardly against the water. It wobbled, it swerved. I was tired, and worse—I was losing hope.
Old Master Wei sat on a flat rock nearby. His robes looked like old clouds, soft and wrinkly. He didn’t say much, usually. Just smiled and watched the water.
Today, he spoke.
“There is a story,” he said, “about a low wave who feared the sea.”
I blinked. “A… low wave?”
He nodded. “All the waves rolled high and fierce, proud of how tall they could grow. But one little wave stayed low. The others laughed and called it weak.”
“What happened to the low wave?” I asked, curious.
“It watched the others crash upon the rocks. One by one, they rose loud and fast…and ended just as quickly.” Master Wei leaned forward. “But the low wave? It flowed gently, moving with the sea, not against it. It lasted longer. It went farther. And it never broke.”
I stared at the water.
“But fast is better, right?” I said. “The race is soon. I can’t win going slow.”
Master Wei smiled, almost like he had heard me say that in a dream. “Is the purpose of rowing to win, or to flow?” he asked. “Try being the river, not the storm.”
I didn’t really get it. I nodded anyway and went back to practicing—but this time, I didn’t fight the river. I stopped pushing so hard. I loosened my grip. I listened to the water.
That’s when things changed.
My boat didn’t shake as much. It stopped bouncing and started gliding. I moved easier. Every stroke felt lighter. Even though I wasn’t going faster, it felt better, smoother… almost like flying.
The day of the race came. The other boys and girls shouted and splashed, competing with fire in their eyes. I waited. I breathed. When the gong rang, I dipped my oar in and flowed with the current—not too fast, not too slow.
And do you know what?
I didn’t come in first. But I also didn’t come in last. I finished with a smile, still floating calm while others tipped and tumbled, huffing and soaked.
Afterward, Master Wei nodded at me. “Low wave,” he said, softly. “The strong do not rush ahead. They last.”
I still remember that.
Now, whenever I feel like I have to hurry, fight, or prove myself, I go back to the river in my mind. I breathe. I think of the low wave.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when life feels rough, I try to let go a little. I trust the Tao and try to live like the low wave—quiet, gentle, and free.
The water was quiet that morning, but my heart wasn’t.
I stood at the edge of the wide river, clutching a smooth pebble in my hand. The village festival was coming, and I wanted to win the boat race. I had been practicing for weeks—rowing harder, faster, longer than anyone else my age. But the more I pushed, the more I seemed to struggle. My boat slapped awkwardly against the water. It wobbled, it swerved. I was tired, and worse—I was losing hope.
Old Master Wei sat on a flat rock nearby. His robes looked like old clouds, soft and wrinkly. He didn’t say much, usually. Just smiled and watched the water.
Today, he spoke.
“There is a story,” he said, “about a low wave who feared the sea.”
I blinked. “A… low wave?”
He nodded. “All the waves rolled high and fierce, proud of how tall they could grow. But one little wave stayed low. The others laughed and called it weak.”
“What happened to the low wave?” I asked, curious.
“It watched the others crash upon the rocks. One by one, they rose loud and fast…and ended just as quickly.” Master Wei leaned forward. “But the low wave? It flowed gently, moving with the sea, not against it. It lasted longer. It went farther. And it never broke.”
I stared at the water.
“But fast is better, right?” I said. “The race is soon. I can’t win going slow.”
Master Wei smiled, almost like he had heard me say that in a dream. “Is the purpose of rowing to win, or to flow?” he asked. “Try being the river, not the storm.”
I didn’t really get it. I nodded anyway and went back to practicing—but this time, I didn’t fight the river. I stopped pushing so hard. I loosened my grip. I listened to the water.
That’s when things changed.
My boat didn’t shake as much. It stopped bouncing and started gliding. I moved easier. Every stroke felt lighter. Even though I wasn’t going faster, it felt better, smoother… almost like flying.
The day of the race came. The other boys and girls shouted and splashed, competing with fire in their eyes. I waited. I breathed. When the gong rang, I dipped my oar in and flowed with the current—not too fast, not too slow.
And do you know what?
I didn’t come in first. But I also didn’t come in last. I finished with a smile, still floating calm while others tipped and tumbled, huffing and soaked.
Afterward, Master Wei nodded at me. “Low wave,” he said, softly. “The strong do not rush ahead. They last.”
I still remember that.
Now, whenever I feel like I have to hurry, fight, or prove myself, I go back to the river in my mind. I breathe. I think of the low wave.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when life feels rough, I try to let go a little. I trust the Tao and try to live like the low wave—quiet, gentle, and free.
