Past Life Story

You were born a fox, in a small den deep in the forest. From your earliest days you were small but clever. While other animal cubs played carelessly, you watched. You watched everything. The way the wind moved, the way the leaves fell, the way other animals walked. By six months you had learned the way of the fox. Sneaking quietly, leaving no trace, observing your prey patiently. The fox does not run. The fox waits. While waiting, the fox studies. That was the way of the fox. In your first year, you faced your first crisis. A hunter set a snare. While other cubs in the village fell into snares, you escaped. You had read the smell of the snare, and detoured. From that day all the foxes of the forest looked to you. You became the most clever of them. In your second year, you encountered something even cleverer than yourself. A man. A hunter set a trap to catch you. The trap was clever. Yet you saw through the man's plan and made the trap useless. The hunter laughed. "I have met a fox cleverer than I." From that day the hunter respected you. He did not try to catch you again. In your third year, you met your mate. A fox who had crossed from another forest. The two of you spent two seasons together. The pups born to you were three. They were as clever as you. Yet you saw the way of the world. You understood that all foxes must in the end live alone. After raising the pups, your mate left. In your fourth year, you watched the change of seasons in the forest. Spring brought new life, summer brought riches, autumn brought harvest, winter brought trial. You learned all of these by heart. You learned not only how to live, but how to live well. The fox's wisdom was not merely cleverness. It was wisdom that knew how to live. In your fifth year, you discovered something deeper. The fox had something more important than survival. Even leaving no footprints behind, the fox left something. Wisdom. That wisdom was passed to other foxes. To the foxes of the forest, you became the eldest one. Other foxes came to you to listen. In your seventh year, you faced your greatest crisis. A great fire broke out. The forest burned. Many animals died. You taught them to evacuate. You showed the path to other foxes, to deer, even to bears. You were not merely clever. You used your cleverness for others. That was the highest wisdom. In your tenth year, you were old. The forest was at peace. The young foxes had grown well. You had nothing more to do. You went into your old den and lay down. There you spent your last days. On a winter night, you closed your eyes. There was no one to see you go. The fox dies alone. That was the way of the fox. Yet your wisdom did not die with you. It was passed to your children, to your children's children, and to the foxes of the forest. You left no footprints, but you left wisdom—that was your life. Your soul, even now somewhere, must be moving silently. So silent that even the wind cannot tell, observing the world. If a strange wisdom flashes across your mind sometime—it may be the whisper of a fox that once knew you.