Two men lived in an ancient forest of pines. The trees ascended high into the sky, their trunks thirty-paces round. So mammoth were they that the sun could only share its warmth at the very height of the day. Each man lived in their own small cabin along a curved creek. One man’s cabin faced East, and one man’s cabin faced West.  

Each man savored the forest’s tranquility and majesty. Each man relied on the peace and stillness of the trees. Both felt a fondness for nature, and both harbored an appreciation for birds. 

Easterner began his day with a cup of tea and a prayerful meditation in the morning. Westerner ended his day with a cup of tea and a prayerful meditation in the evening. Both men had birdhouses made of glass amongst the pine needles nearest their homes. The birdhouses were always stocked each day with a fresh supply of seeds. 

And while the men sipped their tea and calmed their minds, they listened joyfully to the bird song. They appreciated their winged friends’ colorful feathers and witnessed their aerial dances. And they were happy. 

One day, a mangy Squirrel leapt down onto Easterner’s birdhouse. The Squirrel balanced precariously upon the ledge and feverishly spooned seeds into her mouth, fistfuls at a time. Easterner stood up in alarm, interrupting his morning meditation as he yelled and flapped his arms madly. He stamped his feet, he pounded his fists, and his temper rose steadily. Easterner scrambled out of his chair and made his way down the steps of his porch. He picked up a stone and hurled it at the Squirrel. The missile narrowly missed the Squirrel, who leapt from the feeder’s edge and escaped into the trees. The stone smashed into the birdhouse, shattering it into tiny fragments of glass. The seeds spilled upon the underbrush, and no birds returned.

***

In the evening, Westerner sat on his porch and watched a cardinal finish his dinner. As the beautiful bird soared away, the same scavenging Squirrel leapt down onto Westerner’s birdhouse. The Squirrel balanced precariously upon the ledge and feverishly spooned seeds into her mouth, fistfuls at a time. Westerner grew frustrated as he watched the Squirrel’s meal. But he finished his meditation, stood, and calmly approached the newcomer.

“Good evening,” said Westerner, “why are you eating this bird seed? It was not put here for you.”

“Oh no,” sputtered the Squirrel nervously, for she had not noticed the man. “Before you throw your stones at me, may I tell you my story?” Westerner took a deep breath, nodded, and opened his heart to listen well.

“I am but a rodent. I was born in the mud upon the forest floor, beneath the bird’s mighty nests. I have no song to sing, no colorful feathers to showcase, no beautiful flight to perform. I did not ask to be born; I did not ask to be a squirrel, but squirrel I am. Now I have kittens of my own. They did not ask to be born; they did not ask to be squirrels, but they are hungry and have not eaten in days. I have roamed this forest day and night in search of food.” 

The Squirrel trembled as she told her story, awaiting the man’s judgment.

Westerner remained silent, contemplating the Squirrel’s words. He too had not asked to be born. He too had felt the ache of an empty stomach. He too had children of his own. Having listened well, Westerner opened his mouth to speak.

“When I set up this birdhouse, I filled it with seeds so the birds of this forest would come share their songs and their colorful feathers and their beautiful flights with me, for I have enough food and giving away seeds is nothing to me. But you have taught me something, Squirrel: I gave because I wanted to gain, I shared because I wanted to secure, I offered because I wanted to obtain.”

Then Westerner paused and thought. He thought of his life and all that he had been given. He thought of his family who had always made sure he had enough to eat. He thought of his mentors who had taught him how to read and write. He thought of his friends who had helped him build his cabin. He thought and he remembered and he felt gratitude. 

“Thank you for telling me your story, Squirrel. Though you have no song to sing, no colorful feathers to showcase, no beautiful flight to perform, you may still come and take what you need from this place.”

With that, Westerner bowed his head and walked back to his cabin.

The next morning, no birds came to breakfast in Easterner’s yard since his birdhouse lay shattered upon the ground. Easterner burnt his tongue on his tea and did not pray or meditate, so frustrated was he. He stewed in the quagmire of his resentment and malcontent.  

“That selfish greedy Squirrel ruined everything,” he thought to himself as he seethed with anger. 

However, that evening, a beautiful robin came to dinner in Westerner’s yard, since his birdhouse hung majestically amongst the pine needles as it gleaned in the golden light of the setting sun. When he had taken his fill, the tiny bird took flight and offered his song as a sign of thanks. And Westerner smiled. 

Then the Squirrel approached and made her way to the feeder’s ledge. She dined peacefully, slowly, only taking enough to feed herself and her kin. She looked over at Westerner. The two forest dwellers gazed at each other for a moment. The Squirrel bowed her head in thanksgiving, and Westerner sipped his tea as he meditated, happy that there were birds and squirrels to behold.