The wind howled across the riverbank the day I met the reed. I was only ten years old and angry at everything. Angry that my kite had broken, that my older brother had laughed, and that no one noticed how upset I was. So I kicked a rock into the water and sat beside the reeds, arms crossed tightly.
That’s when I saw it.
One tall reed stood bent almost to the ground. The wind pushed again and again, but it never snapped. All around it, strong branches had already broken and fallen—but not the reed.
I frowned, confused. “Why doesn’t it break?” I asked out loud.
From behind me, a soft voice answered. “Because it doesn’t fight.”
I turned to see an old man with a bamboo hat. He smiled kindly. His clothes were simple, his eyes quiet like still water.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Just a traveler,” he said. “Would you like to hear a story?”
I nodded slowly. I didn’t feel like talking—but listening seemed okay.
He picked up a reed and held it gently. “Once, a great man named Zhuangzi saw a butterfly in his dream. When he woke, he asked himself, ‘Am I Zhuangzi dreaming I’m a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming I’m Zhuangzi?’” He chuckled softly. “Funny question, isn’t it?”
I blinked. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s alright,” he replied. “Not all questions need answers. Sometimes, they help us see the world differently.”
I waited, still not sure why he was telling me this.
He pointed to the reed again. “You see that? It looks weak, but it’s strong because it bends. The stiff tree looks strong but breaks in the storm. Nature knows when to hold on and when to let go.”
The wind rushed again. I watched the reed bow, then slowly rise. It didn’t shout. It didn’t fight. It just… moved with the wind.
“I got mad and broke my kite,” I said quietly.
The man nodded. “Sometimes we think being strong means shouting louder or pushing harder. But the Tao—the Way—teaches us to be like the empty boat.”
“Empty boat?” I asked.
“If a boat floats down the river with no one in it and bumps another boat, there’s no anger. But if someone is steering it and crashes into us, we feel upset. Why? Because we blame the person. But an empty boat—there’s no one to blame.”
I sat still. The river, the reed, the wind… it all felt quieter now.
“I don’t feel as angry anymore,” I said.
“That is the way,” he replied with a smile. “No need to fight the river. Just float, and it will carry you.”
When I looked up again, he was already walking away, slow and steady like he had all the time in the world.
I didn’t change overnight. But from then on, when the world felt too heavy or loud, I would go down by the river and watch the reed. I remembered how it bent, not because it was weak—but because it knew that going with the wind was wiser than breaking against it.
And slowly, I learned to be like that too.
The wind howled across the riverbank the day I met the reed. I was only ten years old and angry at everything. Angry that my kite had broken, that my older brother had laughed, and that no one noticed how upset I was. So I kicked a rock into the water and sat beside the reeds, arms crossed tightly.
That’s when I saw it.
One tall reed stood bent almost to the ground. The wind pushed again and again, but it never snapped. All around it, strong branches had already broken and fallen—but not the reed.
I frowned, confused. “Why doesn’t it break?” I asked out loud.
From behind me, a soft voice answered. “Because it doesn’t fight.”
I turned to see an old man with a bamboo hat. He smiled kindly. His clothes were simple, his eyes quiet like still water.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Just a traveler,” he said. “Would you like to hear a story?”
I nodded slowly. I didn’t feel like talking—but listening seemed okay.
He picked up a reed and held it gently. “Once, a great man named Zhuangzi saw a butterfly in his dream. When he woke, he asked himself, ‘Am I Zhuangzi dreaming I’m a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming I’m Zhuangzi?’” He chuckled softly. “Funny question, isn’t it?”
I blinked. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s alright,” he replied. “Not all questions need answers. Sometimes, they help us see the world differently.”
I waited, still not sure why he was telling me this.
He pointed to the reed again. “You see that? It looks weak, but it’s strong because it bends. The stiff tree looks strong but breaks in the storm. Nature knows when to hold on and when to let go.”
The wind rushed again. I watched the reed bow, then slowly rise. It didn’t shout. It didn’t fight. It just… moved with the wind.
“I got mad and broke my kite,” I said quietly.
The man nodded. “Sometimes we think being strong means shouting louder or pushing harder. But the Tao—the Way—teaches us to be like the empty boat.”
“Empty boat?” I asked.
“If a boat floats down the river with no one in it and bumps another boat, there’s no anger. But if someone is steering it and crashes into us, we feel upset. Why? Because we blame the person. But an empty boat—there’s no one to blame.”
I sat still. The river, the reed, the wind… it all felt quieter now.
“I don’t feel as angry anymore,” I said.
“That is the way,” he replied with a smile. “No need to fight the river. Just float, and it will carry you.”
When I looked up again, he was already walking away, slow and steady like he had all the time in the world.
I didn’t change overnight. But from then on, when the world felt too heavy or loud, I would go down by the river and watch the reed. I remembered how it bent, not because it was weak—but because it knew that going with the wind was wiser than breaking against it.
And slowly, I learned to be like that too.
