The river wind was soft that afternoon, and the sky wore a gentle shade of blue. My name is Lin, a young boy from a small village near the banks of the Li River. That day, something happened that I will always remember—an old story came to life, and it changed how I saw everything.
I had just finished helping Father pull the nets from the water. We didn’t speak much—fishing takes quiet and patience. But inside, my thoughts were stormy. A boy from school had bumped into me on purpose earlier that morning and didn’t even say sorry. I wanted to shout at him, to show him I wasn’t weak. But as the nets came up, knotting seaweed and old sticks in their threads, Father only said, “Sometimes, it's best to let things float by.”
I didn’t understand what he meant. I kept thinking about that boy, wishing I’d pushed him back. That’s when Father looked up and pointed to the center of the river.
“See that boat?” he asked. I followed his gaze.
At first, I didn’t notice anything. Then I saw it: a small boat drifting down the river, empty. It bumped lightly into a larger fishing boat, rocking it just a little, then continued floating on its way.
I squinted. “Is someone inside?”
Father shook his head. “That boat is empty.”
“But it just bumped that fishing boat,” I said. “Why didn’t the man get mad?”
Father smiled gently. “Because he saw it had no one inside. There’s no one to blame.”
We stood in silence as the boat floated past. Then, he added, “Zhuangzi, a wise Taoist master, shared a story a lot like this, Lin. He said when we see an empty boat coming toward us, we don’t get angry—it makes no sense to be angry at nothing. But when we see someone steering the boat, we get mad, we blame, we shout.” He looked me in the eye. “But doesn’t the boat still bump us the same way?”
I frowned. “So… we get angry only when we think someone meant to hurt us?”
Father nodded. “That’s right. If we learn to treat all situations like the empty boat, we stay peaceful. We don’t carry other people's anger in our hearts.”
That night, lying under the stars, I thought about what he said. Maybe the boy who bumped me wasn’t trying to be mean. Even if he was—what good would it do to shout? The bump had already happened, just like the boat bumping the fisherman. I could let it float by.
The next day, I saw that boy again. He looked at me, like he expected me to do something. But I didn’t say anything. I just smiled and kept walking.
I didn’t forget the bump. But I also didn’t hold it.
From that day on, whenever something bothered me, I tried to see it as the empty boat. I let things pass, like clouds drifting through the sky or leaves floating down the river.
And little by little, I found more peace inside me.
I didn’t change overnight. But when the waves inside me grew strong, I remembered the empty boat—and I let them pass without fighting back.
The river wind was soft that afternoon, and the sky wore a gentle shade of blue. My name is Lin, a young boy from a small village near the banks of the Li River. That day, something happened that I will always remember—an old story came to life, and it changed how I saw everything.
I had just finished helping Father pull the nets from the water. We didn’t speak much—fishing takes quiet and patience. But inside, my thoughts were stormy. A boy from school had bumped into me on purpose earlier that morning and didn’t even say sorry. I wanted to shout at him, to show him I wasn’t weak. But as the nets came up, knotting seaweed and old sticks in their threads, Father only said, “Sometimes, it's best to let things float by.”
I didn’t understand what he meant. I kept thinking about that boy, wishing I’d pushed him back. That’s when Father looked up and pointed to the center of the river.
“See that boat?” he asked. I followed his gaze.
At first, I didn’t notice anything. Then I saw it: a small boat drifting down the river, empty. It bumped lightly into a larger fishing boat, rocking it just a little, then continued floating on its way.
I squinted. “Is someone inside?”
Father shook his head. “That boat is empty.”
“But it just bumped that fishing boat,” I said. “Why didn’t the man get mad?”
Father smiled gently. “Because he saw it had no one inside. There’s no one to blame.”
We stood in silence as the boat floated past. Then, he added, “Zhuangzi, a wise Taoist master, shared a story a lot like this, Lin. He said when we see an empty boat coming toward us, we don’t get angry—it makes no sense to be angry at nothing. But when we see someone steering the boat, we get mad, we blame, we shout.” He looked me in the eye. “But doesn’t the boat still bump us the same way?”
I frowned. “So… we get angry only when we think someone meant to hurt us?”
Father nodded. “That’s right. If we learn to treat all situations like the empty boat, we stay peaceful. We don’t carry other people's anger in our hearts.”
That night, lying under the stars, I thought about what he said. Maybe the boy who bumped me wasn’t trying to be mean. Even if he was—what good would it do to shout? The bump had already happened, just like the boat bumping the fisherman. I could let it float by.
The next day, I saw that boy again. He looked at me, like he expected me to do something. But I didn’t say anything. I just smiled and kept walking.
I didn’t forget the bump. But I also didn’t hold it.
From that day on, whenever something bothered me, I tried to see it as the empty boat. I let things pass, like clouds drifting through the sky or leaves floating down the river.
And little by little, I found more peace inside me.
I didn’t change overnight. But when the waves inside me grew strong, I remembered the empty boat—and I let them pass without fighting back.
