A young lion was taken into captivity and thrown into a concentration camp where, to his amazement, he found other lions who had been there all their lives, for they had been born in captivity. No one could even remember a lion who had never been born there. The newcomer soon became acquainted with the social activities of the camp lions. They had banded themselves into groups. Some of these groups often argued and fought over the best way to escape the camp, who should lead them, and the best methods for organizing themselves and coordinating their efforts. 

Other groups were of a more cultural bent, attempting to carefully preserve the traditions and history of the times when lions roamed free in the jungle and on the savannah. Some told ‘stories’ or myths about times long past. One story which had gained a lot of currency was about a legendary lion who would return some day to liberate them all. These groups created conflicting narratives and these narratives soon turned into religions with different sects forming and soon conflict arose among these sects. 

One of the strongest sects told tales from a distant time when a certain lion named Aslan had sacrificed his own life and promised to come back and liberate all lions—with one caveat, you had to believe and worship him and follow stringent guidelines in order to be liberated. Others said that this story was not true. 

A few groups were more proactive and could be called revolutionary. They met to plot against their captors or other revolutionary groups. Every now and then a revolution would break out, one particular group would be wiped out, or the guards would all be killed only to be replaced by a different set of guards.

The newcomer kept to himself, never speaking but seemed deep in thought: a loner who belonged to no group. There was something strange about him that commanded everyone’s begrudging respect but also a. degree of hostility, for his presence aroused fear and self-doubt. One day a brazen young lion approached him and asked the enigmatic lion why he always kept to himself. 

He said to the brazen young lion: ‘I am not joining any group. These poor fools are busy with everything except what is essential!’

‘And what do you think is most essential?’, asked the young lion.

‘Studying the nature of the fence!’, he replied.

The end.

A short story about mindful awareness

“Why, when God’s earth is so wide, have you 

Fallen asleep in a prison?”

— Rumi

We build fences for ourselves. So much of our time is wasted because we live with regret and sorrow from our past, and anxiety and fear for the future. So what would be the antidote to our afflictions? We study the nature of the fences which are holding us prisoner. We need to learn how to rest in the here and now by following our own breath while sitting, walking, or even lying down when we find it difficult to sleep.

We have to set aside some time in our busy lives to rest in silence. We can always come back to our breath when we find our minds and our bodies lost in the past or future. We have a habit of running, usually from ourselves. Thich Nhat Hanh calls this ‘habit energy’. We find it hard to rest because no one has taught us the healing power of mindfulness practice, of living in the present moment.

The air was beginning to tighten—only the white cloud of exhalation broke the dryness of the crisp winter air. The rising condensation was moonlit and heavy as it left Jiro’s mouth. His breath was dense and not the only thing slowly dissipating upwards, as Jiro himself was inching up a seldom-used mountain path. His inner tension and gripping alertness also began to rise as he fixated on his destination—a lone dim light just barely visible atop a ridge overhead. 

Due to its faintness, Jiro suspected the light belonged to a traveler, perhaps a lone trader or hunter. He hoped that the owner of the light was alone, as his intention was to sneak quietly into their camp and rid them of any valuable possessions. 

Jiro was warmed by the push to ascend against the resistance of the partially overgrown trail. All the while, his thoughts were with his wife and two small children, sleeping in the village below, cold and hungry.

After a while, the trees began to thin and the trail bled out into a grassy plain, punctuated here and there by large boulders. He crept quieter with slow and deliberate steps, which contrasted his racing heart. He found cover behind a boulder and peaked around the corner to survey the camp, which was now within a distance from which he could make out the finer details. His hopes were upheld. Judging by the small fire, reduced to a few faltering flames and orange embers, the camp appeared to belong to no more than two people. The dwelling was nothing but a single giant boulder whose base curved sharply inward like a crescent moon to form a sort of roof. There was no doubt that this was the shelter. It was empty. Perhaps the traveler had decided to make use of the abundant moonlight to travel by night, Jiro reasoned.

Eased by the vacancy of the camp and still driven by desperation, Jiro walked freely to the shelter to search for anything that may have been left behind. He had to crouch under the crescent-shaped rock to enter. To his relief, there was a gray linen bag sitting atop a flat stone, which appeared to be the ideal place to rest one’s possessions. His heart rate began to rise again along with the urgency of his movements as he quickly untied the string that fastened the simple bag. 

The first item he pulled out was a wooden bowl. It was so well used that the grain had become smooth like sea glass and the natural reddish color of the wood only lingered on the outer edges. After tossing the bowl aside, Jiro pulled out its accompanying spoon. Unlike the bowl, which was one commonly found in any general store, the spoon was roughly fashioned from a piece of bamboo. Its handle was long and thin and felt fragile. At the bottom of the bag was something solid and heavy. This was Jiro’s last hope for something valuable enough he could trade for rice and coal. Jiro tossed the bag aside swiftly to reveal a book. 

“Can I help you?” someone said in a sincere and deliberate tone. 

The voice was calm and had a hint of fragility. Jiro’s heart nearly shattered with fright. Frozen and trapped, seeing only the silhouette of a man blocking the exit, Jiro quickly realized that he had been caught. 

“Well, I’ll be right out here tending to the fire and enjoying this lovely full moon. Have you seen how big it is tonight?”

Jiro could see the man’s silhouette shuffling down a little way to finally hunch over the orange and black embers of his former fire. The man started to alternate between blowing on the hot coals and adding small twigs from the neat pile he had stacked nearby, all while humming a gentle tune. 

The man’s relaxed demeanor and apparent lack of concern about Jiro’s presence allowed his brain to slowly thaw from the grip of fear. On the way up the mountain, he had imagined what it would be like to be caught. He had imagined a violent confrontation, but what was unfolding before him was nothing like that. 

He cautiously dipped his head low enough to exit the stone shelter. By now, the man was humming contentedly as he fanned the now growing flames of his fire. The wood must have been moist from the daily frost, as Jiro could hear the moisture hissing and popping underneath the flames. The light from the fire revealed more of the man’s appearance. He was elderly and wore a long white beard—so long that it appeared to touch the ground as he was kneeling while tending to the fire. 

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, sir,” Jiro said as he bowed his head. “I was simply searching for…”

“Something of value you could trade for rice and coal, I suppose,” said the old man matter-of-factly, without a hint of accusation. 

“I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you. I really must leave you in peace,” replied Jiro, maintaining his bow. 

“I’m the one who should apologize,” exclaimed the old man. “I truly wish I had something of value you could have stolen. I know how unforgiving this season can be.” 

Jiro could now make out the man’s face quite clearly. He looked directly into Jiro’s eyes and it was clear that the man was speaking from true empathy. Growing unbearably uncomfortable by the situation, Jiro bowed once more, repeated his apology, and turned to walk away. 

He took just a few steps when he heard the old man call out. 

“Wait! The real treasure in our presence tonight is the glowing wonder of the moon—the same moon that connects us all. Those who came before us looked upon this same moon. Those who will come after us will look upon it again. Tonight, its light connects you and me. But, since I cannot give you the moon, I offer you these.”

Jiro turned around towards the now flourishing flames. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to this new illumination. By the time the man had finished speaking, Jiro’s eyes came into focus and he could see the man clearly, now standing upright, naked. 

The old man held both arms out offering his clothing in a neatly piled stack.

The end.

A short story about empathy

Empathy is easy when the subjects of our empathy are like us. If they look like us, come from the same place, speak the same language, it’s more natural to empathize with them. But we must make an effort to empathize with those who are different. This story shows that empathy is possible in all circumstances. It shows that we can be empathetic and compassionate even to those who attempt to harm us. It is not a weakness to be kind to friends and foe alike, but a strength.