The rain had just stopped, and the mist danced over the river. I was twelve that summer, and my thoughts were louder than thunder. My name is Jun, and back then, I believed you had to struggle and fight to be strong. I thought peace came when you won.
That day, I stormed out of the village, angry because my brother had made fun of me for losing at a game. My fists were tight, and my heart was heavy. I walked toward the old bridge where Master Lin often sat. Master Lin was a very old man with a long gray beard. He had once been a soldier, but now he lived in peace, always whispering with the wind and smiling at birds.
When I reached the bridge, he was already there, tossing small pebbles into the water.
“Angry again, Jun?” he asked without looking at me.
I crossed my arms. “He always laughs at me. I hate that game. Nothing works out when I try.”
Master Lin chuckled softly. “Ah, trying too hard again.”
“What do you mean?” I muttered.
He handed me a pebble. “Throw this into the river.”
I tossed it hard, making a big splash. The ripples spread out fast but then faded quickly.
“Now,” he said, “just drop this one.”
I dropped the second pebble gently. The ripples were smaller, but they lingered much longer, quietly circling.
“Do you see?” he asked.
“Not really,” I admitted.
Master Lin smiled. “Force makes noise. But balance lasts longer. When you throw your anger, it splashes. But peace... peace moves slowly, quietly. It touches more than you think.”
I sat beside him, watching the river.
“But Master Lin, if I don’t try or fight for things, how do I win?”
He looked at me kindly. “In Tao, the Way, we don’t force things. That’s called Wu Wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not pushing too hard. Letting things happen naturally.”
“Like the river?” I asked, finally seeing it.
“Yes,” he said. “The river doesn’t try to move—it just flows. Around rocks, under trees, quietly. But it shapes mountains over time.”
I thought about my brother, about how each time I tried to beat him, I only got more upset. I never enjoyed the game. I just wanted to win.
That evening, I returned home. My brother was still playing by himself. I sat beside him and watched, quietly.
“Want to play?” he asked.
I nodded. “But this time, let’s just play. Not worry about who wins.”
He looked surprised but smiled. “Okay.”
As we played, I laughed more than I had all summer.
That day on the bridge with Master Lin never left me. I didn’t stop getting angry right away. But slowly, like the river, I changed. I began to listen more, push less, and enjoy the simple flow of things.
And though I didn’t always win, I found something better—I found peace.
Even now, when life feels heavy or I want to shout, I remember the quiet ripple of the pebble, whispering the secret of balance: you don’t have to fight to be strong. Sometimes, not fighting is the strongest thing of all.
The rain had just stopped, and the mist danced over the river. I was twelve that summer, and my thoughts were louder than thunder. My name is Jun, and back then, I believed you had to struggle and fight to be strong. I thought peace came when you won.
That day, I stormed out of the village, angry because my brother had made fun of me for losing at a game. My fists were tight, and my heart was heavy. I walked toward the old bridge where Master Lin often sat. Master Lin was a very old man with a long gray beard. He had once been a soldier, but now he lived in peace, always whispering with the wind and smiling at birds.
When I reached the bridge, he was already there, tossing small pebbles into the water.
“Angry again, Jun?” he asked without looking at me.
I crossed my arms. “He always laughs at me. I hate that game. Nothing works out when I try.”
Master Lin chuckled softly. “Ah, trying too hard again.”
“What do you mean?” I muttered.
He handed me a pebble. “Throw this into the river.”
I tossed it hard, making a big splash. The ripples spread out fast but then faded quickly.
“Now,” he said, “just drop this one.”
I dropped the second pebble gently. The ripples were smaller, but they lingered much longer, quietly circling.
“Do you see?” he asked.
“Not really,” I admitted.
Master Lin smiled. “Force makes noise. But balance lasts longer. When you throw your anger, it splashes. But peace... peace moves slowly, quietly. It touches more than you think.”
I sat beside him, watching the river.
“But Master Lin, if I don’t try or fight for things, how do I win?”
He looked at me kindly. “In Tao, the Way, we don’t force things. That’s called Wu Wei—non-action. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means not pushing too hard. Letting things happen naturally.”
“Like the river?” I asked, finally seeing it.
“Yes,” he said. “The river doesn’t try to move—it just flows. Around rocks, under trees, quietly. But it shapes mountains over time.”
I thought about my brother, about how each time I tried to beat him, I only got more upset. I never enjoyed the game. I just wanted to win.
That evening, I returned home. My brother was still playing by himself. I sat beside him and watched, quietly.
“Want to play?” he asked.
I nodded. “But this time, let’s just play. Not worry about who wins.”
He looked surprised but smiled. “Okay.”
As we played, I laughed more than I had all summer.
That day on the bridge with Master Lin never left me. I didn’t stop getting angry right away. But slowly, like the river, I changed. I began to listen more, push less, and enjoy the simple flow of things.
And though I didn’t always win, I found something better—I found peace.
Even now, when life feels heavy or I want to shout, I remember the quiet ripple of the pebble, whispering the secret of balance: you don’t have to fight to be strong. Sometimes, not fighting is the strongest thing of all.
