The sun had just dipped below the hills when I heard the echo. At first, I thought it was someone calling my name. But the mountains stood still, and the river below whispered no names. I was twelve, and my thoughts were loud then—loud like drums, chasing success, praise, and answers.
It had been a week since my father sent me to study with Old Master Yun. “He doesn’t teach with books,” my father had warned. “He teaches with silence.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Every morning, Master Yun would sip his tea and watch the trees. He never gave lessons. He never gave answers. I followed him each day, hoping he’d say something wise or give me tasks to become stronger and smarter.
“Why don’t you show me something?” I asked one day as we sat by the edge of the river. “A warrior trains with weapons. A scholar reads scrolls. What am I supposed to do?”
Master Yun smiled and pointed at the water. “Look.”
I frowned but looked anyway.
“For how long?” I asked.
“As long as it takes,” he said.
The river swayed slowly. A leaf floated by. A fish darted beneath the surface. The wind passed gently, moving nothing but time. I felt no smarter. No braver. Just still.
That night, I dreamed of being in that river. Not swimming—just flowing. As if I were the leaf. It felt peaceful.
The next morning, Master Yun did not wait for me. I had to search the forest to find him. When I did, he was sitting beneath the valley’s tallest tree, eyes closed, breathing slow.
“What is the lesson today?” I asked, softer this time.
He opened one eye. “There is no lesson today. Only listening.”
“To what?”
He tapped his chest. “To the quiet.”
I sat down and listened—not to him, not to the birds, not even to the wind. I listened to the quiet behind my own noisy thoughts. At first, it was hard. I noticed how much I talked to myself inside, worrying, planning, wondering if I was doing enough.
Then, slowly, the thoughts faded. Like fog lifting. I didn’t feel the need to do anything. I just felt… calm.
And in that calm, something inside me shifted. I understood something without words.
On our way back, I stayed quiet, thinking about the river, the leaf, and my own racing mind. I finally said, “It’s not about trying harder, is it?”
Master Yun smiled again and nodded. “The way does not shout, but it echoes in everything. Stillness reveals it.”
That day, I didn’t become a master. I didn’t unlock any ancient secret scrolls. But something released inside me—a letting go I didn’t know I needed. I had always pushed to be more. Now, I saw that less could be everything.
I still drift, like the leaf on the river. But now, I trust the water to carry me where I need to go.
And when life gets too loud, I return to the quiet… and wait for the subtle echo.
The sun had just dipped below the hills when I heard the echo. At first, I thought it was someone calling my name. But the mountains stood still, and the river below whispered no names. I was twelve, and my thoughts were loud then—loud like drums, chasing success, praise, and answers.
It had been a week since my father sent me to study with Old Master Yun. “He doesn’t teach with books,” my father had warned. “He teaches with silence.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Every morning, Master Yun would sip his tea and watch the trees. He never gave lessons. He never gave answers. I followed him each day, hoping he’d say something wise or give me tasks to become stronger and smarter.
“Why don’t you show me something?” I asked one day as we sat by the edge of the river. “A warrior trains with weapons. A scholar reads scrolls. What am I supposed to do?”
Master Yun smiled and pointed at the water. “Look.”
I frowned but looked anyway.
“For how long?” I asked.
“As long as it takes,” he said.
The river swayed slowly. A leaf floated by. A fish darted beneath the surface. The wind passed gently, moving nothing but time. I felt no smarter. No braver. Just still.
That night, I dreamed of being in that river. Not swimming—just flowing. As if I were the leaf. It felt peaceful.
The next morning, Master Yun did not wait for me. I had to search the forest to find him. When I did, he was sitting beneath the valley’s tallest tree, eyes closed, breathing slow.
“What is the lesson today?” I asked, softer this time.
He opened one eye. “There is no lesson today. Only listening.”
“To what?”
He tapped his chest. “To the quiet.”
I sat down and listened—not to him, not to the birds, not even to the wind. I listened to the quiet behind my own noisy thoughts. At first, it was hard. I noticed how much I talked to myself inside, worrying, planning, wondering if I was doing enough.
Then, slowly, the thoughts faded. Like fog lifting. I didn’t feel the need to do anything. I just felt… calm.
And in that calm, something inside me shifted. I understood something without words.
On our way back, I stayed quiet, thinking about the river, the leaf, and my own racing mind. I finally said, “It’s not about trying harder, is it?”
Master Yun smiled again and nodded. “The way does not shout, but it echoes in everything. Stillness reveals it.”
That day, I didn’t become a master. I didn’t unlock any ancient secret scrolls. But something released inside me—a letting go I didn’t know I needed. I had always pushed to be more. Now, I saw that less could be everything.
I still drift, like the leaf on the river. But now, I trust the water to carry me where I need to go.
And when life gets too loud, I return to the quiet… and wait for the subtle echo.
