The Patience of the Lake.

There is a lake that no one ever truly sees. Not because it's hidden deep within a forest,

but because most people merely pass it by. They admire its surface, the shimmering reflections, the ripples of light — yet never linger long enough to understand what it is trying to say.

The lake does not speak loudly. It does not compete with the river rushing over stones.

It does not wish to be impressive or fast. It simply exists — still, yet alive.

In the reeds, the wind tells its stories; in the water, fish draw invisible circles.

And every subtle movement carries meaning. The lake knows that patience is not idleness.

Waiting is not emptiness — it is the time of depth. While the surface remains silent,

life slowly rewinds itself below. Fallen leaves decay, light reflects back, and the water dons a new face every dawn. Many are afraid of this kind of silence. When there is nothing to do — only to be.

Yet this is when the most happens: thoughts settle, the soul is cleansed, and the world reorders itself.

A person, too, can be such a lake — if they dare to allow it. If they stop chasing answers,

and instead let them slowly surface on their own, like bubbles rising from the depths.

Wisdom is not a sudden realization — but a slow understanding. It is not born in the loud moment,

but after the silence. And when at last the lake stirs again — when a single ripple reaches the shore —

the attentive soul will notice: it wasn't the wind that disturbed the water, but a stone they themselves had thrown. A movement they didn't even notice echoed back to them. For the world always responds —

it just listens first.

Moral:

Silence isn't empty — we are simply too noisy.

Wisdom begins where we finally dare to fall silent.