The sun had barely risen when I stepped outside, my fishing pole over my shoulder and a sour grumble in my chest. I was ten, and this was the third morning I had tried and failed to catch anything in the river. “It’s too slow,” I muttered. “Nothing ever happens here.”
My grandfather, who lived just outside our small village near the banks of the Lan River, watched me with quiet eyes. He was an old man with a beard like a cloud and hands that moved as gently as falling leaves. That morning, he turned and said, “Come, walk with me.”
I didn’t really want to, but something about the way he spoke made me follow.
We walked by the river, its water rippling slowly, whispering over the rocks. The sound made me feel smaller and quieter, like even the birds hushed themselves to listen.
Grandfather pointed to the river. “Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?” I asked, still half-thinking about the fish I hadn’t caught.
“The river,” he said, smiling. “It speaks in its own way. Never rushing. Never fighting. Just flowing.”
I looked at the river. It didn’t seem to be doing anything special. “But how does that help me catch fish?” I asked.
“It doesn’t try,” he said. “It just is. That’s its strength.”
I frowned. “But if I don’t try, I won’t catch anything.”
We stopped walking near a large rock where the river curled quietly. Grandfather sat and patted the stone beside him.
“When I was your age,” he said, “I thought I had to chase the world. But then, I met a sage named Zhuangzi, a man who laughed more than he worked, listened more than he talked, and lived more than he tried.”
“Zhuangzi?” I asked.
“He was a thinker long ago. He taught that things unfold best when left to their nature. Just like a butterfly doesn’t force its wings open—it waits for the right time.”
I scratched my head. “So… I should wait for the fish to jump in my hands?”
Grandfather chuckled. “No, child. But wait with the river. Sit. Breathe. Let your hands move, not because you must, but because they are part of the river’s way.”
So, I sat. I didn’t frown. I didn’t sigh. I just watched. The water flowed around sticks without pushing them. Birds flew low and dipped their beaks. I tossed my line gently into the water, barely thinking, breathing slowly.
Within minutes, my line tugged. A fish.
And another.
I said nothing at first. I just felt… still. Like the river was inside me too.
When we walked home, I asked Grandfather, “Is this the Tao?”
He nodded, his eyes twinkling. “The Way is not something you chase. It’s something you join.”
That night, as I drifted to sleep, I thought about the river. I still didn’t understand everything. But I knew I didn’t need to fight the world so much. I just needed to listen a bit more—to the wind, the water… and maybe, to myself.
And from that day on, whenever I felt rushed or broken, I walked back to that river and let it whisper its secret once more.
The sun had barely risen when I stepped outside, my fishing pole over my shoulder and a sour grumble in my chest. I was ten, and this was the third morning I had tried and failed to catch anything in the river. “It’s too slow,” I muttered. “Nothing ever happens here.”
My grandfather, who lived just outside our small village near the banks of the Lan River, watched me with quiet eyes. He was an old man with a beard like a cloud and hands that moved as gently as falling leaves. That morning, he turned and said, “Come, walk with me.”
I didn’t really want to, but something about the way he spoke made me follow.
We walked by the river, its water rippling slowly, whispering over the rocks. The sound made me feel smaller and quieter, like even the birds hushed themselves to listen.
Grandfather pointed to the river. “Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?” I asked, still half-thinking about the fish I hadn’t caught.
“The river,” he said, smiling. “It speaks in its own way. Never rushing. Never fighting. Just flowing.”
I looked at the river. It didn’t seem to be doing anything special. “But how does that help me catch fish?” I asked.
“It doesn’t try,” he said. “It just is. That’s its strength.”
I frowned. “But if I don’t try, I won’t catch anything.”
We stopped walking near a large rock where the river curled quietly. Grandfather sat and patted the stone beside him.
“When I was your age,” he said, “I thought I had to chase the world. But then, I met a sage named Zhuangzi, a man who laughed more than he worked, listened more than he talked, and lived more than he tried.”
“Zhuangzi?” I asked.
“He was a thinker long ago. He taught that things unfold best when left to their nature. Just like a butterfly doesn’t force its wings open—it waits for the right time.”
I scratched my head. “So… I should wait for the fish to jump in my hands?”
Grandfather chuckled. “No, child. But wait with the river. Sit. Breathe. Let your hands move, not because you must, but because they are part of the river’s way.”
So, I sat. I didn’t frown. I didn’t sigh. I just watched. The water flowed around sticks without pushing them. Birds flew low and dipped their beaks. I tossed my line gently into the water, barely thinking, breathing slowly.
Within minutes, my line tugged. A fish.
And another.
I said nothing at first. I just felt… still. Like the river was inside me too.
When we walked home, I asked Grandfather, “Is this the Tao?”
He nodded, his eyes twinkling. “The Way is not something you chase. It’s something you join.”
That night, as I drifted to sleep, I thought about the river. I still didn’t understand everything. But I knew I didn’t need to fight the world so much. I just needed to listen a bit more—to the wind, the water… and maybe, to myself.
And from that day on, whenever I felt rushed or broken, I walked back to that river and let it whisper its secret once more.
