Past Life Story

You were born a hawk, in a nest upon the cliffs of Mt. Geumgang. The first scenery you saw was the sky. From the moment of your birth, the sky was your home. The earth was something you only descended to when needed. By thirty days you had grown your first feathers. Your mother taught you. The way of the wind, the way to spread your wings, the way to read the sky. By sixty days you tried your first flight. You fell from the cliff. Yet at the last moment you spread your wings and rose again. That was the moment you became a creature of the sky. Your eyes were sharp. From far above the sky you could see prey upon the ground. The movement of a small mouse, the scampering of a rabbit, the swimming of a fish. Once your eyes had caught it, you did not let it escape. That was the way of the hawk. In your second year, you left your mother's nest. As all hawks do, alone. From that day you flew alone. The sky was wide, but you were not lonely. The sky itself was your home. In your third year, you reached the top of the food chain. Foxes feared you. Even wolves did not strike you. From above, you ruled all. Your shadow upon the earth made other creatures lower their heads. That was the dignity of the hawk. In your fifth year, you found your mate. A hawk who had crossed from a neighboring mountain. The two of you flew together. To fly together with another in the sky—that was an unforgettable joy. You were of the same speed, the same height. You shared two breaths, but moved as one. In your seventh year, you raised young together. You taught the chicks to fly, even as your mother had once taught you. When the chicks finally took to the sky alone, you and your mate watched them quietly. That was the most beautiful moment a parent could see. In your eighth year, your mate departed. She was caught in the snare of a hunter. You watched her last moments from afar. You could not save her. You could only watch. That day you grew lonely for the first time. In your tenth year, your eyes began to dim. To a hawk, dimming eyes was the same as a death sentence. You could no longer hunt. You could no longer recognize prey. Yet you did not stop flying. You flew. You flew, even unable to find prey. In an autumn of your twelfth year, you climbed for the last time to the highest peak of Mt. Geumgang. From there you spread your wings once more and flew. You flew through the sky one last time. And you closed your eyes there. With the wind beneath your wings, you departed. A hunter found you the next day. Your wings were spread wide as if still in flight. The hunter buried you upon the mountain peak. The hawk does not let go of what it has once seen—that was the whole of your life. You loved deeply what you saw, and held what you held to the end. Even at the moment of your death, you were a hawk in flight. Your soul, even now somewhere in the sky, must still be flying. Your eyes, sharp as ever, are watching the earth from far above. If you ever feel the gaze of someone watching you from somewhere in the sky—that, perhaps, may be a hawk that was once your companion.