The air felt heavy that morning as I sat by the river’s edge, tossing stones into the water. I was twelve, and my heart was full of anger. My older brother had taken my scrolls without asking, again, and Father had told me to “let it be.”
“Let it be?” I muttered, skimming another rock. “He never stops.”
Just then, an old man I hadn’t noticed before chuckled from under the shade of a crooked willow. He wore robes the color of mist and had a face full of gentle wrinkles, like the bark of an old tree.
“You seem troubled, little one,” he said without opening his eyes.
I didn't want to answer, but the words just fell out. “My brother took my things. Again. And no one does anything. I try to stay calm—but I can’t!”
The old man nodded as if I had told him something very ancient. “Have you ever tried to stop a river with your hands?”
“What? No,” I replied, confused.
“If you stand in the river and try to push the water back, what do you think will happen?”
“I’d fall. Or get very wet,” I said.
He smiled. “Exactly. But if you let the river flow, it goes around you. You keep your balance. You stay dry.”
I looked at the river, watching it ripple around stones, never fighting, just moving. “So… I’m the stone?”
“Or the river,” he said with a wink. “Both are strong in their own way. But the strongest is the one that does not fight.”
That didn’t make much sense at first. How can not doing anything be stronger than standing up for yourself? I frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair comes and goes, like seasonal rain,” he said, standing slowly and tapping his stick on the ground. “But peace—peace is what stays when you learn to flow.”
I watched him walk away, his steps as quiet as falling leaves.
That night, I didn’t scold my brother. I said nothing. Instead, I watched him read my scrolls, his face calm and curious. I realized he wasn’t trying to hurt me—he just wanted to understand the stories I loved so much.
Over time, things began to change. Not all at once. He still borrowed my things, but sometimes he’d ask first. And I stopped feeling the fire in my chest each time.
I started to act more like the river, soft around the stones but moving forward with ease.
One day, I saw that same old man again. He was walking through the village, smiling at nothing in particular. When he passed me, he didn’t stop—but I whispered, “I understand now.”
He gave me a small wave without turning back.
That lesson stayed with me. I learned that not every fight needs force. Sometimes, the strongest way is the quiet way. The balanced way.
I still get upset sometimes. I’m still learning. But now, when storms rise inside me, I remember the river’s whisper.
And I let it flow.
The air felt heavy that morning as I sat by the river’s edge, tossing stones into the water. I was twelve, and my heart was full of anger. My older brother had taken my scrolls without asking, again, and Father had told me to “let it be.”
“Let it be?” I muttered, skimming another rock. “He never stops.”
Just then, an old man I hadn’t noticed before chuckled from under the shade of a crooked willow. He wore robes the color of mist and had a face full of gentle wrinkles, like the bark of an old tree.
“You seem troubled, little one,” he said without opening his eyes.
I didn't want to answer, but the words just fell out. “My brother took my things. Again. And no one does anything. I try to stay calm—but I can’t!”
The old man nodded as if I had told him something very ancient. “Have you ever tried to stop a river with your hands?”
“What? No,” I replied, confused.
“If you stand in the river and try to push the water back, what do you think will happen?”
“I’d fall. Or get very wet,” I said.
He smiled. “Exactly. But if you let the river flow, it goes around you. You keep your balance. You stay dry.”
I looked at the river, watching it ripple around stones, never fighting, just moving. “So… I’m the stone?”
“Or the river,” he said with a wink. “Both are strong in their own way. But the strongest is the one that does not fight.”
That didn’t make much sense at first. How can not doing anything be stronger than standing up for yourself? I frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair comes and goes, like seasonal rain,” he said, standing slowly and tapping his stick on the ground. “But peace—peace is what stays when you learn to flow.”
I watched him walk away, his steps as quiet as falling leaves.
That night, I didn’t scold my brother. I said nothing. Instead, I watched him read my scrolls, his face calm and curious. I realized he wasn’t trying to hurt me—he just wanted to understand the stories I loved so much.
Over time, things began to change. Not all at once. He still borrowed my things, but sometimes he’d ask first. And I stopped feeling the fire in my chest each time.
I started to act more like the river, soft around the stones but moving forward with ease.
One day, I saw that same old man again. He was walking through the village, smiling at nothing in particular. When he passed me, he didn’t stop—but I whispered, “I understand now.”
He gave me a small wave without turning back.
That lesson stayed with me. I learned that not every fight needs force. Sometimes, the strongest way is the quiet way. The balanced way.
I still get upset sometimes. I’m still learning. But now, when storms rise inside me, I remember the river’s whisper.
And I let it flow.
