One of the great Zen masters, Lin Chi, used to tell a story from his youth:

“When I was young, I was fascinated by boating. I had a small boat, and whenever I could, I would take it out alone upon the lake. I loved the stillness of the water, the open sky, and the silence that seemed to deepen the farther I drifted from the shore. Sometimes I would remain there for hours, doing nothing, simply allowing the boat to float while I sat quietly within it.

“One beautiful night, the lake was especially calm. The moon rested upon the water, and everything around me seemed asleep. I closed my eyes and entered meditation.

“After some time, another boat came drifting downstream and struck mine.

“My eyes were still closed, and immediately I thought, ‘Someone has carelessly allowed his boat to crash into mine!’

“At once, anger arose within me. Before I had even seen the person, my mind had already created him: a careless man, perhaps an arrogant man, someone who had disturbed my meditation and spoiled the peace of the night.

“I opened my eyes, ready to confront him.

“But there was no one there.

“The boat was empty.

“It had simply broken loose somewhere upstream and drifted silently with the current until it happened to collide with mine.

“In that instant, something became clear.

“My anger was real—but the person I was angry with did not exist.

“There was no one to blame, no one to accuse, no one upon whom I could throw the fire that had arisen inside me. The empty boat had no intention of disturbing me. It had not chosen me. It had not insulted me. It was simply carried by the current.

“So I closed my eyes again.

“The anger was still there, but now there was nowhere for it to go. I could not send it toward another person. I could only remain with it, silently, and watch it within myself.

“And as I watched, it began to dissolve.

“That night, the empty boat became my teacher.

“I understood that much of what disturbs us does not come from what happens, but from the meaning we give to what happens. We imagine intentions, assign blame, create an enemy—and then suffer from the enemy we ourselves have created.

“From that day onward, whenever someone insulted me, opposed me, behaved rudely, or disturbed my peace, I remembered the boat on the lake.

“I would say to myself, ‘Another empty boat.’

“Perhaps this person is being carried by currents I cannot see—by fear, pain, habit, confusion, anger, or wounds from long ago. Perhaps what has struck me was never truly about me.

“And even when another person intends to hurt me, I need not allow their anger to become mine.

“So I smile, close my eyes, and return within.

“The boat may strike me, but I do not have to carry it with me.”

The wisdom of the empty boat is simple: between what happens to us and how we respond, there is a quiet space. If we can enter that space before anger becomes accusation, we may discover that much of our suffering comes from the stories we attach to events.

The next time someone irritates you, criticizes you, ignores you, or behaves unfairly, remember Lin Chi’s empty boat. Before reacting, look inward. Notice the anger before giving it a target. Ask yourself how much belongs to the event itself and how much has been created by interpretation.

You do not have to deny what happened, excuse harmful behavior, or abandon your boundaries. You simply refuse to let another person’s actions determine the state of your inner world.

Sometimes the boat is simply a boat. Let it pass downstream. Return to the stillness within.

Courtesy of Osho