The morning air was still and cool as I stepped onto the river dock. I was just a young fisherman then, always rushing, always worrying. If I wasn’t catching fish, I was fixing my nets or complaining about the wind. My grandfather said I moved like a storm—but I thought storms got things done. That day, though, everything changed.
I was paddling my boat toward the quiet part of the river, where the water flowed slower and the fish sometimes danced beneath the golden surface. It was peaceful, until suddenly—bam! My boat bumped hard into something.
I stood up, heart pounding, expecting to yell at some careless sailor.
But there was no one.
It was an empty boat.
Just a small, wooden boat drifting slowly with the current. No one steering it, no one calling out. It floated along, quiet and soft.
I felt silly. All that anger, all that shouting—at a boat with no person.
I sat back down, confused. My hands rested on the oar, but I didn’t move. I just stared at the boat.
Then, like a whisper in the breeze, I remembered something my grandfather once told me while we watched the river together.
“Sometimes,” he said, “when someone bumps into you, they don’t mean to. Maybe their boat is empty. But if you get angry every time, the only one who sinks is you.”
At the time, I didn’t understand. But now, with my heart racing from a silly accident, I began to get it.
The boat didn’t want to hit me. It just drifted where the river carried it. And I, full of stormy thoughts, had turned a soft moment into a fight that wasn’t even there.
I watched the empty boat float away.
I let go of my oars.
The river carried me too.
For many moments, I just drifted. The wind sang gently through the trees, and the water sparkled under the sun. Birds swooped low above the reeds. Everything felt perfectly still, like the world was sighing—calm and easy.
And then something even stranger happened.
I felt good.
I didn’t feel rushed. I didn’t feel angry. I wasn’t planning or fixing or chasing anything. For the first time in a long time, I was just... floating. And it was enough.
Back at the village, I told my grandfather about the empty boat.
He smiled and said, “That boat teaches better than I ever could.”
Now, when life bumps into me—when someone is rude or plans don’t go my way—I pause and ask myself: “Is their boat empty?”
Maybe they didn’t mean to hurt me. Maybe they’re just drifting too.
That day, I didn’t catch any fish.
But I found something better.
I found peace in letting go.
I still fish, still mend my nets. But now, I try to live like the river—strong, gentle, and flowing with the Tao.
I don’t try to steer everything. I don’t fight every wave.
And when I forget, I return to the lesson of the empty boat.
Because sometimes, letting go is the best way to hold on.
The morning air was still and cool as I stepped onto the river dock. I was just a young fisherman then, always rushing, always worrying. If I wasn’t catching fish, I was fixing my nets or complaining about the wind. My grandfather said I moved like a storm—but I thought storms got things done. That day, though, everything changed.
I was paddling my boat toward the quiet part of the river, where the water flowed slower and the fish sometimes danced beneath the golden surface. It was peaceful, until suddenly—bam! My boat bumped hard into something.
I stood up, heart pounding, expecting to yell at some careless sailor.
But there was no one.
It was an empty boat.
Just a small, wooden boat drifting slowly with the current. No one steering it, no one calling out. It floated along, quiet and soft.
I felt silly. All that anger, all that shouting—at a boat with no person.
I sat back down, confused. My hands rested on the oar, but I didn’t move. I just stared at the boat.
Then, like a whisper in the breeze, I remembered something my grandfather once told me while we watched the river together.
“Sometimes,” he said, “when someone bumps into you, they don’t mean to. Maybe their boat is empty. But if you get angry every time, the only one who sinks is you.”
At the time, I didn’t understand. But now, with my heart racing from a silly accident, I began to get it.
The boat didn’t want to hit me. It just drifted where the river carried it. And I, full of stormy thoughts, had turned a soft moment into a fight that wasn’t even there.
I watched the empty boat float away.
I let go of my oars.
The river carried me too.
For many moments, I just drifted. The wind sang gently through the trees, and the water sparkled under the sun. Birds swooped low above the reeds. Everything felt perfectly still, like the world was sighing—calm and easy.
And then something even stranger happened.
I felt good.
I didn’t feel rushed. I didn’t feel angry. I wasn’t planning or fixing or chasing anything. For the first time in a long time, I was just... floating. And it was enough.
Back at the village, I told my grandfather about the empty boat.
He smiled and said, “That boat teaches better than I ever could.”
Now, when life bumps into me—when someone is rude or plans don’t go my way—I pause and ask myself: “Is their boat empty?”
Maybe they didn’t mean to hurt me. Maybe they’re just drifting too.
That day, I didn’t catch any fish.
But I found something better.
I found peace in letting go.
I still fish, still mend my nets. But now, I try to live like the river—strong, gentle, and flowing with the Tao.
I don’t try to steer everything. I don’t fight every wave.
And when I forget, I return to the lesson of the empty boat.
Because sometimes, letting go is the best way to hold on.
