Past Life Story

You were born a crane, by a pond deep in a mountain valley. Long-legged, white-feathered, slender-necked. The first scenery you saw was the surface of the pond. Beyond it lay the sky. Within you, since your birth, lived two homes—the pond and the sky. By thirty days you tried your first flight. The crane lives in two worlds. The pond, where one rests, and the sky, where one flies. Both were your home. From that day onward, you crossed back and forth between them. In your first year, your mother taught you the secret of the crane. The crane is a creature of long life. The crane lives a thousand years. While other birds live but ten or twenty years, the crane lives a thousand. Within that long time, the crane must be careful. The crane must always be clean. In your second year, you danced for the first time. The dance of the crane was the most beautiful in the world. Spreading the long legs, opening the wings wide, bending the slender neck. Each movement was a beat of the universe. By one's dance one knew the crane's depth. The crane that danced well lived long. In your fifth year, you found your mate. A crane who had crossed from a neighboring marsh. The two of you danced together. To dance with another in the sky—that was the deepest moment in your life. You shared two breaths but moved as one. That was the way of cranes. In your tenth year, you raised young together. The cranes' children were two. You raised them with the same care your mother had given you. The way of the dance, the way to fly, the way to live cleanly. After the children grew, they too went to find their own marshes. In your hundredth year, your mate departed. The crane lives a thousand years, but does not always live a thousand. Your mate had encountered a sudden illness. You saw your mate's last moments. You did not weep. You only danced one last time before your mate. That dance was a farewell to your mate. In your three hundredth year, you traveled the world alone. From mountain marsh to lake, from lake to coast, from coast back to mountain. You moved without ceasing. The crane is restless. You always moved. With every place you visited, you grew deeper. In your five hundredth year, you understood the truth of the crane. The crane's long life was not about living long. The crane's long life was about going deep. The deeper one went, the more one became one with the universe. That was the truth the crane sought. In your seven hundredth year, your name was known among other cranes. Younger cranes came to you. They asked. "Old crane, what does it mean to live long?" You answered. "To live long is not to live many years. To live long is to live deeply." The young cranes spent a lifetime understanding those words. In your nine hundred ninety-ninth year, you danced your last dance. You danced alone beneath the moon. The world stilled. Only the moon was your companion. After the dance ended, you ascended to the sky. You flew higher and higher. And you were gone. The crane lives a thousand years, ever cleanly—that was your whole life. You did not just live long. You lived deeply. And cleanly. Your soul, even now somewhere in the sky, must still be flying. Without ceasing, with the moon always on your side. If sometime you see a white shadow in the sky—that, perhaps, may be the spirit of an ancient crane.