The first year on Narau Island ended with the arrival of the storm season.
Li Yuan first felt the signs three days before the first storm hit. Through his Understanding of Water, he heard the unease in the conversation of the sea. The waves hitting the shore carried stories of dropping air pressure, winds swirling in the distance, and a mass of warm water colliding with cold air.
The plants in his formation also felt the change. They began to pull their energy inward, preparing for the coming weather. Leaves dried out faster, roots gripped the soil more tightly, and their spiritual communication shifted to a "survival" mode.
"You've gone through this countless times," Li Yuan told them while checking the ties on his house's roof. "Teach me how to endure with grace."
The first storm arrived at night—not a devastating one, but heavy rain accompanied by strong winds that lasted for two days. Li Yuan spent his time inside his house, listening to the turbulent sounds of nature outside.
There was something different about the way he heard the storm this time. It was no longer a disturbance or a threat, but a part of a larger conversation of nature. The howling wind was the island's way of breathing deeply. The pouring rain was the sky's way of cleansing itself. The lightning that struck was how cosmic energy found balance.
When the storm subsided, Li Yuan went out to check for damage. What he found amazed him: there was no significant damage. A few broken branches, some puddles in unusual places, but the entire ecosystem looked... refreshed. Renewed.
"Storms are a cleansing," he realized, observing how the plants that had previously looked wilted now stood tall with glistening leaves.
The storm season lasted for three months, and Li Yuan learned to adjust the rhythm of his life to the new pattern. The calm days were used for preparation—repairing the house, collecting rainwater, ensuring the plant formation was in a stable condition. The stormy days were used for deep internal reflection.
In the stillness of his wooden house battered by the wind, Li Yuan found a different kind of meditation. It was not the total silence he had known in the depths of the sea, but silence in the middle of a storm—the tranquility found in the eye of life's hurricane.
He began to understand that there are two types of peace: the peace of no disturbance, and the peace that exists alongside chaos. The second one, he realized, was far more valuable.
"Anyone can be calm when everything is quiet," he murmured to himself while listening to the wind howling outside. "But finding tranquility in the middle of a storm—that is true cultivation."
After the storm season passed, Li Yuan spent the next few months observing how the island recovered and adapted. Some fallen trees became homes for new types of moss. Areas that had been flooded developed unique small ecosystems. Even the rocks that had shifted due to the strong winds created new water flows that carried nutrients to previously barren parts of the island.
"Destruction and creation," Li Yuan mused while observing a new shoot growing from a broken tree trunk. "Two sides of the same coin."
He began to understand this island in a deeper way. Not just as a beautiful place to live, but as a teacher of cycles and changes. About how life always finds a way to thrive, even from—or precisely because of—challenges and difficulties.
A long dry season came after the storms, bringing a different kind of test. Water became scarce, small rivers dried up, and even the spiritual spring in the cave showed signs of diminishing.
Li Yuan watched how the island's ecosystem responded to this scarcity. Not with panic or destructive competition, but with closer cooperation. Large trees shared their water reserves through root networks. Stronger plants provided shade for weaker ones. Even the island's animals—birds, small squirrels, lizards—seemed to work together to find the remaining water sources.
"Scarcity teaches generosity," Li Yuan noted, observing a bird guiding another to a small puddle of water it had found.
He himself began to change his habits. Bathing less often, using water for the plants only when absolutely necessary, even collecting morning dew with a cloth to supplement his water reserves.
It wasn't because he truly needed the water—his consciousness body could survive without liquids. But by participating in the scarcity, he learned to appreciate abundance in a new way.
When the first rain after the long dry season finally fell, Li Yuan felt a genuine joy. He ran out of the house and let the rainwater soak his body, laughing in a way he hadn't in thousands of years.
A simple joy. A joy born from waiting and gratitude.
"This is what I missed," he said to himself while twirling in the rain. "Simple joy."
The first year on the island ended with Li Yuan sitting in his yard, looking at the wooden bird that was still perched on the stone in the middle of the plant formation. The simple carving had been a witness to all the seasonal changes, all the storms and dry spells, all the lessons he had received.
"A year," he said to the wooden bird. "A year that taught me more about life than a thousand years of formal cultivation."
He had learned about cycles. About acceptance. About finding joy in simplicity. About cooperation and generosity. About how true tranquility is not the absence of a storm, but the peace that remains even when a storm rages.
The night wind blew softly, carrying the scent of wet earth and fresh life. In the distance, the sound of the waves provided a constant and soothing rhythm. The stars shone brightly in the clear sky after the rain.
Li Yuan closed his eyes and listened to the island's night symphony. In that harmony, he heard something that made him smile: the sound of a life content with itself.
Not rushing toward a certain goal. Not chasing something out of reach. Just living, breathing, being—with full awareness and gratitude.
"Perhaps," he whispered into the night wind, "this is what true wisdom is: learning to be happy with what you have, while remaining open to what is to come."