The river wasn’t always hollow.
That’s what Elder Shen used to say. He was the oldest man in our village and walked with a cane shaped like a dragon’s tail. His house sat closest to the water, where the Hollow River curved around the rice fields and sang its quiet song.
I had just turned twelve the summer I started visiting him. My heart was always full of worry—about chores, about school, about growing up. I thought if I didn’t try my hardest and control everything, I’d fall behind.
One morning, I found Elder Shen sitting by the river, tossing leaves into the current.
“Why do you do that every day?” I asked.
He smiled. “To see if the river’s still wiser than me.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
He picked up a smooth rock and handed it to me. “Try to stop the river with this stone.”
Puzzled, I waded into the shallow part and pressed the stone into the flow with all my strength—but the water kept coming, slipping around it, rising over it.
“No matter how strong you press,” he said, “the river flows. It doesn’t fight. It just finds a way.”
I sat beside him, wet and frustrated. “But if the river doesn’t try to stop anything, isn’t that lazy?”
Elder Shen chuckled. “That’s the Hollow River. Long ago, it was deep and loud. It pushed, it raged. During that time, people feared it. But the river carved through rock, lost its depth, and became gentle. Now it no longer needs to do anything. It simply is.”
That night, I stared at the sky, wondering how a river could stop doing and still be strong.
The next week, my school had a kite-flying race. I had built my kite to be the biggest. I ran as fast as I could, pulling tight on the strings. But it wouldn’t rise. It kept dragging behind me, stuck.
Then I saw Mei, the quiet girl, standing still in the field. She waited. Her small green kite fluttered in the wind. Then it soared.
I stopped running and let go of the need to force it. When I let the wind carry my kite up, it danced—effortless and free.
Later, I told Elder Shen what happened.
He smiled. “That is wu wei,” he said. “Effortless action. Like the Tao. We don’t control the wind. We don’t push the river backwards. We move with it.”
After that, I began to notice other things: how bamboo bends in storms, how clouds drift without aim, how silence often holds more answers than words.
I still had chores and homework. But I started doing them differently—without rush, without trying to control every moment. I flowed.
Now, when I pass the Hollow River, I sit a while. Sometimes I toss leaves. Sometimes I just listen.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember Elder Shen’s river. I let the world be, and it carries me forward—just like the wind lifting a kite, or the current slipping around a stone.
The river wasn’t always hollow.
That’s what Elder Shen used to say. He was the oldest man in our village and walked with a cane shaped like a dragon’s tail. His house sat closest to the water, where the Hollow River curved around the rice fields and sang its quiet song.
I had just turned twelve the summer I started visiting him. My heart was always full of worry—about chores, about school, about growing up. I thought if I didn’t try my hardest and control everything, I’d fall behind.
One morning, I found Elder Shen sitting by the river, tossing leaves into the current.
“Why do you do that every day?” I asked.
He smiled. “To see if the river’s still wiser than me.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
He picked up a smooth rock and handed it to me. “Try to stop the river with this stone.”
Puzzled, I waded into the shallow part and pressed the stone into the flow with all my strength—but the water kept coming, slipping around it, rising over it.
“No matter how strong you press,” he said, “the river flows. It doesn’t fight. It just finds a way.”
I sat beside him, wet and frustrated. “But if the river doesn’t try to stop anything, isn’t that lazy?”
Elder Shen chuckled. “That’s the Hollow River. Long ago, it was deep and loud. It pushed, it raged. During that time, people feared it. But the river carved through rock, lost its depth, and became gentle. Now it no longer needs to do anything. It simply is.”
That night, I stared at the sky, wondering how a river could stop doing and still be strong.
The next week, my school had a kite-flying race. I had built my kite to be the biggest. I ran as fast as I could, pulling tight on the strings. But it wouldn’t rise. It kept dragging behind me, stuck.
Then I saw Mei, the quiet girl, standing still in the field. She waited. Her small green kite fluttered in the wind. Then it soared.
I stopped running and let go of the need to force it. When I let the wind carry my kite up, it danced—effortless and free.
Later, I told Elder Shen what happened.
He smiled. “That is wu wei,” he said. “Effortless action. Like the Tao. We don’t control the wind. We don’t push the river backwards. We move with it.”
After that, I began to notice other things: how bamboo bends in storms, how clouds drift without aim, how silence often holds more answers than words.
I still had chores and homework. But I started doing them differently—without rush, without trying to control every moment. I flowed.
Now, when I pass the Hollow River, I sit a while. Sometimes I toss leaves. Sometimes I just listen.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember Elder Shen’s river. I let the world be, and it carries me forward—just like the wind lifting a kite, or the current slipping around a stone.
