Zhuāngzǐ (莊子) and Huìzǐ (惠子) were once walking together across the bridge over the Hào River (濠水, Hào shuǐ). Zhuāngzǐ stopped and looked into the clear water. “Look how joyfully the fish leap about in the water—that is the joy of the fish,” he said. Huìzǐ frow ned. “You are not a fish, Zhuāngzǐ. How can you know what the joy of the fish is?” Zhuāngzǐ smiled. “And you are not me, Huìzǐ. How can you know that I do not know?” Huìzǐ was silent for a moment, then said: “You are no

When Thich Nhat Hanh was still a young novice,one evening he was polishing the temple bell. The rain began — softly at first, then heavier. He listened as the drops fell on the roof, uneven yet harmonious in their rhythm. His hand moved in the same flow, his breath followed the sound. In that moment, everything merged —rain, sound, breath, movement. He no longer perceived any separation between himself and what was happening. There was only doing — and complete presence. Late

It was at the end of a training session,when a little time still remained — just enough for one last question. Master Weizhen looked around the room and spoke calmly: “Students, do you have any questions?But there is only time for one.” For a moment, there was silence. “No one has a question?” asked Weizhen. At last, Reifa raised a hand and said, “Master, I actually have many questions.” Weizhen nodded. “Then simply ask one of them.” Reifa fell silent, thinking…and thinking a