A warrior does not carry a blade too heavy to wield.

In my travels, I once encountered a street fighter — a man of deadly skill, whose hands had broken many lives. His eyes burned with fury as he approached me, his rage as fierce as a fire left unchecked. He had determined that I was his enemy.

His mind had been poisoned by delusion, his ego swollen beyond reason. He believed I sought to steal from him, for he had seen me near his most precious possession: a garden filled with rare herbs and flowers.

This man, blinded by pride, did not know the truth — for I had tended his garden in secret. When I saw it wilting from neglect, I watered its roots. When its walls crumbled, I rebuilt them stone by stone. And when his house leaned under the weight of time, I steadied it with my own hands.

Yet here he stood, ready to strike me down, his heart consumed by arrogance and fear.

When he attacked, I became as the shadow — empty, formless, untouchable. I moved as water flows around a rock, without resistance, without harm. I did not strike back. To harm him would have been to sink to the depths of his delusion.

And then I saw the truth, as clear as the moon reflected in still water: I had carried his weight for too long. By holding his burdens, I had fed his pride. By tending his garden, I had shielded him from the consequences of his neglect. He had grown careless, arrogant, and blind to the truth.

Takashiro-daishi 高城大師 once said:

“The burden we carry for others must be given back, lest it become the chain that binds us both.”

In that moment, I chose to let go.