The river was wide and calm that morning, with the mist still low over the water. I was paddling my small boat, heading back to the village after gathering herbs from the northern hills. My arms were tired, and my mind was full. I kept thinking about all the chores waiting for me—fixing the roof, helping Father in the field, and still finding time to study for school. It felt like too much.
That’s when I saw it—a small boat drifting toward me, slow and empty, carried only by the current.
At first, I didn’t mind it. But as it floated closer, straight into my path, I frowned. "Move!" I shouted, even though I could see there was no one inside. My voice echoed across the river. I steered hard to the left to avoid crashing, grumbling as the boats bumped sides.
Then I heard a light chuckle behind me. I turned and saw Old Master Wei standing on the shore. He was a kind, wrinkled man who often told stories that made no sense until much later.
"Why were you yelling at an empty boat?" he asked gently.
I muttered, "It got in my way. I almost crashed."
He smiled. "But it wasn’t trying to hit you."
I didn’t answer, only stared at the drifting boat. It moved peacefully along the current, bumping softly against the reeds. No oars. No shouting. No purpose… and yet, it moved perfectly with the river.
Master Wei sat down on a log and picked up a stone. "Long ago," he began, "a wise man named Zhuangzi told a story, just like this one. If a boat is empty, and it bumps into you, you don’t get angry. But if someone is inside, you blame them—even yell. You see, the empty boat teaches us something."
I tilted my head, thinking. "But it still hit me, Master."
"Yes," he said with a smile, "but it didn’t mean harm. It was simply on its way, moving with the river. Just like life."
We sat quietly for a while. The sun started to shine through the mist. I watched the boat float farther downstream, slow and light, just like a leaf.
That evening, I told my father I’d be a bit late with the roof. He nodded. I sat quietly under the big tree and listened to the wind. I wasn’t rushing anymore.
Day by day, something inside me changed. I stopped yelling when someone was late. I breathed deeper when things didn’t go the way I planned. And when I started to feel the storm rise in me, I thought of the empty boat—the one that taught me to let go and flow.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the river. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow.
Sometimes, doing less brings more peace. Just like an empty boat, floating free.
The river was wide and calm that morning, with the mist still low over the water. I was paddling my small boat, heading back to the village after gathering herbs from the northern hills. My arms were tired, and my mind was full. I kept thinking about all the chores waiting for me—fixing the roof, helping Father in the field, and still finding time to study for school. It felt like too much.
That’s when I saw it—a small boat drifting toward me, slow and empty, carried only by the current.
At first, I didn’t mind it. But as it floated closer, straight into my path, I frowned. "Move!" I shouted, even though I could see there was no one inside. My voice echoed across the river. I steered hard to the left to avoid crashing, grumbling as the boats bumped sides.
Then I heard a light chuckle behind me. I turned and saw Old Master Wei standing on the shore. He was a kind, wrinkled man who often told stories that made no sense until much later.
"Why were you yelling at an empty boat?" he asked gently.
I muttered, "It got in my way. I almost crashed."
He smiled. "But it wasn’t trying to hit you."
I didn’t answer, only stared at the drifting boat. It moved peacefully along the current, bumping softly against the reeds. No oars. No shouting. No purpose… and yet, it moved perfectly with the river.
Master Wei sat down on a log and picked up a stone. "Long ago," he began, "a wise man named Zhuangzi told a story, just like this one. If a boat is empty, and it bumps into you, you don’t get angry. But if someone is inside, you blame them—even yell. You see, the empty boat teaches us something."
I tilted my head, thinking. "But it still hit me, Master."
"Yes," he said with a smile, "but it didn’t mean harm. It was simply on its way, moving with the river. Just like life."
We sat quietly for a while. The sun started to shine through the mist. I watched the boat float farther downstream, slow and light, just like a leaf.
That evening, I told my father I’d be a bit late with the roof. He nodded. I sat quietly under the big tree and listened to the wind. I wasn’t rushing anymore.
Day by day, something inside me changed. I stopped yelling when someone was late. I breathed deeper when things didn’t go the way I planned. And when I started to feel the storm rise in me, I thought of the empty boat—the one that taught me to let go and flow.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to push too hard, I remember the river. I try to let things unfold as they are, trusting that I don’t need to fight the flow.
Sometimes, doing less brings more peace. Just like an empty boat, floating free.
