The Big Fish

When I was a boy, my grandfather and I would fish together along the bank of a canal in the Everglades. He would settle in and go still, his line dropping into the water with the patience of someone who understood something I did not yet.

I, on the other hand, had ants in my pants.

I could not stay in one place more than a few minutes before I was convinced that somewhere farther down the bank had to be better. Cast here, grow restless, walk to a new spot, cast there, begin again. More movement. More certainty that the big fish was waiting just around the next bend.

My grandfather would watch for a while, saying nothing. Then, quietly, he would say:

“You’re never going to catch a big fish if you don’t stop moving.”

I thought he was talking about fishing.

Now I think he was talking about life.

Most of us spend more of our days than we realize moving exactly the way I did along that canal bank. Not necessarily on foot, but internally. We are constantly searching, rehearsing, planning, and worrying our way through the hours, convinced that the answer we need is somewhere just ahead, in the next conversation, the next decision, the next attempt to outmaneuver what the future holds.

We cast. We grow restless. We move on.

And in doing so, we disturb the very water we are trying to fish in.

Some things cannot be forced. A difficult decision, a creative breakthrough, a healing heart, a settled sense of purpose. These things have their own timing, and they are rarely found by chasing them harder. More often, they arrive in the space we create when we finally stop reaching.

We live in a world that rewards motion and mistakes urgency for progress. Yet nature offers a quieter lesson: the clearest reflection appears only when the surface goes still.

There are moments when the most productive thing we can do is nothing. Not passive nothing, but a present, open, unhurried nothing. The kind of quiet that creates the conditions for what we are looking for to finally find us.

My grandfather knew this. He never moved from his spot. He simply waited, steady and patient, trusting that what he came for would come.

And it usually did.

Where in your own life are you moving so much that you may be disturbing the very water you are trying to fish in? What might become possible if you set down the next plan, the next worry, and allowed yourself to simply wait?

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.” — Lao Tzu

If this resonated with you, consider passing it along to someone who might need permission to slow down this week. It could arrive at exactly the right moment.

📚 Book Spotlight

Teaching Yoga: A Path of Light

Fifth Edition — David Scott Yglesias

Something worth knowing about teacher training programs: most of the people who enroll never set out to teach anyone. They come to understand themselves more deeply, to go further than the surface, to explore a tradition that has endured for thousands of years because it keeps delivering something real.

This book was written for all of them, and for anyone curious about yoga and what it truly offers. Now in its fifth edition and the foundation for both 200- and 300-hour registered teacher training programs, Teaching Yoga: A Path of Light moves far beyond postures and techniques. It traces yoga from ancient roots through philosophy, history, and the kind of practical wisdom that has a way of following you into ordinary life long after you have closed the pages.

Whether you have never stepped into a studio, are looking to deepen a practice you already love, or are considering a teacher training, this is a good place to begin.

Available now at: Teaching Yoga

Be Well,

David