The river was wide and calm that morning, the sky above it painted with soft clouds, like brushstrokes on a canvas. I had set out in my small wooden boat, searching for peace. My name is Ping, a fisherman’s son, and though I hadn’t caught a single fish all week, what bothered me most was the noise in my heart. I was always chasing things—more fish, more coin, more everything—and still felt empty.
That morning, I rowed without thinking, letting the current carry me. I didn’t shout. I didn’t fight. The oars lay still by my side. “Let the river decide,” I whispered, remembering something an old monk once told me.
As my boat drifted around a bend, I saw something ahead—another boat, floating straight toward me. I waved my hands and shouted, “Steer away!” But the boat didn’t move. I shouted louder, angry now. “Watch where you’re going!”
Then—BUMP. The two boats bumped sides softly.
I stood up, ready to scold the person inside. But when I peered into the boat… it was empty.
There was no one to blame.
I sat back down, confused. My heart had been full of anger, ready to burst—and now, there was no one to give that anger to. The boat was just drifting, carried by the same river I was on. Not his fault. Not my fault. Just the way things moved.
A breeze stirred the water. I looked around. The trees bowed gently in the wind. Birds drifted with the air, never flying too hard. Everything seemed to know its place. No rushing. No shouting.
That’s when I understood. Sometimes, we get angry not because someone truly wronged us—but because we’ve built up storms inside. When I thought the boat had a person, I blamed them. But the boat was empty.
I sat there for a long time, watching the river flow. Something inside me felt lighter. I had fought the waves, tried to push, tried to steer everything in my own way—and I was always tired. But that empty boat taught me something without speaking a single word.
When I returned home that night, I didn’t feel the urge to explain, to shout, or to make others move the way I wanted. I just smiled. Mother asked if I caught any fish, and I said no—but I caught something else.
Since that day, I’ve tried to live like the river—moving naturally, gently, going where life leads without forcing it. Not everything needs to be steered. Some boats are just empty. No reason to get upset.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel anger rise or feel the need to control, I remember that quiet bump and that empty boat. And just like the river, I breathe, I let go, and I keep floating forward.
The river was wide and calm that morning, the sky above it painted with soft clouds, like brushstrokes on a canvas. I had set out in my small wooden boat, searching for peace. My name is Ping, a fisherman’s son, and though I hadn’t caught a single fish all week, what bothered me most was the noise in my heart. I was always chasing things—more fish, more coin, more everything—and still felt empty.
That morning, I rowed without thinking, letting the current carry me. I didn’t shout. I didn’t fight. The oars lay still by my side. “Let the river decide,” I whispered, remembering something an old monk once told me.
As my boat drifted around a bend, I saw something ahead—another boat, floating straight toward me. I waved my hands and shouted, “Steer away!” But the boat didn’t move. I shouted louder, angry now. “Watch where you’re going!”
Then—BUMP. The two boats bumped sides softly.
I stood up, ready to scold the person inside. But when I peered into the boat… it was empty.
There was no one to blame.
I sat back down, confused. My heart had been full of anger, ready to burst—and now, there was no one to give that anger to. The boat was just drifting, carried by the same river I was on. Not his fault. Not my fault. Just the way things moved.
A breeze stirred the water. I looked around. The trees bowed gently in the wind. Birds drifted with the air, never flying too hard. Everything seemed to know its place. No rushing. No shouting.
That’s when I understood. Sometimes, we get angry not because someone truly wronged us—but because we’ve built up storms inside. When I thought the boat had a person, I blamed them. But the boat was empty.
I sat there for a long time, watching the river flow. Something inside me felt lighter. I had fought the waves, tried to push, tried to steer everything in my own way—and I was always tired. But that empty boat taught me something without speaking a single word.
When I returned home that night, I didn’t feel the urge to explain, to shout, or to make others move the way I wanted. I just smiled. Mother asked if I caught any fish, and I said no—but I caught something else.
Since that day, I’ve tried to live like the river—moving naturally, gently, going where life leads without forcing it. Not everything needs to be steered. Some boats are just empty. No reason to get upset.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, when I feel anger rise or feel the need to control, I remember that quiet bump and that empty boat. And just like the river, I breathe, I let go, and I keep floating forward.
