The fog hung low over the river that morning. The water was still, quiet like a deep breath. My small boat rocked softly beneath me as I pulled in my fishing line—empty again. I frowned. “Why is today so hard?” I mumbled, wiping sweat from my brow.
My name is Wei, and I was known in my village for always trying harder than anyone else. If something went wrong, I worked even harder. That morning, though, my hard work didn’t seem to work at all. No fish. Not even a nibble.
As I stared at the rippling water, I heard a soft thunk. A boat gently bumped into mine. Startled, I looked up, ready to shout, “Watch where you’re going!” But there was no one there. The boat was empty. Just drifting.
I watched in silence as it floated beside me, quiet and still. No oars. No crew. Just an old wooden shell moving with the river’s flow. Something about it made me calm down. I didn’t feel mad anymore.
Just then, an old fisherman on the shore laughed gently. “You see something in that boat, young man?”
I nodded. “Why didn’t I get angry when it bumped me?”
“Because it was empty,” he said. “No one to blame.”
I blinked. “I guess so…”
He walked a little closer to the edge of the dock. “When something has no purpose but to float, it gets where it’s meant to go. No rowing. No fighting the current.” He motioned to the boat. “That’s how Tao works.”
I had heard of the Tao before—The Way. Simple, quiet, balanced. It was what the old teachers talked about during the village festivals. But I never understood it. I had always believed life was about swimming harder, climbing faster, trying more. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
“Does trying harder make the fish come?” the fisherman asked.
“No,” I admitted.
“Does the river care how strong you are?” he asked again.
I looked down at the water, then back at the empty boat. I shook my head.
He nodded once. “Then maybe… just maybe… there's a better way.”
We sat quietly as the empty boat floated onward, guided only by the gentle current.
That night, I didn’t go back out with my net. Instead, I sat by the river and watched it flow. The moonlight shimmered on the surface like silver silk, smooth and unbroken. I didn’t feel the need to fight it anymore.
Days passed. I still fished, but not with as much force. I learned to listen to the water, let the boat drift where it wanted to go. And oddly enough, I caught more fish. But I cared less about counting them.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like I have to push, I remember the empty boat. I try to be like that—moving with the river, not against it.
And somehow, life feels lighter.
The fog hung low over the river that morning. The water was still, quiet like a deep breath. My small boat rocked softly beneath me as I pulled in my fishing line—empty again. I frowned. “Why is today so hard?” I mumbled, wiping sweat from my brow.
My name is Wei, and I was known in my village for always trying harder than anyone else. If something went wrong, I worked even harder. That morning, though, my hard work didn’t seem to work at all. No fish. Not even a nibble.
As I stared at the rippling water, I heard a soft thunk. A boat gently bumped into mine. Startled, I looked up, ready to shout, “Watch where you’re going!” But there was no one there. The boat was empty. Just drifting.
I watched in silence as it floated beside me, quiet and still. No oars. No crew. Just an old wooden shell moving with the river’s flow. Something about it made me calm down. I didn’t feel mad anymore.
Just then, an old fisherman on the shore laughed gently. “You see something in that boat, young man?”
I nodded. “Why didn’t I get angry when it bumped me?”
“Because it was empty,” he said. “No one to blame.”
I blinked. “I guess so…”
He walked a little closer to the edge of the dock. “When something has no purpose but to float, it gets where it’s meant to go. No rowing. No fighting the current.” He motioned to the boat. “That’s how Tao works.”
I had heard of the Tao before—The Way. Simple, quiet, balanced. It was what the old teachers talked about during the village festivals. But I never understood it. I had always believed life was about swimming harder, climbing faster, trying more. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
“Does trying harder make the fish come?” the fisherman asked.
“No,” I admitted.
“Does the river care how strong you are?” he asked again.
I looked down at the water, then back at the empty boat. I shook my head.
He nodded once. “Then maybe… just maybe… there's a better way.”
We sat quietly as the empty boat floated onward, guided only by the gentle current.
That night, I didn’t go back out with my net. Instead, I sat by the river and watched it flow. The moonlight shimmered on the surface like silver silk, smooth and unbroken. I didn’t feel the need to fight it anymore.
Days passed. I still fished, but not with as much force. I learned to listen to the water, let the boat drift where it wanted to go. And oddly enough, I caught more fish. But I cared less about counting them.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel like I have to push, I remember the empty boat. I try to be like that—moving with the river, not against it.
And somehow, life feels lighter.
