The river was wide and quiet that morning. Mist danced on the surface like sleepy clouds, and the world felt still. I was twelve then, and my uncle had just taken me fishing for the first time. His boat, old and creaky, swayed gently by the dock.
“You steer,” he said with a smile. “Today, you learn to feel the river.”
I grinned. I wanted to prove I was ready—not just to fish, but to be like the village boys who paddled fast and yelled across the water. I grabbed the oar, full of energy, and pushed hard. The boat jerked sideways and spun around. I groaned.
“Easy,” Uncle said, laughing gently. “Let the river do some of the work.”
I didn’t understand what he meant. Shouldn’t I be the one in control?
We floated for a while, drifting past trees whose roots dipped into the water like long fingers. Birds sang overhead. It was peaceful, but I still felt tense. I wanted action. I wanted to be good at something. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another boat floating toward us.
It wasn’t being paddled. It just moved silently, drifting with the current. It looked empty.
“Should I steer us away?” I asked, gripping my oar again.
Uncle shook his head. “Let it come.”
“But what if it hits us?”
“Then it hits us,” he said, shrugging.
“That’s bad!” I said.
“Not always,” he said. “Watch.”
The boat bumped softly into ours. No crash. No damage. Just a quiet knock, like a greeting.
“It’s empty?” I asked.
Uncle nodded. “That boat—you saw it and felt fear. You thought you had to act. But the boat didn’t mean harm. It just floated. No one guides it, and yet it moves along the river just fine.”
I frowned, not quite sure what the lesson was.
Uncle leaned back. “A long time ago, a wise man named Zhuangzi told a story about an empty boat. He said if a man sees a boat coming and it hits him, he gets angry—unless the boat is empty. Then he has no one to blame. We get angry because we think someone is against us. But sometimes, the world just flows. Like the river or an empty boat.”
“So… I should do nothing?” I asked.
“Not nothing,” he said. “But not forcing. Let things come, like the river floats the boat. That is the Way—what Laozi called the Tao.”
Later that day, I watched a friend do a cartwheel and fall. He laughed. I normally would’ve teased him, but instead, I stayed quiet and smiled. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was just being himself—like the empty boat.
That day, something in me changed. I understood that I didn’t always have to control everything. I could let things be. That’s what Uncle meant. Let the river do some of the work.
I still have much to learn. But now, whenever life feels hard or people upset me, I try to remember the empty boat. And I try to drift—just a little—and trust the flow.
The river was wide and quiet that morning. Mist danced on the surface like sleepy clouds, and the world felt still. I was twelve then, and my uncle had just taken me fishing for the first time. His boat, old and creaky, swayed gently by the dock.
“You steer,” he said with a smile. “Today, you learn to feel the river.”
I grinned. I wanted to prove I was ready—not just to fish, but to be like the village boys who paddled fast and yelled across the water. I grabbed the oar, full of energy, and pushed hard. The boat jerked sideways and spun around. I groaned.
“Easy,” Uncle said, laughing gently. “Let the river do some of the work.”
I didn’t understand what he meant. Shouldn’t I be the one in control?
We floated for a while, drifting past trees whose roots dipped into the water like long fingers. Birds sang overhead. It was peaceful, but I still felt tense. I wanted action. I wanted to be good at something. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another boat floating toward us.
It wasn’t being paddled. It just moved silently, drifting with the current. It looked empty.
“Should I steer us away?” I asked, gripping my oar again.
Uncle shook his head. “Let it come.”
“But what if it hits us?”
“Then it hits us,” he said, shrugging.
“That’s bad!” I said.
“Not always,” he said. “Watch.”
The boat bumped softly into ours. No crash. No damage. Just a quiet knock, like a greeting.
“It’s empty?” I asked.
Uncle nodded. “That boat—you saw it and felt fear. You thought you had to act. But the boat didn’t mean harm. It just floated. No one guides it, and yet it moves along the river just fine.”
I frowned, not quite sure what the lesson was.
Uncle leaned back. “A long time ago, a wise man named Zhuangzi told a story about an empty boat. He said if a man sees a boat coming and it hits him, he gets angry—unless the boat is empty. Then he has no one to blame. We get angry because we think someone is against us. But sometimes, the world just flows. Like the river or an empty boat.”
“So… I should do nothing?” I asked.
“Not nothing,” he said. “But not forcing. Let things come, like the river floats the boat. That is the Way—what Laozi called the Tao.”
Later that day, I watched a friend do a cartwheel and fall. He laughed. I normally would’ve teased him, but instead, I stayed quiet and smiled. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was just being himself—like the empty boat.
That day, something in me changed. I understood that I didn’t always have to control everything. I could let things be. That’s what Uncle meant. Let the river do some of the work.
I still have much to learn. But now, whenever life feels hard or people upset me, I try to remember the empty boat. And I try to drift—just a little—and trust the flow.
