Rabbi Pinchas ben Yair was one of the strictest ascetics in the Talmud. He never touched another person's bread. He would not allow his donkey to eat untithed fodder — the animal itself kept kosher. And when he traveled on a mission of pure mitzvah, physics bent to make room for him.
Once he was on his way to ransom Jewish captives. He came to the river Ginai. The current was high. He addressed the river directly. Divide for me, so that I may cross and redeem these prisoners. Otherwise I will pray that you are never filled with water again.
The river divided. He walked across dry. Others in his party followed on the strength of his merit and also crossed unharmed.
Another time Rabbi Pinchas was invited to dine. He approached the host's house, saw white mules tethered at the door, and stopped. These animals are dangerous, he said, they bite. He refused to enter.
The host pressed. Come in. The mules are tame. But as the host insisted, a mountain suddenly rose between them, separating the rabbi from the house.
Gaster's Exempla (No. 129, 1924) collects these stories from the Talmud (Chullin 7a-b). A tzaddik who lives every meal with discipline, the sages say, does not bend the world through effort. The world bends quietly around him, because it recognizes that he has already bent every inch of his own life to its source.