The river was quiet that morning, covered in a soft mist. I sat on the shore, feeling heavy with worry. I was a young fisherman, only seventeen, and lately, everything felt like too much.
My name is Wei, and I lived in a small village in ancient China. Each day, I rose before the sun to fish. I used to love the peace of the water, but lately, I got angry easily—when my net tore, when the fish escaped, when another boat drifted too close. My teacher, Elder Yun, often told me, “Wei, don’t fight the river. Flow with it.”
But I didn’t understand what he meant. I thought working harder, pushing more, was the way to fix everything.
That morning, something happened.
I was guiding my boat across the water, trying to reach the deeper side before anyone else. The fog was thick. Then—boom! A loud crash echoed as my boat hit something.
I stumbled backward, soaked and startled. “Who’s there?!” I shouted into the fog. My heart pounded with anger. “You shouldn’t be in the middle of the river like that!”
The mist thinned, and I saw the truth—it was an empty boat.
No one was steering it.
Just an old wooden boat, drifting along with the current.
I froze.
How silly I had been to yell! I had been angry at something that had no intention, no mind. It wasn’t trying to hurt me. It was just… floating.
Later that day, I told Elder Yun what happened. He smiled his gentle smile. “Ah, the story of the empty boat,” he said. “Master Zhuangzi once told it.”
“Zhuangzi?” I asked.
“He was a wise Taoist from long ago,” Elder Yun said. “He taught that when we are bumped by another boat, and we believe someone is doing it on purpose, we get upset. But if the boat is empty, we stay calm. Life is like that, Wei. Not all troubles are meant to hurt us. Sometimes, they just drift our way.”
I sat in silence, thinking.
That night, I looked up at the stars and remembered my anger. It felt smaller now, like a tiny boat on a big river. I realized I had been fighting everything—my work, my worries, even the water. But the Tao, the Way, wasn't about fighting. It was about floating, like the empty boat.
From then on, I began to slow down. When my net tore, I fixed it in silence. When the fish slipped away, I let them go. When another boat came near, I smiled instead of shouting. Day by day, I felt lighter—like I was part of the river, not fighting against it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever anger starts to rise, I remember the boat with no one inside. I let it pass without shouting. I let myself drift a little.
And in doing less, I found so much more.
Peace.
Balance.
The Way.
The river was quiet that morning, covered in a soft mist. I sat on the shore, feeling heavy with worry. I was a young fisherman, only seventeen, and lately, everything felt like too much.
My name is Wei, and I lived in a small village in ancient China. Each day, I rose before the sun to fish. I used to love the peace of the water, but lately, I got angry easily—when my net tore, when the fish escaped, when another boat drifted too close. My teacher, Elder Yun, often told me, “Wei, don’t fight the river. Flow with it.”
But I didn’t understand what he meant. I thought working harder, pushing more, was the way to fix everything.
That morning, something happened.
I was guiding my boat across the water, trying to reach the deeper side before anyone else. The fog was thick. Then—boom! A loud crash echoed as my boat hit something.
I stumbled backward, soaked and startled. “Who’s there?!” I shouted into the fog. My heart pounded with anger. “You shouldn’t be in the middle of the river like that!”
The mist thinned, and I saw the truth—it was an empty boat.
No one was steering it.
Just an old wooden boat, drifting along with the current.
I froze.
How silly I had been to yell! I had been angry at something that had no intention, no mind. It wasn’t trying to hurt me. It was just… floating.
Later that day, I told Elder Yun what happened. He smiled his gentle smile. “Ah, the story of the empty boat,” he said. “Master Zhuangzi once told it.”
“Zhuangzi?” I asked.
“He was a wise Taoist from long ago,” Elder Yun said. “He taught that when we are bumped by another boat, and we believe someone is doing it on purpose, we get upset. But if the boat is empty, we stay calm. Life is like that, Wei. Not all troubles are meant to hurt us. Sometimes, they just drift our way.”
I sat in silence, thinking.
That night, I looked up at the stars and remembered my anger. It felt smaller now, like a tiny boat on a big river. I realized I had been fighting everything—my work, my worries, even the water. But the Tao, the Way, wasn't about fighting. It was about floating, like the empty boat.
From then on, I began to slow down. When my net tore, I fixed it in silence. When the fish slipped away, I let them go. When another boat came near, I smiled instead of shouting. Day by day, I felt lighter—like I was part of the river, not fighting against it.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever anger starts to rise, I remember the boat with no one inside. I let it pass without shouting. I let myself drift a little.
And in doing less, I found so much more.
Peace.
Balance.
The Way.
