The river was quiet that morning. Mist rose from the water like soft steam from a bowl of rice. I sat on the grass, watching the ripples drift by. My teacher, Master Wen, stood beside me. He was an old man with a long white beard and eyes that saw deeper than most.
We were waiting for a boat to appear. Not to ride it — just to watch. I was only twelve, but I had many questions. Why do things happen the way they do? Why do people fight? What does it mean to follow the Tao?
“Master,” I whispered, “do you ever feel angry at someone?”
He looked at me quietly, then smiled. “Let us watch the river,” he said, and pointed.
A small boat was floating down toward us. It moved without a sound, slowly, as if it had no place to be. But something strange happened. Another man was rowing his boat up the river — strong, fast, and focused. He saw the small boat drifting toward him, right in his path.
“Out of the way!” he shouted, paddling hard. “Move! You useless fool!”
But the little boat didn’t answer. Not a word, not a shout. It just kept floating.
The man grew angrier. He yelled louder and splashed more water with his oars. But the boat didn’t change. Gritting his teeth, he finally swerved and barely missed crashing into it. The moment he passed, he stopped rowing and stared at the boat.
There was no one inside.
It was an empty boat.
He blinked. The anger in his face faded. His shoulders dropped. He looked around, embarrassed, like he couldn’t believe he had fought with a boat that had no captain.
Master Wen chuckled. “That boat taught him a lesson.”
I didn’t understand.
Master Wen sat beside me. “When he thought a person was steering, he let his anger grow. But once he knew it was empty, the anger left. He realized there was nothing to fight.”
“But...” I frowned, thinking hard. “He still almost got hit.”
“Yes,” Master Wen nodded. “But he didn’t waste his strength shouting at something that could not hear. He learned that sometimes, the problem isn’t the thing. It’s how we see the thing.”
I looked at the empty boat. It kept floating, bumping gently into the bank before drifting away again.
“That is the way of Tao,” Master Wen said softly. “Moving without force. Doing without doing. When someone is like the empty boat, they do no harm. They don't carry pride or anger. They are at peace.”
I sat with him for a long time. And though I still had questions, I felt calm inside — like the river, like the boat.
That day, I learned about Wu Wei, which means “effortless action.” It showed me that when we stop fighting everything and let life flow, peace finds us. I’m still learning how to be like the empty boat — light, calm, and free. But now, whenever trouble comes my way, I ask myself, “Can I float through this like the empty boat?”
And many times, the answer is yes.
The river was quiet that morning. Mist rose from the water like soft steam from a bowl of rice. I sat on the grass, watching the ripples drift by. My teacher, Master Wen, stood beside me. He was an old man with a long white beard and eyes that saw deeper than most.
We were waiting for a boat to appear. Not to ride it — just to watch. I was only twelve, but I had many questions. Why do things happen the way they do? Why do people fight? What does it mean to follow the Tao?
“Master,” I whispered, “do you ever feel angry at someone?”
He looked at me quietly, then smiled. “Let us watch the river,” he said, and pointed.
A small boat was floating down toward us. It moved without a sound, slowly, as if it had no place to be. But something strange happened. Another man was rowing his boat up the river — strong, fast, and focused. He saw the small boat drifting toward him, right in his path.
“Out of the way!” he shouted, paddling hard. “Move! You useless fool!”
But the little boat didn’t answer. Not a word, not a shout. It just kept floating.
The man grew angrier. He yelled louder and splashed more water with his oars. But the boat didn’t change. Gritting his teeth, he finally swerved and barely missed crashing into it. The moment he passed, he stopped rowing and stared at the boat.
There was no one inside.
It was an empty boat.
He blinked. The anger in his face faded. His shoulders dropped. He looked around, embarrassed, like he couldn’t believe he had fought with a boat that had no captain.
Master Wen chuckled. “That boat taught him a lesson.”
I didn’t understand.
Master Wen sat beside me. “When he thought a person was steering, he let his anger grow. But once he knew it was empty, the anger left. He realized there was nothing to fight.”
“But...” I frowned, thinking hard. “He still almost got hit.”
“Yes,” Master Wen nodded. “But he didn’t waste his strength shouting at something that could not hear. He learned that sometimes, the problem isn’t the thing. It’s how we see the thing.”
I looked at the empty boat. It kept floating, bumping gently into the bank before drifting away again.
“That is the way of Tao,” Master Wen said softly. “Moving without force. Doing without doing. When someone is like the empty boat, they do no harm. They don't carry pride or anger. They are at peace.”
I sat with him for a long time. And though I still had questions, I felt calm inside — like the river, like the boat.
That day, I learned about Wu Wei, which means “effortless action.” It showed me that when we stop fighting everything and let life flow, peace finds us. I’m still learning how to be like the empty boat — light, calm, and free. But now, whenever trouble comes my way, I ask myself, “Can I float through this like the empty boat?”
And many times, the answer is yes.
