Past Life Story

You were born a serpent, in a small crevice deep within Mt. Jiri. From your earliest days, you had a different body from other creatures. Without legs, with no fur, only a long body. The way of moving was different. You did not run. You flowed. By six months you came to know the most important thing for a serpent. The shedding of skin. The serpent sheds its skin throughout its life. Each time it sheds, it grows. Each time it sheds, it changes. That was the way of the serpent. To live without changing was, for the serpent, to die. In your first year, you shed your skin for the first time. Your old skin came off, and beneath it shone fresh skin. You knew. This was not merely a physical change. Each time you shed your skin, your soul too became newer. The serpent is an immortal being. While the body sheds and sheds, the soul deepens and deepens. In your second year, you saw the spirit of the mountain for the first time. The serpent has eyes that see what others cannot. Spirits walked the mountain. Old spirits, new spirits, sad spirits, glad spirits. You watched them all in silence. The serpent does not speak. The serpent only sees. In your third year, you came to know the wisdom of the serpent. Wisdom is not knowing many things. Wisdom is knowing one thing deeply. You knew one thing deeply. The flow of life. Life is constantly flowing. Even when stopped, it flows. Even when standing, it flows. To know that flow was the wisdom of the serpent. In your fifth year, you became a guardian of the mountain. People came up the mountain. Some came in good faith, some came in bad faith. You watched them. To those who came in good faith, you gave them passage. From those who came in bad faith, you hid the wisdom of the mountain. The serpent was a silent guardian. In your seventh year, you encountered a sage. He had come up the mountain alone. He saw you. Other people would have run, but he did not. He gazed at you long and bowed once. "Old serpent, share with me your wisdom." You did not speak. But you let him glimpse one moment. The shedding of your skin. The sage saw it and at last spoke. "Ah, life is endless shedding." In your tenth year, you sensed your end approaching. The serpent senses its own death. You had no fear. The serpent does not die. The serpent only sheds and sheds. Your last shedding was different. You shed your body and went up to the world of spirits. In a spring day, you flowed into a deep crevice. There you shed your final skin. You saw your old shed skin once. It had been your body. Yet now you were beyond the body. You had become spirit. You do not have a tomb. You have only your shed skin. But that shed skin tells. That you lived your whole life shedding and shedding. That you were not a being but flow. Each time the serpent sheds its skin, the soul grows new—that was your life. You did not stay still. You always changed. You always shed. That was your wisdom. Your spirit, even now somewhere upon a mountain, must be flowing. Without form, without sound, only flow. If you sometime feel a strange wisdom whispering to you—that, perhaps, may be the silent message of an old serpent.