The patience of the lake.

There is a lake that no one ever really sees.

Not because it is hidden deep in the forest, but because most people just pass by it. They admire its surface, its reflection, its rippling light — but they never stay long enough to understand what it is telling them.

The lake does not speak loudly.

It does not compete with the river that rushes between the stones. It does not want to be spectacular, nor fast. It simply is — motionless, yet alive. In the reeds the wind tells stories, in the water the fish draw invisible circles, and every tiny vibration has meaning.

The lake knows that patience is not inaction.

Waiting is not emptiness, but a time of depth.

While there is silence on the surface, life slowly weaves itself anew below. The fallen leaves decompose, the light is reflected, and the water takes on a new face with each dawn.

Many people are afraid of this kind of silence.

When there is nothing to do but be.

And yet this is when most of the action happens: thoughts settle, the soul is cleansed, and the world is reorganized.

A person can be such a lake if they dare to allow themselves to be.

If they do not run after the answers, but let them emerge slowly, of their own accord, like bubbles rising from under the water.

Wisdom is not a quick recognition — rather a slow understanding.

It is not born in the loud moment, but after the silence.

And when the lake finally moves again — when a single wave sets off on it and reaches the shore — then the attentive person notices:

It was not the wind that blew the water up, but he himself threw a stone into it.

The movement, which he did not even notice, created an echo.

Because the world always responds, it just listens first.

Lesson:

Silence is not empty — we are too noisy.

Wisdom begins where we finally dare to listen.