Past Life Story

You were born a leopard, in a small cave upon the slopes of Mt. Hwangbyeong in Gangwon Province. From your earliest days you were elegant. Your spotted fur was beautiful, and your movements were quiet. While the tiger ruled the mountain with strength, you ruled with grace and silence. In your earliest days you learned to climb trees from your mother. The leopard climbs trees. While the tiger rules the ground, the leopard rules also the trees. From a tree you watched the world. To grasp prey from above—that was the way of the leopard. In your second year, you became a hunter. Your way of hunting was different from the tiger's. The tiger uses strength. The leopard uses stealth. You drew silently close to your prey, and at the last moment leapt. By the time the prey noticed, it was already too late. None could escape your speed. In your third year, you met your first crisis. A tiger crossed into your territory. The tiger was much larger than you, much stronger. You did not fight. You ascended a tree. The tiger could not climb. From above, you watched the tiger leave. That day you understood. The leopard does not win by strength but by wisdom. In your fourth year, you became the master of your territory. Other leopards yielded the way to you. Even tigers came not into your area. Yet you did not flaunt this. You only moved silently as before, and only hunted when needed. The master of the leopard's territory ought to be silent. In your fifth year, you had a brief love. A leopard who had crossed from a neighboring mountain. You met for two seasons. You loved her, but love did not stay. The leopard finally lives alone. That was the leopard's way. After your mate left, you again returned to solitude. In your sixth year, your two cubs were born. You raised them alone. Your mate did not raise them with you. That was the leopard's way. You taught the cubs how to climb trees, how to hunt prey, how to live silently. After the cubs grew up, they too left your side. They each went to find their own territory. In your eighth year, you encountered something unfamiliar. A man. A hunter came upon the mountain. You watched the hunter quietly. The hunter could not see you. From up in the tree, you read the hunter's gaze. The hunter sought a tiger. He did not seek you. You were silent. You stayed silent until the hunter left. That was your wisdom. In your tenth year, you were old. The fur upon your body was no longer as elegant as before. Your eyes had dimmed. You moved more quietly than ever. As if you might disappear. As though, in any moment, you might no longer exist. In an autumn of your twelfth year, you walked into a deep cave alone. There you closed your eyes. Other beasts did not see you go. As you had moved silently all your life, you departed silently in your end as well. That was the way of the leopard. Quietly, swiftly, without a trace—that was your whole life. You did not leave a great mark, but you left every moment. Every step, every gaze, every breath. Yours was a life of quality, not quantity. Your soul, even now somewhere in a forest, must be moving silently. If a quiet shadow brushes past your side at some moment—that, perhaps, may be the spirit of an old leopard.