The mist was thick on the river that morning. As I stepped onto the small wooden dock, its boards creaked under my feet. My name is Song, a young fisherman from the village of Liji. I wasn't wise or special. Most days I just tried to catch enough fish for my mother and little sister. But that day... things changed.
I had woken early and pushed my little boat out onto the quiet river. The sky was the color of soft ash, and the world felt still. I paddled gently, keeping my eyes on the water. Everything felt peaceful—until something bumped into me.
A boat floated into mine from the fog. I shouted, “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” But the boat made no answer.
As I looked closer, I realized it was empty.
There was no one inside.
Just a simple boat, drifting with the flow of the river, the way leaves dance in the breeze.
At first, I felt silly. I had yelled at a boat with no one in it! But then, a strange calm washed over me. The anger I felt vanished like a stone sinking in the water.
Later, as I waited for fish to bite, I remembered something Old Master Li had told me. He was our town’s wise elder, kind and quiet, and full of strange but wonderful sayings.
“An empty boat causes no harm,” he said once while sipping tea. “When people bump into it, they don’t get angry. But if someone is steering the boat—even by mistake—people shout and blame. You see, the empty boat follows the Tao. It moves with the river, not against it.”
That day on the river, I finally understood what he meant.
When we stop trying to control everything, when we let go—like the empty boat—we don’t cause trouble or stir up waves. We just float. And sometimes, floating is enough.
I thought about how many times I got angry when things didn’t go my way. I remembered getting mad at the wind for turning my boat, at the rain for soaking my clothes, and even at my little sister for spilling porridge. But none of these things meant to upset me. They were just moving as they naturally did, like the current, like the clouds.
That day, sitting alone on the river, I decided to try something new.
To be like that empty boat.
Not lifeless or lazy, but peaceful—letting things come and go without grabbing or pushing.
When I returned to shore, I felt lighter. My mother asked how my fishing went. I smiled, “Only caught one fish… but I caught something better too.”
She raised her eyebrows, but I just laughed. It was hard to explain the Tao in words. It's something you feel—like warmth from the sun, or the hush of fog on the river.
Since then, when troubles come my way, I think about the empty boat.
And I try to float.
Just float.
The mist was thick on the river that morning. As I stepped onto the small wooden dock, its boards creaked under my feet. My name is Song, a young fisherman from the village of Liji. I wasn't wise or special. Most days I just tried to catch enough fish for my mother and little sister. But that day... things changed.
I had woken early and pushed my little boat out onto the quiet river. The sky was the color of soft ash, and the world felt still. I paddled gently, keeping my eyes on the water. Everything felt peaceful—until something bumped into me.
A boat floated into mine from the fog. I shouted, “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” But the boat made no answer.
As I looked closer, I realized it was empty.
There was no one inside.
Just a simple boat, drifting with the flow of the river, the way leaves dance in the breeze.
At first, I felt silly. I had yelled at a boat with no one in it! But then, a strange calm washed over me. The anger I felt vanished like a stone sinking in the water.
Later, as I waited for fish to bite, I remembered something Old Master Li had told me. He was our town’s wise elder, kind and quiet, and full of strange but wonderful sayings.
“An empty boat causes no harm,” he said once while sipping tea. “When people bump into it, they don’t get angry. But if someone is steering the boat—even by mistake—people shout and blame. You see, the empty boat follows the Tao. It moves with the river, not against it.”
That day on the river, I finally understood what he meant.
When we stop trying to control everything, when we let go—like the empty boat—we don’t cause trouble or stir up waves. We just float. And sometimes, floating is enough.
I thought about how many times I got angry when things didn’t go my way. I remembered getting mad at the wind for turning my boat, at the rain for soaking my clothes, and even at my little sister for spilling porridge. But none of these things meant to upset me. They were just moving as they naturally did, like the current, like the clouds.
That day, sitting alone on the river, I decided to try something new.
To be like that empty boat.
Not lifeless or lazy, but peaceful—letting things come and go without grabbing or pushing.
When I returned to shore, I felt lighter. My mother asked how my fishing went. I smiled, “Only caught one fish… but I caught something better too.”
She raised her eyebrows, but I just laughed. It was hard to explain the Tao in words. It's something you feel—like warmth from the sun, or the hush of fog on the river.
Since then, when troubles come my way, I think about the empty boat.
And I try to float.
Just float.
