The air was unusually still that morning as I sat by the water, my toes skimming the cool surface of the stream. I was ten years old and angry—angry that Papa hadn’t let me go to the market alone, angry that my little brother had broken my favorite bowl, angry that the world never seemed to listen to me.
Behind me, Grandpa Rin slowly walked down the hill with his wooden cane tap-tapping along the stones. He didn’t say much, not at first. He just settled beside me with a grunt and stared at the stream, his eyes soft like the clouds above.
“It moves,” he said after a while, “even when it looks still.”
I folded my arms. “It’s just water. And it doesn’t care how I feel.”
“That’s true,” he said, nodding. “The stream doesn’t care. But it listens.”
I frowned. “Listens?”
He pointed to a floating leaf spinning gently on the surface. “The stream carries the leaf, but never clutches it. When a rock gets in the way—it goes around. It doesn’t fight.”
I watched silently as the leaf drifted. It got caught for a moment by a twig, wobbling in place, then slipped free and continued without effort.
“I try and try,” I burst out. “And it’s not fair. Everyone else gets what they want. But me? If I don’t push, nothing happens!”
Grandpa Rin laughed, not meanly, but like a bell in the wind. “There once was a man,” he said, “who tried to dig up a tree because it wouldn’t grow fast enough. He tugged and tugged every day, wanting taller branches. And you can guess what happened.”
“It died,” I whispered.
He nodded. “But the tree beside it, left alone, reached the sky.”
We stayed quiet for a long time. I didn’t like the feeling in my chest. It was like holding back tears but not knowing why. Finally, I asked, “So… what am I supposed to do? Just give up?”
Grandpa shook his head. “Not give up. Let go. There’s a difference.”
I didn’t understand all of it just then. But I remember letting my shoulders fall and breathing deep, the way the stream did—soft and calm. Its journey had no rush, yet it still reached everywhere.
That night, I didn’t yell when my little brother knocked over my ink brush. I let out a breath and cleaned it up. It didn’t feel like losing. It felt… lighter.
I started visiting the stream more. I watched the water slide over pebbles, dance past sticks, and carry whatever it met. Sometimes it whispered, sometimes it roared. But it never needed to try. It just was.
And slowly, I began to understand.
I didn't change overnight. But now, whenever frustration bubbles up inside me, I think of the stream. I let my feelings float by like leaves, touching them gently but not holding on.
The Tao, Grandpa once told me, is like that. It’s always moving, yet never rushing. Always present, yet never loud. And if I listen closely, I can walk with it—calmly, gently, like the timeless stream.
The air was unusually still that morning as I sat by the water, my toes skimming the cool surface of the stream. I was ten years old and angry—angry that Papa hadn’t let me go to the market alone, angry that my little brother had broken my favorite bowl, angry that the world never seemed to listen to me.
Behind me, Grandpa Rin slowly walked down the hill with his wooden cane tap-tapping along the stones. He didn’t say much, not at first. He just settled beside me with a grunt and stared at the stream, his eyes soft like the clouds above.
“It moves,” he said after a while, “even when it looks still.”
I folded my arms. “It’s just water. And it doesn’t care how I feel.”
“That’s true,” he said, nodding. “The stream doesn’t care. But it listens.”
I frowned. “Listens?”
He pointed to a floating leaf spinning gently on the surface. “The stream carries the leaf, but never clutches it. When a rock gets in the way—it goes around. It doesn’t fight.”
I watched silently as the leaf drifted. It got caught for a moment by a twig, wobbling in place, then slipped free and continued without effort.
“I try and try,” I burst out. “And it’s not fair. Everyone else gets what they want. But me? If I don’t push, nothing happens!”
Grandpa Rin laughed, not meanly, but like a bell in the wind. “There once was a man,” he said, “who tried to dig up a tree because it wouldn’t grow fast enough. He tugged and tugged every day, wanting taller branches. And you can guess what happened.”
“It died,” I whispered.
He nodded. “But the tree beside it, left alone, reached the sky.”
We stayed quiet for a long time. I didn’t like the feeling in my chest. It was like holding back tears but not knowing why. Finally, I asked, “So… what am I supposed to do? Just give up?”
Grandpa shook his head. “Not give up. Let go. There’s a difference.”
I didn’t understand all of it just then. But I remember letting my shoulders fall and breathing deep, the way the stream did—soft and calm. Its journey had no rush, yet it still reached everywhere.
That night, I didn’t yell when my little brother knocked over my ink brush. I let out a breath and cleaned it up. It didn’t feel like losing. It felt… lighter.
I started visiting the stream more. I watched the water slide over pebbles, dance past sticks, and carry whatever it met. Sometimes it whispered, sometimes it roared. But it never needed to try. It just was.
And slowly, I began to understand.
I didn't change overnight. But now, whenever frustration bubbles up inside me, I think of the stream. I let my feelings float by like leaves, touching them gently but not holding on.
The Tao, Grandpa once told me, is like that. It’s always moving, yet never rushing. Always present, yet never loud. And if I listen closely, I can walk with it—calmly, gently, like the timeless stream.
