I was ten when I first met the old man by the river. My father sent me to collect water every morning, and one day, while I was filling our jug, I saw him sitting nearby with his feet in the stream. His robe was simple, and his eyes were quiet like the water.
“You always sit here?” I asked, curious.
He smiled without turning. “Only when I need to remember the Way.”
“The Way?” I asked, blinking under the morning sun.
He looked at me then. “The Tao,” he said. “The way things are meant to flow. Like this river.”
Back then, I didn’t understand what he meant. I was in a hurry. Always rushing to finish my tasks, eager to get things just right, thinking the harder I worked, the better my life would be.
One morning, after an argument with my older brother, I stomped down to the river with angry steps. My jug bumped against my leg. I filled it quickly, splashing water everywhere.
The old man was there again. Without asking, he said, “Trying too hard turns clear water muddy.”
I frowned. “I’m not muddy.”
He laughed gently. “Not you. Your heart.”
I didn’t answer. I just stood there, not knowing what to say. He reached down and scooped up water with his hands. For a moment, the water swirled, cloudy from the dirt. Then he stopped moving, and the dirt slowly sank to the bottom.
“See?” he said. “When you stop stirring, the water clears.”
I looked at the jug in my hands. My thoughts were still stormy, but something about that made sense.
“Is it wrong to try my best?” I asked quietly.
“It is good to care,” he said, “but not to force. The tree does not rush to grow. The river does not force its path. Yet both become strong over time.”
That day, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. I started noticing more—how grass gently swayed in the breeze, how birds waited before flying, and how my own breath came easier when I stopped rushing.
Each visit to the river, I spoke with the old man. He never gave me answers. Just questions. Just stories.
One day, he didn’t come. I waited by the river for a long time.
A fisherman passing by told me, “He goes where the river takes him. He walks with the Tao.”
I missed him. But I understood something at last.
The Tao isn’t a place. It’s not a thing to chase.
It’s in the pause before I speak. The breath before I act. It’s in letting moments unfold, instead of trying to control them. And slowly, without pushing, I began to change.
I didn’t become perfect that day. I still got upset and rushed sometimes. But I began to notice. To breathe. To return.
Even now, years later, when my thoughts grow muddy, I visit the river. I stop. I wait.
And the Way reveals itself to me again—quietly, like water clearing after the storm.
I was ten when I first met the old man by the river. My father sent me to collect water every morning, and one day, while I was filling our jug, I saw him sitting nearby with his feet in the stream. His robe was simple, and his eyes were quiet like the water.
“You always sit here?” I asked, curious.
He smiled without turning. “Only when I need to remember the Way.”
“The Way?” I asked, blinking under the morning sun.
He looked at me then. “The Tao,” he said. “The way things are meant to flow. Like this river.”
Back then, I didn’t understand what he meant. I was in a hurry. Always rushing to finish my tasks, eager to get things just right, thinking the harder I worked, the better my life would be.
One morning, after an argument with my older brother, I stomped down to the river with angry steps. My jug bumped against my leg. I filled it quickly, splashing water everywhere.
The old man was there again. Without asking, he said, “Trying too hard turns clear water muddy.”
I frowned. “I’m not muddy.”
He laughed gently. “Not you. Your heart.”
I didn’t answer. I just stood there, not knowing what to say. He reached down and scooped up water with his hands. For a moment, the water swirled, cloudy from the dirt. Then he stopped moving, and the dirt slowly sank to the bottom.
“See?” he said. “When you stop stirring, the water clears.”
I looked at the jug in my hands. My thoughts were still stormy, but something about that made sense.
“Is it wrong to try my best?” I asked quietly.
“It is good to care,” he said, “but not to force. The tree does not rush to grow. The river does not force its path. Yet both become strong over time.”
That day, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said. I started noticing more—how grass gently swayed in the breeze, how birds waited before flying, and how my own breath came easier when I stopped rushing.
Each visit to the river, I spoke with the old man. He never gave me answers. Just questions. Just stories.
One day, he didn’t come. I waited by the river for a long time.
A fisherman passing by told me, “He goes where the river takes him. He walks with the Tao.”
I missed him. But I understood something at last.
The Tao isn’t a place. It’s not a thing to chase.
It’s in the pause before I speak. The breath before I act. It’s in letting moments unfold, instead of trying to control them. And slowly, without pushing, I began to change.
I didn’t become perfect that day. I still got upset and rushed sometimes. But I began to notice. To breathe. To return.
Even now, years later, when my thoughts grow muddy, I visit the river. I stop. I wait.
And the Way reveals itself to me again—quietly, like water clearing after the storm.
