The wind was still over the water that morning. My boat rocked gently, oarless, like a child asleep. I had fished these waters since I was a boy, casting my line each day, hoping the lake would give what I needed. But fish had been few lately, and my stomach growled louder than the birds.
I had heard people talk about a strange old man who lived by the northern hill. They said he wore robes made from bark and leaves, and that he didn’t speak much. He just… smiled. Some called him “the Sage.” Others just said he had once known Laozi, the great teacher of the Tao.
I had never spoken to a sage before. But something inside me, a quiet voice I hadn’t heard in years, told me to go. So I climbed the rocky shore and walked toward the trees.
He was sitting by a small stream, hands resting on his knees, eyes half-closed. I waited, thinking he might be asleep. But after a while, he opened one eye, then the other, and looked at me like he had been expecting me.
“I’m a fisherman,” I said, holding my torn net. “But the fish have stopped coming. And no matter how hard I try, nothing works.”
He slowly turned his gaze to the stream.
I felt awkward, like maybe I had interrupted something important. After a while, I sat beside him.
The water flowed past us, clear and soft. It made no effort but still moved around rocks and over roots, never stopping.
He finally spoke, his voice like wind through branches. “Do you see how the water flows?”
I nodded.
“It does not push. It does not fight. Yet it goes far, deeper than we know.”
I didn’t know what that had to do with fishing, but I listened.
He picked up a leaf and placed it gently on the surface. It drifted, following the stream.
“The Tao is like this,” he said. “When you stop struggling, the world comes to meet you.”
I blinked. “But if I don’t try, how will I catch fish?”
He smiled. “Sometimes, not trying opens a greater catch.”
That day, I didn’t go back to my boat right away. I stayed—and watched the stream. And slowly, something changed inside me. I didn’t feel angry. I didn’t feel worried. I just felt…
Still.
Later, I returned to the lake. I didn’t rush. I didn’t think. I just let the line fall. And the fish came.
Not many. Just enough.
Since then, I’ve gone to the stream many times. The Sage doesn’t always speak. Sometimes we just sit. But in that quiet space, I learned something deeper than any net could hold.
I learned that when I let go, the world flows to me.
And that day, I began to live by the current—not against it.
The wind was still over the water that morning. My boat rocked gently, oarless, like a child asleep. I had fished these waters since I was a boy, casting my line each day, hoping the lake would give what I needed. But fish had been few lately, and my stomach growled louder than the birds.
I had heard people talk about a strange old man who lived by the northern hill. They said he wore robes made from bark and leaves, and that he didn’t speak much. He just… smiled. Some called him “the Sage.” Others just said he had once known Laozi, the great teacher of the Tao.
I had never spoken to a sage before. But something inside me, a quiet voice I hadn’t heard in years, told me to go. So I climbed the rocky shore and walked toward the trees.
He was sitting by a small stream, hands resting on his knees, eyes half-closed. I waited, thinking he might be asleep. But after a while, he opened one eye, then the other, and looked at me like he had been expecting me.
“I’m a fisherman,” I said, holding my torn net. “But the fish have stopped coming. And no matter how hard I try, nothing works.”
He slowly turned his gaze to the stream.
I felt awkward, like maybe I had interrupted something important. After a while, I sat beside him.
The water flowed past us, clear and soft. It made no effort but still moved around rocks and over roots, never stopping.
He finally spoke, his voice like wind through branches. “Do you see how the water flows?”
I nodded.
“It does not push. It does not fight. Yet it goes far, deeper than we know.”
I didn’t know what that had to do with fishing, but I listened.
He picked up a leaf and placed it gently on the surface. It drifted, following the stream.
“The Tao is like this,” he said. “When you stop struggling, the world comes to meet you.”
I blinked. “But if I don’t try, how will I catch fish?”
He smiled. “Sometimes, not trying opens a greater catch.”
That day, I didn’t go back to my boat right away. I stayed—and watched the stream. And slowly, something changed inside me. I didn’t feel angry. I didn’t feel worried. I just felt…
Still.
Later, I returned to the lake. I didn’t rush. I didn’t think. I just let the line fall. And the fish came.
Not many. Just enough.
Since then, I’ve gone to the stream many times. The Sage doesn’t always speak. Sometimes we just sit. But in that quiet space, I learned something deeper than any net could hold.
I learned that when I let go, the world flows to me.
And that day, I began to live by the current—not against it.
