I was twelve when my grandmother took me to the river at the edge of our village. The day was hot, and I was angry. I had lost a race to the other boys, and I hated the way they laughed at me. I kicked stones as I walked, arms crossed.
Grandmother didn’t say much. She just smiled and carried her basket, filled with folded cloths and fresh buns. Her gray hair danced in the wind, and her feet barely made a sound as she walked.
When we reached the river, she sat on a smooth rock and pointed to the water. “Look,” she said softly, “the river has much to teach.”
I didn’t care about the river. I wanted to shout. “I tried so hard! But they still beat me! It's not fair.”
She simply nodded. “Yes. You tried hard.”
I sat beside her and stared at the water. It flowed smoothly over stones, around sticks, and through tall reeds. Even when a rock blocked its path, it didn’t stop. It just moved around it.
“You see?” Grandmother said. “The river doesn’t fight. It flows.”
“But doesn't it ever get mad?” I asked. “At the rocks in the way?”
She chuckled, “Would anger move the rock? Or create more splashing?”
I didn’t answer. I just watched. A dry stick floated past us, spinning gently but never sinking. Even fallen leaves were carried along, like they were meant to be part of the dance.
Then I remembered something she once told me, that the great sage Zhuangzi spoke of the Tao—the Way—and how it flows like water, never pushing too hard, just being what it is.
“Wu wei,” Grandmother whispered.
I turned to her. “What does that mean again?”
“Wu wei is doing without forcing. It is the way of nature. Like the river, which moves mountains over time, without trying to.”
We sat quietly. A dragonfly zipped past. A heron stood still nearby, waiting for a fish, peaceful but alert. I felt my tight anger slowly loosen, like a knot being untied.
“I always thought trying harder was the answer,” I said.
She nodded. “Trying has its time. Letting go has its time too. Yin and yang—like the dark and light of the moon. Both are needed.”
I dipped my fingers in the cool water and watched the ripples spread. For the first time, I didn't feel like I needed to win anything. I just wanted to sit and let the water speak.
When we walked back to the village, my steps felt lighter.
I didn’t change overnight. But sometimes, when I get upset or feel like fighting against what is, I remember that afternoon. I remember the gentle river, the patient heron, and my grandmother’s smile.
And I try to flow, not fight.
Because the Way—the Tao—is like a river. The more we trust it, the more it carries us where we are meant to go.
I was twelve when my grandmother took me to the river at the edge of our village. The day was hot, and I was angry. I had lost a race to the other boys, and I hated the way they laughed at me. I kicked stones as I walked, arms crossed.
Grandmother didn’t say much. She just smiled and carried her basket, filled with folded cloths and fresh buns. Her gray hair danced in the wind, and her feet barely made a sound as she walked.
When we reached the river, she sat on a smooth rock and pointed to the water. “Look,” she said softly, “the river has much to teach.”
I didn’t care about the river. I wanted to shout. “I tried so hard! But they still beat me! It's not fair.”
She simply nodded. “Yes. You tried hard.”
I sat beside her and stared at the water. It flowed smoothly over stones, around sticks, and through tall reeds. Even when a rock blocked its path, it didn’t stop. It just moved around it.
“You see?” Grandmother said. “The river doesn’t fight. It flows.”
“But doesn't it ever get mad?” I asked. “At the rocks in the way?”
She chuckled, “Would anger move the rock? Or create more splashing?”
I didn’t answer. I just watched. A dry stick floated past us, spinning gently but never sinking. Even fallen leaves were carried along, like they were meant to be part of the dance.
Then I remembered something she once told me, that the great sage Zhuangzi spoke of the Tao—the Way—and how it flows like water, never pushing too hard, just being what it is.
“Wu wei,” Grandmother whispered.
I turned to her. “What does that mean again?”
“Wu wei is doing without forcing. It is the way of nature. Like the river, which moves mountains over time, without trying to.”
We sat quietly. A dragonfly zipped past. A heron stood still nearby, waiting for a fish, peaceful but alert. I felt my tight anger slowly loosen, like a knot being untied.
“I always thought trying harder was the answer,” I said.
She nodded. “Trying has its time. Letting go has its time too. Yin and yang—like the dark and light of the moon. Both are needed.”
I dipped my fingers in the cool water and watched the ripples spread. For the first time, I didn't feel like I needed to win anything. I just wanted to sit and let the water speak.
When we walked back to the village, my steps felt lighter.
I didn’t change overnight. But sometimes, when I get upset or feel like fighting against what is, I remember that afternoon. I remember the gentle river, the patient heron, and my grandmother’s smile.
And I try to flow, not fight.
Because the Way—the Tao—is like a river. The more we trust it, the more it carries us where we are meant to go.
