The Parable of the Silent Brook

    In a certain forest there was a little Stream. He was unlike other brooks that rushed noisily and foamed over the stones, loudly chatting with the wind and the birds. This Stream flowed very quietly, as if listening to himself.

    One day, a noisy Waterfall, cascading down a cliff, shouted to him:
— Hey, Stream! Why are you always silent and staring into your own bed? Are you obsessed with yourself? Don’t you see the life around — the clouds, the sun?

    The Stream slowed his current — that was his way of thinking — and replied quietly but firmly:
— I’m not looking at myself out of self-love. I’m not counting pebbles out of boredom. And I’m not detached from life. I feel it — every blade of grass on the bank, every fish in the depths, the sun warming my water.
    — Then why such silence? — the Waterfall persisted.
    — Because my forest is different at times, — explained the Stream. — Sometimes a Storm comes tumbling down the mountain, bringing muddy torrents that try to mix me with themselves. Sometimes big Beasts come to drink, and their heavy steps shake the banks. And sometimes the silence becomes so loud and strange that it’s unclear what to expect next.

    The Stream paused, and his water seemed transparent all the way to the bottom.
    — That’s why I constantly feel my own current. Not to ask “Who am I?” But to know: “Where am I now? Has some alien current carried me away? Have my banks cracked? Have I drifted far from my spring?” It’s as if I have an invisible compass needle inside that always seeks my own north. Without it, I could get lost.

    The Waterfall roared, no longer so self-assured:
    — But isn’t it exhausting? Constantly checking yourself?
    — It’s my protection, — the Stream said gently. — That’s how I’ve survived.      That’s how I’ve remained myself, and not become a muddy tributary of someone else’s water. And so everything that happens around doesn’t burst into me like an avalanche. First I meet it inside — feel it, understand it, find a place for it in my current. And only then let it pass on. Yes, I’m quieter. Yes, slower. But because of that, I remember every raindrop that has fallen into me. I know the depth of every whirlpool. And in my clear water, the sun is reflected more clearly than in any raging stream.

     The Waterfall fell silent and thought. He had always believed that strength was in loudness and speed. But here was another kind of strength — the strength of inner balance, attention, and incredible depth of understanding.

    Ever since, when the Waterfall met someone who seemed too quiet and immersed in themselves, he didn’t rush to judge. He remembered the Stream and understood: perhaps within that silence flows not weakness, but a very sensitive and vigilant river, one that knows the value of its own purity and simply guards its banks from any unexpected invasion. And this river, perhaps, feels the world much more subtly and deeply than those who only rush noisily through it.