The river was silent that morning, like it was holding its breath. I stood at its edge, my toes sinking into the muddy bank, and my heart felt just as heavy as the stone in my hand.
I was fifteen, just old enough to help with the village work but not wise enough to understand all the ways of life. My name is Wen, born in a quiet village that nestled near the mountains of ancient China. That day, I had run from a mistake—one I couldn’t fix, and one that made me feel like I was sinking inside.
I sat alone by the water with the stone, thinking if I just threw it far enough, maybe my pain would disappear along with it.
“Planning to make the stone fly?” asked a voice behind me.
I turned and saw an old man in faded robes, holding a long walking stick. He was Qi, a traveling sage who passed through our village from time to time. People said he once studied the Tao, the Way of nature and balance.
“No,” I muttered. “Just want it gone.”
He sat beside me without asking. “Try this,” he said, “drop it into the water. Gently.”
I blinked. “But it’ll sink.”
“Still,” he said. “Drop it soft. Let it go.”
I sighed, but did what he said. I let the stone slip from my fingers. We watched it fall into the calm river. But instead of sinking straight down, it landed on an old bundle of reeds caught in a swirl of water—and it floated.
My eyes widened.
“It’s not the stone,” Qi said. “It’s the way it met the river.”
“How?” I asked, confused. “Stones sink.”
He smiled. “Yes. But sometimes, when we let go gently, the world catches us in ways we don’t expect.”
I didn’t understand at first. But Qi didn’t speak more. He just stood and wandered off, like a leaf in the wind.
I sat there for a long time. The stone floated for a while, then the reeds shifted, and it sank. But by then, something inside me felt different.
I thought about what Qi meant. I had tried to force everything to be perfect—my chores, my father’s praise, my own worth. But the more I pushed, the more things slipped away. And now, maybe I didn’t need to fix everything. Maybe I needed to let go and float for a while, like the stone.
That night, I watched the stars and didn’t try to stop my thoughts. I just breathed. Slowly. Like the river.
I didn’t change overnight. But something inside me began to loosen. I started helping without rushing. Speaking without fear. Some days were still hard. But I remembered that stone—and how it floated, just for a moment, when I let it go gently.
And in that moment, the Tao revealed the Way.
The river was silent that morning, like it was holding its breath. I stood at its edge, my toes sinking into the muddy bank, and my heart felt just as heavy as the stone in my hand.
I was fifteen, just old enough to help with the village work but not wise enough to understand all the ways of life. My name is Wen, born in a quiet village that nestled near the mountains of ancient China. That day, I had run from a mistake—one I couldn’t fix, and one that made me feel like I was sinking inside.
I sat alone by the water with the stone, thinking if I just threw it far enough, maybe my pain would disappear along with it.
“Planning to make the stone fly?” asked a voice behind me.
I turned and saw an old man in faded robes, holding a long walking stick. He was Qi, a traveling sage who passed through our village from time to time. People said he once studied the Tao, the Way of nature and balance.
“No,” I muttered. “Just want it gone.”
He sat beside me without asking. “Try this,” he said, “drop it into the water. Gently.”
I blinked. “But it’ll sink.”
“Still,” he said. “Drop it soft. Let it go.”
I sighed, but did what he said. I let the stone slip from my fingers. We watched it fall into the calm river. But instead of sinking straight down, it landed on an old bundle of reeds caught in a swirl of water—and it floated.
My eyes widened.
“It’s not the stone,” Qi said. “It’s the way it met the river.”
“How?” I asked, confused. “Stones sink.”
He smiled. “Yes. But sometimes, when we let go gently, the world catches us in ways we don’t expect.”
I didn’t understand at first. But Qi didn’t speak more. He just stood and wandered off, like a leaf in the wind.
I sat there for a long time. The stone floated for a while, then the reeds shifted, and it sank. But by then, something inside me felt different.
I thought about what Qi meant. I had tried to force everything to be perfect—my chores, my father’s praise, my own worth. But the more I pushed, the more things slipped away. And now, maybe I didn’t need to fix everything. Maybe I needed to let go and float for a while, like the stone.
That night, I watched the stars and didn’t try to stop my thoughts. I just breathed. Slowly. Like the river.
I didn’t change overnight. But something inside me began to loosen. I started helping without rushing. Speaking without fear. Some days were still hard. But I remembered that stone—and how it floated, just for a moment, when I let it go gently.
And in that moment, the Tao revealed the Way.
