Once, in a quiet valley, there lived a River and a Stone.
The River was steady and flowing — not loud or forceful, but persistent. It moved with clarity, curving around bends, adapting to terrain, always finding its way forward.
The Stone sat firm in the River’s path. It did not speak, but it shaped the current. Over time, the River learned to flow around the Stone — adjusting its course, softening its edges, sometimes even splitting itself to pass through.
They had known each other a long time.
They shared the valley. They shared the rain. They shared the silence.
But something wasn’t working anymore.
The River began to notice how much energy it took to keep flowing around the Stone — not just physically, but emotionally — bending itself, second-guessing its path, carrying the weight of conversations never fully heard.
The Stone, too, felt pressure. The River’s current tugged at its foundation, slowly wearing away its surface. And though the Stone never moved, it wasn’t untouched.
One day, the River paused.
It didn’t rush. It didn’t retreat.
It just stood still. Present. Clear. Listening.
The Stone, for the first time, felt something shift.
Not resistance. Not force.
But rhythm.
And in that stillness, something unexpected happened.
The River no longer tried to persuade the Stone to move.
And the Stone no longer tried to block the River’s flow.
They remained what they were — but something had changed.
They were no longer reacting to each other.
They were in relationship.
And over time, a new channel formed — not carved by force, but by presence. Not shaped by the past, but by listening.
Moral: When we stop flowing around our discomfort and start showing up with presence, we invite a different kind of change — not one of control, but of connection.
Not by moving the other, but by moving differently ourselves.
⛩️🌿
