The water rushed and roared like a dragon waking from a deep sleep. I stood on the cliff edge, heart pounding as the waves crashed below. Everyone around me held their breath. A man had fallen into the river—not just any river, but the fierce waters of Lüliang. People shouted and pointed. The current was wild. No one could survive in that.
Then, out of the mist, a figure appeared, rising with the foam like a fish returning from the deep. We all gasped. He stood calmly, not even tired, and walked to the shore as if the river had gently placed him there.
I was only a boy back then, no older than ten, but I never forgot what I saw. The man looked ordinary. His clothes clung to him like wet paper, but his eyes were calm as the moon. I ran to him, tugging at his sleeve. “Sir! How did you do that?” I asked. “The river was wild, and you were gone so long! Were you swimming?”
He smiled gently and knelt so we were eye to eye. “I don’t swim in the way people think,” he said. “I follow the water, not fight it. I become part of the flow.”
“But how can you float when the river wants to pull you down?” I asked, confused.
“The river has its rhythm,” he explained. “It moves this way, then that. If you try to control it, you sink. But if you let go, if you let it carry you, it shows you where to go.”
At the time, I didn’t understand. His words sounded like riddles. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Years passed. I grew up, always trying harder, working longer, pushing to be the best. I thought effort was everything. But no matter how hard I worked, I always felt tired, like I was swimming upstream.
One day, I found myself back at Lüliang, standing by that same roaring river. I could feel the old memory rising in my chest. I sat beside the water and watched it ripple and dance over rocks. I remembered his words—about allowing instead of forcing.
So I began to try something new. I did one thing at a time. I moved gently, just like the river. I stopped pushing all the time and started noticing more: the wind in the trees, the warmth of tea, the way people smiled when I truly listened to them.
A slow change began. Problems I used to force started solving themselves. I felt light, quiet, like the river flowing around stones instead of smashing into them.
That day long ago by the river, I met not just a man, but a way of living. I didn’t understand it then, but now, I see: he was a true master of the Tao—the Way.
I still remember his calm eyes and peaceful smile. He wasn't strong because he fought the river. He was strong because he didn't fight at all.
And even now, when life gets heavy, I close my eyes and think of the current. I let go—and I float.
The water rushed and roared like a dragon waking from a deep sleep. I stood on the cliff edge, heart pounding as the waves crashed below. Everyone around me held their breath. A man had fallen into the river—not just any river, but the fierce waters of Lüliang. People shouted and pointed. The current was wild. No one could survive in that.
Then, out of the mist, a figure appeared, rising with the foam like a fish returning from the deep. We all gasped. He stood calmly, not even tired, and walked to the shore as if the river had gently placed him there.
I was only a boy back then, no older than ten, but I never forgot what I saw. The man looked ordinary. His clothes clung to him like wet paper, but his eyes were calm as the moon. I ran to him, tugging at his sleeve. “Sir! How did you do that?” I asked. “The river was wild, and you were gone so long! Were you swimming?”
He smiled gently and knelt so we were eye to eye. “I don’t swim in the way people think,” he said. “I follow the water, not fight it. I become part of the flow.”
“But how can you float when the river wants to pull you down?” I asked, confused.
“The river has its rhythm,” he explained. “It moves this way, then that. If you try to control it, you sink. But if you let go, if you let it carry you, it shows you where to go.”
At the time, I didn’t understand. His words sounded like riddles. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Years passed. I grew up, always trying harder, working longer, pushing to be the best. I thought effort was everything. But no matter how hard I worked, I always felt tired, like I was swimming upstream.
One day, I found myself back at Lüliang, standing by that same roaring river. I could feel the old memory rising in my chest. I sat beside the water and watched it ripple and dance over rocks. I remembered his words—about allowing instead of forcing.
So I began to try something new. I did one thing at a time. I moved gently, just like the river. I stopped pushing all the time and started noticing more: the wind in the trees, the warmth of tea, the way people smiled when I truly listened to them.
A slow change began. Problems I used to force started solving themselves. I felt light, quiet, like the river flowing around stones instead of smashing into them.
That day long ago by the river, I met not just a man, but a way of living. I didn’t understand it then, but now, I see: he was a true master of the Tao—the Way.
I still remember his calm eyes and peaceful smile. He wasn't strong because he fought the river. He was strong because he didn't fight at all.
And even now, when life gets heavy, I close my eyes and think of the current. I let go—and I float.
