I have laid aside business, and gone a'fishing.

Host: The river stretched wide and silver, its surface trembling under the early dawn breeze. Mist rose in lazy curls, wrapping the banks in a soft haze that blurred the line between earth and water. Birdsong scattered through the trees, and the sun, still low, spilled gold over the grass, the reeds, and the faces of two figures standing near a quiet bend of the stream.

Jack was there — his boots muddy, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes grey and calculating, like someone studying a problem rather than a view. He held a fishing rod, but the line hung slack, unmoved by the current.

Jeeny sat nearby on a fallen log, her hair loose, her bare feet touching the cool grass. She watched the river like it was an old friend, smiling softly.

A thermos of coffee rested between them, steam rising like memory.

The morning silence broke with Jeeny’s gentle voice:

Jeeny: “You know, Izaak Walton once said, ‘I have laid aside business, and gone a’fishing.’ He meant that sometimes, peace is the only real profit.”

Jack: “Peace doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. The world’s not kind to people who lay things aside. You stop paddling — you sink.”

Host: A ripple crossed the water, faint and fleeting, as if the river itself had laughed at the thought.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem, Jack. We’ve built a world where we only measure worth by what we earn, not by what we feel. Walton wasn’t escaping — he was remembering. He was saying that life isn’t meant to be all business.”

Jack: “Easy for him to say. He had land, leisure, time. Try telling a nurse working twelve-hour shifts, or a single mother juggling three jobs, that they should go fishing for enlightenment. They’d tell you peace is for the privileged.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that precisely why his words matter? Because we’ve forgotten how to live when we’re not working? When did the soul become a side project?”

Jack: “When survival became the main one.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting leaves, rustling reeds, stirring reflections on the water. The sound was like soft applause, the river approving of the conflict.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice low, her eyes steady.

Jeeny: “Jack, don’t you ever get tired? Of the meetings, the targets, the deadlines that vanish the moment you reach them? You’ve been running for years. What are you even chasing anymore?”

Jack: “A life that works. That’s all. Structure. Achievement. You think rest gives meaning, but it’s the doing that defines us.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s the being that defines us. Walton knew that. When he laid aside business, he wasn’t quitting — he was listening. To himself. To nature. To something quieter than success.”

Jack: “And what did it tell him? That trout are philosophers? That rivers write poetry?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe exactly that.”

Host: Jack laughed, a deep, husky sound, roughened by both cynicism and a trace of wonder he couldn’t quite hide. The rod trembled in his hand as a fish nibbled, but he didn’t pull.

Jack: “You romanticize it. Fishing’s not philosophy — it’s waiting with bait.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the lesson. Waiting. Letting go of control. You can’t force a fish to bite, Jack — you can only invite it.”

Jack: “That’s not a lesson; that’s luck.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s faith. Faith that something unseen might still come if you stop fighting the current long enough.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, burning away the mist. The light shimmered off the river, casting ripples of gold on Jack’s face. His expression softened, though his voice stayed firm.

Jack: “You think stepping away from business makes life purer. But what about responsibility? Ambition? Isn’t there beauty in work too? Walton’s time was simpler. The world didn’t demand this kind of pace.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the hunger he described — the need to escape from the noise of men — it’s the same hunger now. We just drown it better.”

Jack: “So you’d have us all fishing while the world collapses?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d have us remember what we’re saving it for.”

Host: The silence deepened, heavy with the smell of river water and damp earth. Somewhere a heron cried, its voice echoing through the trees — ancient, mournful, free.

Jeeny: “You talk about duty like it’s a badge. But sometimes, the greatest duty is to stop. To look. To breathe. To be human again.”

Jack: “And if everyone did that? If everyone just stopped ‘to breathe’? Civilization would crumble before lunch.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it would finally begin to live.”

Jack: “You’re an idealist.”

Jeeny: “You’re a prisoner of your own success.”

Host: The air between them flickered, charged not with anger but with something deeper — recognition. Jeeny’s words hung in the space like smoke, impossible to ignore. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickered toward the river, and then to her.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to take me fishing every Sunday. He didn’t talk much — just sat there, letting the world move around us. I thought he was wasting time.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I’d give anything to waste a morning with him again.”

Host: The confession landed softly, like a leaf on water. Jeeny’s gaze gentled, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Walton meant — not to escape life, but to return to it. To the things that don’t demand anything back.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Not every prayer needs words.”

Host: A fish leapt, breaking the surface, a flash of silver against the sunlight, then gone again. Both of them watched, silent, as the ripples widened, then faded into stillness.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been fishing for the wrong thing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’ve been fishing without realizing it.”

Jack: “So what do I do now?”

Jeeny: “Lay aside business. Go fishing.”

Jack: “And when I come back?”

Jeeny: “You’ll know which part of you to bring, and which part to leave behind.”

Host: The morning was almost bright now, the mist gone, the sky clear as glass. The river whispered, a constant murmur like a heartbeat. Jack’s rod bent, and this time, he pulled — the line tightening, the water churning, a spark of life caught on the hook.

He didn’t smile — not yet. But his eyes shone with something new: presence, not purpose.

Jeeny watched quietly, the sunlight glinting in her hair, the reflection of the river dancing in her eyes.

Host: And in that moment, the world — with all its noise, duties, and unfinished business — paused.

The river flowed, the birds sang, the earth breathed — and somewhere in the silence between them, the meaning of life — patient, tender, ancient — waited, like a fish, just below the surface.