Past Life Story

You were born an ox, in a small barn at the edge of a village in Chungcheong Province. From the day of your birth, you knew the village. The barn was your home, the field was your workplace, the people were your companions. The ox is together with people. From birth to death, together with people. By six months you walked beside your mother. Your mother taught you. The way to walk in the field, the way to plough the soil, the way to relate to people. The ox does not run. The ox walks. The ox walks slowly, but never stops. That is the way of the ox. In your first year, you ploughed the field for the first time. The plough was heavy. Yet you did not stop. Step by step you walked. The earth opened beneath you. From that opened earth, the seeds of the village would grow. You knew. You were not merely an animal. You were the foundation of the village's life. In your second year, you became the partner of the village's most diligent farmer. He valued you. He cared for you well. Each morning he washed you, each evening he gave you good fodder. While other oxen of the village were beaten, you were not. The farmer treated you as a friend. In your third year, you ploughed every field of the village. Each spring you ploughed. From dawn until evening. Your back was bent, your legs were tired. Yet you did not falter. The crops the village ate came forth from your ploughing. That work made you proud. In your fifth year, the village had a great drought. The crops did not grow. The villagers despaired. But you did not stop ploughing. You ploughed even hard ground. From that ground at last new water sprang. The villagers saw and exclaimed. "The ox saved the village." That was your work. In your seventh year, you knew the wisdom of the ox. The ox is silent. The ox does not boast. The ox only does its work. From dawn until evening, year after year. To do quietly that needful work was the wisdom of the ox. In your eighth year, you raised young. The young you bore was one. The villagers watched your young grow. The young also grew to be a hard-working ox. The teaching of the ox continued from generation to generation. In your tenth year, you grew old. Your back was more bent than before. Yet you continued to plough the field. The farmer told you to rest, but you did not. To work was the joy of the ox. To die working was the dignity of the ox. In your twelfth year, you ploughed the field for the last time. That day was a spring day. The earth gave forth a fresh fragrance. You walked slowly. Yet you walked to the end. After ploughing the field's full length, you closed your eyes. There upon the field. The farmer wept long. The whole village wept. The villagers buried you at the edge of the field. They placed a small stone there. "Here lies an ox who saved the village." The ox quietly cultivates the field—that was your life. You did not show off. You did not boast. You only did your work. Yet that quiet work fed a village. That work cared for a generation. Your soul, even now somewhere over a field, may still be quietly walking. With the rhythm of the earth, with the cycle of the seasons. If sometime in your life a quiet, steady strength approaches you—that, perhaps, may be the spirit of an old ox.