
You Are Not the Fish: Standing on the Bridge Over the Hao River
Zhuangzi said the fish were happy. Huizi said you are not a fish. Standing on the bridge, I finally understood: between compassion and wisdom, there is a bridge.
Whatever comes to mind. Sometimes a story I read, sometimes something that came to me while holding my mala beads.

Zhuangzi said the fish were happy. Huizi said you are not a fish. Standing on the bridge, I finally understood: between compassion and wisdom, there is a bridge.

A while back, I was walking in the park and stopped under an old locust tree. The tree was nothing special. But I stood there, looked up, and felt quiet inside. Later I realized I was thinking of Zhuangzi's story about the carpenter who called a massive oak useless — and that's exactly why it had lived for thousands of years.

I had a dream last night. I became a butterfly. When I woke up, I thought of Zhuangzi from two thousand years ago — he had the same dream, and then asked a question people have been quoting ever since: was it me dreaming of the butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming of me?

This morning I almost got hit, and then I thought of Zhuangzi's empty boat. All my anger was built on the assumption that there was someone on the other side.