The river was quiet that morning. Mist danced on the water, and the sun peeked through the trees. I had come early to escape the noise of the village, hoping that the silence could untangle the storm inside me. My name is Wei, and back then, I thought I had to control everything—my work, my family, even my path through life. Little did I know, that morning would change something deep in me.
I borrowed a small rowboat from my uncle and paddled gently to the middle of the river. There, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply. But still, my mind raced—plans, tasks, regrets, worries. I felt like a fish struggling against the current.
Then, it happened.
Another boat drifted toward me from the fog. I squinted, expecting someone to call out. But as it came closer, I saw there was no one inside. Just wood, water, and silence. The boat bumped into mine with a soft thud, making me jump.
Anger rose in my chest. “Watch where you’re—” I stopped mid-sentence.
There was no one to blame.
No captain. No sailor. Just an empty boat floating along with the river’s gentle pull.
And somehow… in that moment, I felt something inside me begin to shift.
I sat still, staring at the empty boat. I noticed how smoothly it moved, how freely it floated, as if it trusted the river to take it somewhere—it never fought, never steered, never worried.
My teacher, old Master Lin, once told me that the great Tao is like water: it flows where it’s needed and never resists. I never really understood what he meant. But now, I began to see it, right there in front of me.
For the first time in a long time, I let go.
I leaned back in my little boat and stopped paddling. I let the river carry me just like it carried the empty one. The wind was cool. The birds sang. And inside me, the storm began to calm.
When I returned to the village later that day, my footsteps were lighter. I no longer felt the need to fix everything. I listened more. I hurried less. I smiled at things I used to miss—the sound of my mother stirring rice, the splash of a fish jumping in the stream, the way leaves danced in the wind.
Days passed. Whenever I felt hurried or angry, I remembered the empty boat—how it moved without effort or fear, how it let go and trusted the river.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel I must push too hard, I pause. I close my eyes. I let the world flow.
That empty boat taught me the lesson of simplicity. Of Wu Wei, the wisdom of non-doing. Just like a butterfly that never forces its wings open but still dances beautifully, I am learning to live lightly, to move with the Tao.
And in that, I’ve found peace.
The river was quiet that morning. Mist danced on the water, and the sun peeked through the trees. I had come early to escape the noise of the village, hoping that the silence could untangle the storm inside me. My name is Wei, and back then, I thought I had to control everything—my work, my family, even my path through life. Little did I know, that morning would change something deep in me.
I borrowed a small rowboat from my uncle and paddled gently to the middle of the river. There, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply. But still, my mind raced—plans, tasks, regrets, worries. I felt like a fish struggling against the current.
Then, it happened.
Another boat drifted toward me from the fog. I squinted, expecting someone to call out. But as it came closer, I saw there was no one inside. Just wood, water, and silence. The boat bumped into mine with a soft thud, making me jump.
Anger rose in my chest. “Watch where you’re—” I stopped mid-sentence.
There was no one to blame.
No captain. No sailor. Just an empty boat floating along with the river’s gentle pull.
And somehow… in that moment, I felt something inside me begin to shift.
I sat still, staring at the empty boat. I noticed how smoothly it moved, how freely it floated, as if it trusted the river to take it somewhere—it never fought, never steered, never worried.
My teacher, old Master Lin, once told me that the great Tao is like water: it flows where it’s needed and never resists. I never really understood what he meant. But now, I began to see it, right there in front of me.
For the first time in a long time, I let go.
I leaned back in my little boat and stopped paddling. I let the river carry me just like it carried the empty one. The wind was cool. The birds sang. And inside me, the storm began to calm.
When I returned to the village later that day, my footsteps were lighter. I no longer felt the need to fix everything. I listened more. I hurried less. I smiled at things I used to miss—the sound of my mother stirring rice, the splash of a fish jumping in the stream, the way leaves danced in the wind.
Days passed. Whenever I felt hurried or angry, I remembered the empty boat—how it moved without effort or fear, how it let go and trusted the river.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel I must push too hard, I pause. I close my eyes. I let the world flow.
That empty boat taught me the lesson of simplicity. Of Wu Wei, the wisdom of non-doing. Just like a butterfly that never forces its wings open but still dances beautifully, I am learning to live lightly, to move with the Tao.
And in that, I’ve found peace.
