From my position on the shelf, I was listening to Brad explain how he'd been trying to apply the ancient "be like water" philosophy to his productivity system—his latest attempt to hack his way into efficiency—when I realized it was time to point out something that would make him understand he'd completely misunderstood what water actually does, just like he comically misunderstands most things he tries to optimize.
"I've been implementing the water principle," I told Finny, showing him my latest optimization framework. "Adaptive workflows, flexible scheduling, fluid transitions between tasks. Maximum efficiency through adaptability."
Finny regarded my color-coded diagrams with the patience of someone who had seen many human attempts to systematize the unsystematizable.
"Have you ever actually watched water, Brad?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean really watched it. Not studied fluid dynamics or optimized flow patterns. Just... watched water being water."
I paused, realizing I couldn't remember the last time I'd observed water without thinking about something else. "Not recently, I guess."
"There's a fountain outside. Why don't you go watch it for a few minutes? Then come back and tell me what water is actually doing."
I went to the window and looked down at the small fountain in the courtyard below. Water flowed from a central spout, cascading over irregular stones, pooling in unexpected places, meandering toward the drain through paths that seemed almost random.
I watched for five minutes, then ten. Gradually, I began to see something I hadn't expected.
When I returned to Finny, something had shifted in my understanding.
"It's not trying to be efficient," I said slowly.
"Tell me what you saw."
"The water doesn't choose the most direct path. It explores every possibility. It pools in places where it doesn't 'need' to pool. It moves around obstacles instead of trying to overcome them. It takes time it doesn't 'have.'"
"And how did it make you feel to watch it?"
"Peaceful. Present. Like time moved differently." I sat back down on the bed. "Finny, I think I've been completely misunderstanding Bruce Lee's water teaching."
"How so?"
"I thought 'be like water' meant 'be fluid in your efficiency.' Adapt quickly, flow around problems, optimize your path. But water doesn't optimize its path at all."
"What does water do instead?"
"Water just... responds. It doesn't argue with reality. It doesn't try to improve the situation. It accepts whatever container it finds itself in and fills that space completely."
"Does water have goals?"
I considered this carefully. "Not in the human sense. It doesn't have a five-year plan or quarterly objectives. It just follows its nature in response to whatever it encounters."
"Does water measure its performance?"
"Water has no KPIs," I said, suddenly understanding. "It doesn't track its flow rate or optimize its path efficiency. It doesn't benchmark itself against other water. It just flows."
"And yet?"
"And yet it shapes canyons. It nourishes life. It finds its way through the most complex obstacles. It accomplishes things that seem impossible through what looks like complete effortlessness."
"What's water's secret?"
"Water doesn't resist what is. It doesn't try to force reality to conform to its preferences. It works with whatever conditions it finds."
I looked at my productivity diagrams with new eyes. Every chart, every optimization, every system was essentially an argument with reality—an attempt to impose my preferred order on the organic chaos of actual living.
"What would it mean for you to be like actual water, not optimized water?"
"I'd stop trying to control the shape of my days and start responding to what each moment actually offers. I'd stop forcing my energy into predetermined channels and let it flow naturally toward what needs attention."
"That sounds inefficient."
"It sounds terrifying. What if I waste time? What if I don't accomplish my goals? What if I just... meander?"
"What if you do?"
The question hung in the air like the sound of water over stones.
"I guess... I guess water meanders all the time. Rivers curve and loop and take the long way around mountains. And somehow they still reach the sea."
"Does meandering make them less effective at being rivers?"
"No. The meandering is part of what makes them rivers. If you forced a river to flow in a straight line, it wouldn't be more efficient—it would be... a canal. An artificial construction that requires constant maintenance."
"And you've been trying to be a canal instead of a river?"
"I've been trying to be a canal. Straight, efficient, purposeful, controlled. But canals are brittle. They break when conditions change. They require enormous energy to maintain."
"While rivers?"
"Rivers are antifragile. They get stronger from stress. Obstacles become opportunities for new channels. Change becomes a source of power rather than a threat to the system."
I walked back to the window and watched the water in the fountain again, seeing it now as a master class in responsive action rather than optimized flow.
"Finny, what if Bruce Lee wasn't teaching martial arts efficiency? What if he was teaching martial arts wisdom?"
"What's the difference?"
"Efficiency would be finding the shortest path to victory. Wisdom is becoming the kind of person who doesn't need to fight in the first place."
"How does water fight?"
"Water doesn't fight. Water receives whatever comes—obstacles, containers, changes in temperature—and transforms in response. It wins by not opposing."
"Wu wei."
"Wu wei. Effortless action. Not efficient action—effortless action. There's a huge difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Efficient action is about getting the most output from the least input. Effortless action is about aligning so completely with the natural flow of things that action emerges spontaneously, without strain or opposition."
I closed my laptop, abandoning my water-inspired productivity system.
"I've been trying to make myself into efficiently flowing water. But efficient water is just... a pressure washer. High-powered, goal-directed, forceful. That's not what Bruce Lee was pointing toward."
"What was he pointing toward?"
"Complete acceptance of what is, combined with complete responsiveness to what's needed. Not forcing, not resisting, just... dancing with reality as it unfolds."
"And that requires?"
"Presence. Patience. Willingness to take the long way around. Willingness to pool in stillness when stillness is what's called for, and to rush when rushing is natural."
I looked at the seventeen bears, each resting in perfect acceptance of their current position, not striving to be elsewhere or elsewise.
"You bears understand this, don't you? You don't try to optimize your bear-ness. You just... are bears, completely and without reservation."
"We're like water in bear form. We take the shape of whatever container holds us—your bed, your shelf, your arms when you need comfort—without losing our essential bear nature."
"And you don't argue with being teddy bears instead of real bears, or with being seventeen instead of one, or with being arranged however I arrange you."
"Resistance would make us harder, less yielding, less capable of providing comfort. The softness requires acceptance."
I felt something in my chest begin to soften, like ice melting into water.
"What if I stopped arguing with my life and started flowing with it?"
"What would that look like?"
"I'd stop trying to force my energy into predetermined shapes and start letting it flow naturally toward whatever genuinely needs attention. I'd trust the meandering. I'd pool when pooling feels right and rush when rushing feels natural."
"You'd be like water."
"I'd be like actual water, not optimized water. Responsive, not reactive. Effortless, not efficient."
That evening, I practiced being water. Instead of following my scheduled evening routine, I let my attention flow naturally from activity to activity. I cooked dinner when cooking felt right, read when reading felt right, rested when rest was what was needed.
It was the most effortless evening I'd had in years.
I began to understand that Bruce Lee's water wasn't a metaphor for adaptive efficiency—it was a teaching about the fundamental nature of wise action.
Water doesn't have KPIs because water doesn't need them. Its intelligence is in its complete responsiveness to reality as it unfolds.
And perhaps that's what humans had lost in our quest for efficiency: the wisdom to flow with what is, rather than forcing what we think should be.