Of the Wind, the Water and the Mountains.

I have walked without a destination. Not because I was lost, but because I wanted to be found by the road itself. The Darvish taught me that movement can be prayer. Each step becomes a circle, like their turning bodies, revolving not around the self, but around something larger than the mind.

From the Tao I learned Wu Wei — not forcing, not resisting. The river does not push the mountain, yet it passes through it. When I stopped trying to conquer distance, distance opened itself. When I stopped demanding meaning, meaning arrived quietly.

There were days when I carried little more than water and silence. In those moments I understood that lightness is not the absence of weight, but the absence of unnecessary struggle. The Darvish walks empty so that life can pass through him. The Taoist acts by not acting, allowing the world to move as it already knows how.

I saw villages where people owned almost nothing and yet moved with dignity. I crossed deserts where the wind erased my footprints, teaching me that permanence is an illusion we build for comfort. To be a guest on this Earth is to accept impermanence with grace.

Modern life tells us to accumulate, to hurry, to prove. The old paths whisper something else: slow down, soften, listen. Truth does not shout. It waits.

Now I walk differently. Not to arrive, not to escape, but to participate. I let the road lead me. I let silence teach me. I let simplicity remind me who I was before I learned to want too much.

Perhaps this is the Darvish way. Perhaps this is Wu Wei. Or perhaps it is simply remembering that we were never meant to dominate life — only to dance with it.