In "Xích Lô’s Notebook" by Lê Minh Hoan, even the smallest moment—a rice seedling leaning in the wind—can open into something deeper. From there, nature quietly offers its lessons on how to live, if we are willing to pause and listen.
NATURE - THE QUIET TEACHER OF THE DELTA |
It begins with a rice seedling
That morning, at first light, when the sun was still caught behind a row of bamboo, I stood by the edge of a field and noticed a single rice seedling leaning slightly to one side. The whole field was a uniform green, every plant standing straight—except for that one, tilting as if to sidestep an unseen wind.
I wondered to myself: How strange. Same soil, same water—why do the others stand tall, while this one leans?
Just then, a farmer passed by. Seeing me watching, he smiled gently and said, “It’s not leaning because it’s weak. It leans because the soil there is softer, the water a bit cooler. Plants live by nature. The earth and sky show them how.”
It sounded like a passing remark, but it settled deep within me. Perhaps in life, we often strain to stand straight according to someone else’s measure, forgetting that at any given moment, there may be a direction we are meant to lean. Nature never speaks loudly. But when we pause long enough, we begin to hear.
A patient teacher
Learning humility from bowing rice
When rice begins to form grain and bend under its own weight, it shows no pride. It knows its place, knows that fullness requires humility. The heavier the grain, the lower it bows. The more it holds, the more it yields. The more experience it carries, the more it listens.
No book teaches this lesson.
People of the countryside learn it simply by watching the rice each season.
Learning endurance from the tides
The waters of the Mekong do not rush. They rise and fall, ebb and flow—never the same from one day to the next, yet always finding their way back to the sea. Nature teaches us to move slowly but surely. The straight path is not always the one that leads us forward. Sometimes we must circle back, sometimes it feels like retreat—but in truth, we are gathering strength for what lies ahead.
Learning to bloom in one’s own season
The lotus does not bloom for praise, nor does it close for criticism. The water lilies in the fields are the same—when there is enough sun and wind, they open on their own, needing no reminder.
People, on the other hand, often rush—afraid of falling behind, afraid of being less than others.
Nature whispers softly: everyone has their own season to bloom. There is no need to compare. Late, but beautiful—that is enough.
Nature as a mirror of the human heart
A plant knows how to lean to avoid the wind; a person, too, should know how to step aside from harm.
Strength is not always rigidity. There are moments when we must turn away—from idle gossip, from harsh words, from emotions that fracture the heart.
The rice seedling bends to survive the wind. A person avoids what is harmful to preserve peace.
No forest is made of identical trees. The tall trees offer shade, the low ones hold the soil, vines weave their quiet cover. No one asks which tree matters most. Each fulfills its role, and the forest thrives.
Life is the same. When each person tends to their part and lives true to their nature, the world becomes a gentler place.
Nature teaches harmony, not rivalry
A river holds water, algae, moss, fish, mangroves—each life sustained by the other. Nothing lives alone.
People are no different. No one exists apart from community, from neighbors, from the place where life first took root. Unity sustains; division weakens. This is an enduring truth.
Nature speaks quietly: no one is strong forever. Strength comes from leaning on one another.
In closing: live as part of the earth and sky
Nature has no podium, no blackboard, no examinations. Yet its lessons are everywhere—scattered across fields, rivers, and gardens.
In the morning, a falling leaf teaches us to let go.
At noon, the still sun teaches us to pause.
In the evening, the receding tide teaches acceptance.
At night, the wind teaches lightness of heart.
Those who live in the riverlands understand these things deeply. But if we happen to forget, perhaps we need only stop beside a single rice seedling bending in the wind…
And in that quiet moment, nature may be waiting to remind us, gently:
Slow down a little. Soften a little.
And you may find yourself full—like a golden ear of rice, heavy with grain.
A quietly evocative fable by Lê Minh Hoan, featured in the “Xích Lô’s Notebook” series, draws from the familiar image of Viet Nam’s rice fields to illuminate a deeper philosophy of leadership and human conduct. Through the bending rice—heavy with grain—the author reflects on humility, attentive listening, and growth through lived experience, offering a gentle yet enduring lesson for those in public service and beyond.
Some stories begin not with action, but with a quiet sense of loss. This is one of them. “The fisherman and the reef,” a short fable by Lê Minh Hoan in the Xích Lô’s Notebook series, reflects on the fragile bond between people and nature—reminding us that what sustains life is often what we are most at risk of forgetting.
In the ceaseless rush of the digital age, some stories can only be told in stillness—told slowly, with the full weight of the human soul. Xích Lô’s Notebook invites you to pause, if only for a moment, and listen as a land begins to speak. Here, Dong Thap is not merely a place of lotus fragrance and drifting storks, but a place where people are learning to retell their home in the language of artificial intelligence (AI). It is a quiet story. Yet within it lies a larger question: How can identity be not only preserved, but carried far—reaching hearts that have never once arrived?
In a land where ponds meet the river and the river meets the sea, a shrimp begins to wonder where it truly comes from. This quiet fable invites readers to reflect on the roots of an industry—and the fragile balance between prosperity, responsibility, and the living waters that sustain it.
