The river

 There is a river in the South American highlands — ancient, winding, unassuming. It begins in the quiet hush of a moss-covered spring, threading its way through forest and stone. For most of its journey, the river moves gently, learning the contours of the land with patience, never in a hurry, always arriving.

But then comes the cliff.

It is not small. A sudden drop that is sharp and sheer, and carved by time itself. The river pauses at the edge, as if in contemplation. Below lies only air, noise, and the unknown. It would be easier to turn back, to remain safe within the bounds of familiar flow. Yet, it does not.

The river lets go.

With astonishing grace, it becomes a waterfall. No longer gliding but leaping. In that instant, it is no less a river, no less itself. It is, in fact, fully realized, moving not because it must, but because the moment calls for it.

It does not shatter.

It does not resist.

It transforms.

And when it lands, it does so with power. The impact echoes through the valley not as violence, but as certainty. The rocks beneath do not break the river. They give it new direction.

This is how strength lives in softness. How surrender is not weakness, but wisdom. The river teaches us: flow with grace, leap when it’s time, and trust that who you are will carry you through the fall.