The stars were just beginning to blink in the sky, and the rice fields stretched quiet and still beneath the silver light. I sat by the river’s edge, my hands cupped around a warm bowl of tea, watching the gentle ripples break the moon’s reflection. My name is Zhi, and back then, I was always trying to build things—stronger fences, tighter schedules, longer to-do lists. I believed if I worked hard enough, I could protect myself from mistakes, loneliness, and even sadness.
Then came the year I met the Empty Boat.
It happened during a summer festival in our village. Musicians played songs that made the little children dance, and the elders told stories of strange old sages who rode clouds and drank rainwater.
That evening, I was sent across the river by raft to bring back sweet rice cakes for the celebration. As I returned, rowing slowly through the quiet water, I spotted a small boat drifting toward me. At first, I thought someone must have lost control—it was on a direct path for a collision with my raft. I stood up and shouted, "Hey! Can’t you see me? Watch where you're going!"
But the boat didn’t answer. It bumped gently into my side. When I looked inside, I saw it was completely empty.
No troublemaker. No careless rower. Just an empty boat floating with the current.
I sat down. My anger started to fade, and instead, I felt something odd… like the world had just whispered to me.
Later that night, I found myself beside Old Master Shen, a wise man with a beard that tickled his chest and laughter that sounded like wind in the trees.
“I got bumped by an empty boat,” I told him. “I got so upset, but… well, there was really no one to be angry at.”
He nodded, smiling. “Very good,” he said softly. “You have met the teaching of Liezi.”
“Liezi?” I asked, puzzled.
“Yes,” he said. “Many years ago, Liezi was a great Taoist who taught about living in the flow of life. He said, when a boat is empty and bumps into yours, you do not get angry. But if there is someone inside, your temper rises—even if their bump is small. Why? Because your mind makes it personal.”
I stared at the fire crackling in front of us. My thoughts felt as tangled as the sticks beneath the pot.
“But how do I stop getting angry?” I asked. “How do I let go?”
Master Shen handed me a cup of tea. “You practice doing nothing,” he said simply. “Not lazy, not careless. Just… no forcing. Like the empty boat. Like the water. Just follow the current.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay under the stars, thinking of all the times I tried too hard to fix everything, to do more, to build walls to protect myself… when maybe what I really needed was to float.
Since then, I’ve learned to leave space—space for mistakes, space for quiet, space for others to be who they are. I still get angry sometimes. But when I do, I whisper to myself, “It’s just an empty boat.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to control everything, I remember that quiet moment on the river. And I try to live like the empty boat—soft, simple, and free on the water.
The stars were just beginning to blink in the sky, and the rice fields stretched quiet and still beneath the silver light. I sat by the river’s edge, my hands cupped around a warm bowl of tea, watching the gentle ripples break the moon’s reflection. My name is Zhi, and back then, I was always trying to build things—stronger fences, tighter schedules, longer to-do lists. I believed if I worked hard enough, I could protect myself from mistakes, loneliness, and even sadness.
Then came the year I met the Empty Boat.
It happened during a summer festival in our village. Musicians played songs that made the little children dance, and the elders told stories of strange old sages who rode clouds and drank rainwater.
That evening, I was sent across the river by raft to bring back sweet rice cakes for the celebration. As I returned, rowing slowly through the quiet water, I spotted a small boat drifting toward me. At first, I thought someone must have lost control—it was on a direct path for a collision with my raft. I stood up and shouted, "Hey! Can’t you see me? Watch where you're going!"
But the boat didn’t answer. It bumped gently into my side. When I looked inside, I saw it was completely empty.
No troublemaker. No careless rower. Just an empty boat floating with the current.
I sat down. My anger started to fade, and instead, I felt something odd… like the world had just whispered to me.
Later that night, I found myself beside Old Master Shen, a wise man with a beard that tickled his chest and laughter that sounded like wind in the trees.
“I got bumped by an empty boat,” I told him. “I got so upset, but… well, there was really no one to be angry at.”
He nodded, smiling. “Very good,” he said softly. “You have met the teaching of Liezi.”
“Liezi?” I asked, puzzled.
“Yes,” he said. “Many years ago, Liezi was a great Taoist who taught about living in the flow of life. He said, when a boat is empty and bumps into yours, you do not get angry. But if there is someone inside, your temper rises—even if their bump is small. Why? Because your mind makes it personal.”
I stared at the fire crackling in front of us. My thoughts felt as tangled as the sticks beneath the pot.
“But how do I stop getting angry?” I asked. “How do I let go?”
Master Shen handed me a cup of tea. “You practice doing nothing,” he said simply. “Not lazy, not careless. Just… no forcing. Like the empty boat. Like the water. Just follow the current.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay under the stars, thinking of all the times I tried too hard to fix everything, to do more, to build walls to protect myself… when maybe what I really needed was to float.
Since then, I’ve learned to leave space—space for mistakes, space for quiet, space for others to be who they are. I still get angry sometimes. But when I do, I whisper to myself, “It’s just an empty boat.”
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I feel the urge to control everything, I remember that quiet moment on the river. And I try to live like the empty boat—soft, simple, and free on the water.
