Ripples of the Dao in a conservation talk

Minh-Hoang Nguyen

27-09-2025

Created by Wix AI

Zhuangzi strolls along the Hao River, his robe fluttering like a lazy cloud. The water glimmers, minnows dart beneath the surface, and the reeds whisper secrets to the wind. A flash of turquoise interrupts his reverie—Kingfisher lands on a branch, eyes sharp, beak sharper.

“Ah,” Zhuangzi says, “the assassin of the shallows arrives.”

Kingfisher tilts his head. “Assassin? I am but a practitioner of the Dao. I eat, I fly, I sing. The minnows know this.”

Zhuangzi chuckles. “Do they? Huizi once asked me how I know the happiness of fish. I told him I know it from walking by the river. He said I am not a fish. I said he is not me. We argued until the sun grew bored.”

Kingfisher preens a feather. “You are still not a fish. But I am closer. I eat them.”

“Eating is not knowing,” Zhuangzi replies. “If I eat a peach, I do not know the peach’s dreams.”

“But the peach becomes you,” Kingfisher says. “Its sweetness sings in your belly. The fish becomes me. Its life continues in my flight. Is that not Dao?”

Zhuangzi squints at the river. “Then how many fish may you eat before the river forgets their happiness?”

Kingfisher laughs, a sound like pebbles skipping. “You ask how many drops make a flood. I eat what the Dao offers. When the minnows are many, I eat many. When there are few, I fast. The Dao is not a ledger.”

“But conservation is a concern,” Zhuangzi says. “The people count fish, protect fish, forbid fish from being overfished.”

Kingfisher flutters his wings. “Conservation without Dao is like a river without fish. The fish are not numbers. They are rhythms. I do not disturb the rhythm. I join it.”

Zhuangzi nods slowly. “When my wife died, I sang. People said I was heartless. But I sang because the Dao had changed, and I changed with it.”

“Exactly,” says Kingfisher. “The fish that comes into my stomach does not suffer. It returns to the flow. To resist this is to go against conservation.”

Zhuangzi sits on a rock. “Then you know the Dao better than the ministers who write fish laws.”

“A ripple knows the stone,” Kingfisher says. “I do not count fish, I feel them. I do not hoard. I do not waste. I do not forget.”

Zhuangzi smiles: “Then let the river be your teacher, and you its student. Eat, but do not devour. Fly, but do not flee. Be, but do not become too much.”

Kingfisher bows. “And you, philosopher of butterflies, keep walking by the river. The fish are happy. I know it.”

Zhuangzi laughs: “And I know you know it. Huizi would be furious.”

The wind carries their laughter downstream, where the minnows dance and the Dao flows on, unbothered by questions, unburdened by answers.

References

[1] Vuong QH. (2024). Wild Wise Weird. https://books.google.com/books?id=N10jEQAAQBAJ

[2] Zhuang Zhou. (1964). Zhuangzi.

[3] Laozi. (1868). Tao Te Ching.