The wind was strong that morning, tugging at my sleeves as I stood by the riverside. I had been traveling for many days with nothing but a bundle of rice, a curved walking stick, and too many worries in my chest. My name is Wei, and I had left my village to find out what my purpose was. Everyone said I was restless—that I was like a bird with no nest, always flying off before I could belong anywhere.
That morning, a strange sight caught my eye. A boat floated down the river, slow and silent. It passed by a group of men fishing. One of them shouted and waved his arms—the boat had almost bumped into him. But when he looked inside and saw that it was empty, he stopped shouting. He lowered his arms and simply stepped aside.
Why had he stopped being angry? I couldn’t stop thinking about that. So I followed the boat as it drifted. Step by step along the riverside, I walked until I met an old man sitting beneath a willow tree. His hair was white like clouds, and he was sipping tea from a cracked cup.
“You look confused,” he said, not even looking up.
“I saw something I don’t understand,” I told him. “A man grew angry at a boat. But when he saw it was empty, his anger disappeared.”
The old man smiled. “That boat is full of teaching, young one,” he said. “Sometimes, emptiness can teach more than words.”
“But it was just an empty boat,” I said.
He picked up a dry leaf. “Imagine if this leaf knocked into you,” he said. “You wouldn’t be angry, would you?”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t mean to bump into me.”
“The boat did not mean it either,” he said. “Our minds are like that fisherman's—quick to anger when we believe someone wronged us. But what if we saw all things like the empty boat? What if we stopped taking everything so personally?”
I sat beside him in silence. The wind tugged at the leaves, and the river kept on flowing. I felt something inside me loosen, like a knot that had been tied too tight for too long. I didn’t have to control everything. I didn’t have to hold on so hard.
For the first time in many days, I just sat. I didn’t plan. I didn’t worry. I just shared tea with a stranger and let the river move without trying to stop it.
I stayed there until the sun dipped low. When I stood up to continue my journey, I asked the old man, “What should I do next?”
He smiled. “Walk like the boat—let the river carry you.”
That day, I began to understand the way of Wu Wei—doing by not doing. I didn’t change overnight. But from that moment on, whenever things felt heavy or tangled, I remembered the empty boat. I let the world move as it does, and found peace by not holding so tightly.
I’m still the wandering bird. But now, I know that even a bird must rest sometimes and let the wind carry its wings.
The wind was strong that morning, tugging at my sleeves as I stood by the riverside. I had been traveling for many days with nothing but a bundle of rice, a curved walking stick, and too many worries in my chest. My name is Wei, and I had left my village to find out what my purpose was. Everyone said I was restless—that I was like a bird with no nest, always flying off before I could belong anywhere.
That morning, a strange sight caught my eye. A boat floated down the river, slow and silent. It passed by a group of men fishing. One of them shouted and waved his arms—the boat had almost bumped into him. But when he looked inside and saw that it was empty, he stopped shouting. He lowered his arms and simply stepped aside.
Why had he stopped being angry? I couldn’t stop thinking about that. So I followed the boat as it drifted. Step by step along the riverside, I walked until I met an old man sitting beneath a willow tree. His hair was white like clouds, and he was sipping tea from a cracked cup.
“You look confused,” he said, not even looking up.
“I saw something I don’t understand,” I told him. “A man grew angry at a boat. But when he saw it was empty, his anger disappeared.”
The old man smiled. “That boat is full of teaching, young one,” he said. “Sometimes, emptiness can teach more than words.”
“But it was just an empty boat,” I said.
He picked up a dry leaf. “Imagine if this leaf knocked into you,” he said. “You wouldn’t be angry, would you?”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t mean to bump into me.”
“The boat did not mean it either,” he said. “Our minds are like that fisherman's—quick to anger when we believe someone wronged us. But what if we saw all things like the empty boat? What if we stopped taking everything so personally?”
I sat beside him in silence. The wind tugged at the leaves, and the river kept on flowing. I felt something inside me loosen, like a knot that had been tied too tight for too long. I didn’t have to control everything. I didn’t have to hold on so hard.
For the first time in many days, I just sat. I didn’t plan. I didn’t worry. I just shared tea with a stranger and let the river move without trying to stop it.
I stayed there until the sun dipped low. When I stood up to continue my journey, I asked the old man, “What should I do next?”
He smiled. “Walk like the boat—let the river carry you.”
That day, I began to understand the way of Wu Wei—doing by not doing. I didn’t change overnight. But from that moment on, whenever things felt heavy or tangled, I remembered the empty boat. I let the world move as it does, and found peace by not holding so tightly.
I’m still the wandering bird. But now, I know that even a bird must rest sometimes and let the wind carry its wings.
