The morning mist clung to the river as I pulled my little fishing boat away from the shore. My name is Wei, and I lived in a small village along the Yangtze River. I wasn’t strong or special. I just liked the quiet of the water and the pull of the net. But the day I met the empty boat was the day I started to understand the Tao.
The river was still. Ducks floated by lazily. I hummed a song my grandfather used to sing as I rowed toward my favorite fishing spot. The boat rocked gently, and I felt peace—not the peace from silence, but the kind that comes when the world doesn’t ask anything from you.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp bump. My eyes opened wide, and I stumbled back in the boat. “Hey!” I shouted, thinking another fisherman had crashed into me. But when I looked up, no one was there. It was just an empty boat drifting slowly on the water.
There were no ropes, no oars, no nets. Just wood and silence. I stared at it a long time. My heart was still a little mad. I had thought someone was being careless, and I was ready to yell. But there was no one to blame—no one to be angry at.
That’s when something changed in me.
I remembered the story my grandfather once told me, a tale from the great sage Zhuangzi. He spoke of a man who also shouted at a boat for crashing into his own, only to realize it was empty. The moment he saw there was no person behind the bump, his anger vanished.
I sat quietly, watching the empty boat float by, soft waves pushing it along. Just like in the story, my anger vanished too.
All my life, I thought I had to control everything—my net, my boat, the fish, even people’s words and actions. But sitting there, next to a boat with no one in it, I began to understand what Taoists call “Wu Wei”—action without striving.
I didn’t need to push or pull so hard through life.
I let the net hang loose in the water. I didn’t check it. I didn’t watch it. I just floated.
And you know what? Later that day, I pulled up the biggest fish I’d caught in weeks.
When I rowed back to shore, the wind soft against my cheeks, I felt like the river had given me a secret gift. Not the fish—but the lesson.
Sometimes, you get bumped—and you think it’s the world trying to get in your way. But maybe it’s just an empty boat, floating along, doing what the river tells it to do.
Since that day, I’ve tried to live like the river—calm, flowing, and letting things be. I don’t get mad so quickly. I don’t grab so tightly. I trust the Tao will carry me, just like it carries the boat and the birds and the breeze.
And when the world pushes me around, I smile—and float.
The morning mist clung to the river as I pulled my little fishing boat away from the shore. My name is Wei, and I lived in a small village along the Yangtze River. I wasn’t strong or special. I just liked the quiet of the water and the pull of the net. But the day I met the empty boat was the day I started to understand the Tao.
The river was still. Ducks floated by lazily. I hummed a song my grandfather used to sing as I rowed toward my favorite fishing spot. The boat rocked gently, and I felt peace—not the peace from silence, but the kind that comes when the world doesn’t ask anything from you.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp bump. My eyes opened wide, and I stumbled back in the boat. “Hey!” I shouted, thinking another fisherman had crashed into me. But when I looked up, no one was there. It was just an empty boat drifting slowly on the water.
There were no ropes, no oars, no nets. Just wood and silence. I stared at it a long time. My heart was still a little mad. I had thought someone was being careless, and I was ready to yell. But there was no one to blame—no one to be angry at.
That’s when something changed in me.
I remembered the story my grandfather once told me, a tale from the great sage Zhuangzi. He spoke of a man who also shouted at a boat for crashing into his own, only to realize it was empty. The moment he saw there was no person behind the bump, his anger vanished.
I sat quietly, watching the empty boat float by, soft waves pushing it along. Just like in the story, my anger vanished too.
All my life, I thought I had to control everything—my net, my boat, the fish, even people’s words and actions. But sitting there, next to a boat with no one in it, I began to understand what Taoists call “Wu Wei”—action without striving.
I didn’t need to push or pull so hard through life.
I let the net hang loose in the water. I didn’t check it. I didn’t watch it. I just floated.
And you know what? Later that day, I pulled up the biggest fish I’d caught in weeks.
When I rowed back to shore, the wind soft against my cheeks, I felt like the river had given me a secret gift. Not the fish—but the lesson.
Sometimes, you get bumped—and you think it’s the world trying to get in your way. But maybe it’s just an empty boat, floating along, doing what the river tells it to do.
Since that day, I’ve tried to live like the river—calm, flowing, and letting things be. I don’t get mad so quickly. I don’t grab so tightly. I trust the Tao will carry me, just like it carries the boat and the birds and the breeze.
And when the world pushes me around, I smile—and float.
