The stream had always run smooth. That’s what the older villagers told me.
But that spring, it stumbled.
My name is Lian, and I was twelve when the stream first changed. The water tripped over rocks that hadn’t been there before, splashed against the banks too hard, and even made the fish swim away. The village folks said it was a bad omen. Some blamed the mountain spirits; others blamed the storms.
I just blamed myself.
I'd kicked those stones into the stream in a fit of anger. My brother had taken my carved flute and snapped it by mistake. I felt fire in my heart. I thought the rocks would carry that fire away.
Instead, they stayed—and turned peace into noise.
Everyday after that, the sound of the water crashing echoed through my window, loud and broken. The peaceful trickle that helped me sleep at night was gone. I didn’t tell anyone what I’d done.
One afternoon, I followed the stream deeper into the forest. I walked until the noises faded, and I found the old sage, Master Shen. He was sitting by the water, as usual, his eyes soft like wind-blown silk. He once studied under a man named Liezi, one of the great Taoist masters who could ride the wind, people said. I never believed that part. But I did believe in Master Shen’s calm.
“Why does the stream sound angry?” I asked him.
He opened one eye and motioned for me to sit beside him. We watched the water together. There, far from the village, the stream was soft again, flowing easily between the rocks like it had found its own path.
Then he spoke gently, “Water teaches us. When something stands in its way, it doesn’t shout. It doesn’t fight. It flows around.”
“But what if someone threw rocks in its path?” I asked, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.
He turned to me with a small smile. “Then it flows over, under, or finds a new path. Water stumbles, but never stops. It makes no plans. It acts without force—but still carves through mountain stone.”
I was quiet for a while. The knot in my chest lifted, just a little.
That evening, I returned to the place where I had thrown the stones. I stepped into the cool stream and slowly began to remove them, one by one. I didn’t rush. I listened to the water as I worked. When I was done, the stream smiled again—it sounded like it used to.
But I didn’t feel proud. I felt small, humble—like a pebble among thousands. That night, lying in bed, I heard the soft trickle of the stream once again.
I didn’t change overnight. But I started walking more slowly. I stopped pushing against things that didn’t need pushing. And whenever I felt the fire rising again, I remembered what Master Shen said.
The stream had stumbled—but it still flowed.
And so could I.
The stream had always run smooth. That’s what the older villagers told me.
But that spring, it stumbled.
My name is Lian, and I was twelve when the stream first changed. The water tripped over rocks that hadn’t been there before, splashed against the banks too hard, and even made the fish swim away. The village folks said it was a bad omen. Some blamed the mountain spirits; others blamed the storms.
I just blamed myself.
I'd kicked those stones into the stream in a fit of anger. My brother had taken my carved flute and snapped it by mistake. I felt fire in my heart. I thought the rocks would carry that fire away.
Instead, they stayed—and turned peace into noise.
Everyday after that, the sound of the water crashing echoed through my window, loud and broken. The peaceful trickle that helped me sleep at night was gone. I didn’t tell anyone what I’d done.
One afternoon, I followed the stream deeper into the forest. I walked until the noises faded, and I found the old sage, Master Shen. He was sitting by the water, as usual, his eyes soft like wind-blown silk. He once studied under a man named Liezi, one of the great Taoist masters who could ride the wind, people said. I never believed that part. But I did believe in Master Shen’s calm.
“Why does the stream sound angry?” I asked him.
He opened one eye and motioned for me to sit beside him. We watched the water together. There, far from the village, the stream was soft again, flowing easily between the rocks like it had found its own path.
Then he spoke gently, “Water teaches us. When something stands in its way, it doesn’t shout. It doesn’t fight. It flows around.”
“But what if someone threw rocks in its path?” I asked, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.
He turned to me with a small smile. “Then it flows over, under, or finds a new path. Water stumbles, but never stops. It makes no plans. It acts without force—but still carves through mountain stone.”
I was quiet for a while. The knot in my chest lifted, just a little.
That evening, I returned to the place where I had thrown the stones. I stepped into the cool stream and slowly began to remove them, one by one. I didn’t rush. I listened to the water as I worked. When I was done, the stream smiled again—it sounded like it used to.
But I didn’t feel proud. I felt small, humble—like a pebble among thousands. That night, lying in bed, I heard the soft trickle of the stream once again.
I didn’t change overnight. But I started walking more slowly. I stopped pushing against things that didn’t need pushing. And whenever I felt the fire rising again, I remembered what Master Shen said.
The stream had stumbled—but it still flowed.
And so could I.
