Hey there, friend. Come, sit with me for a while. I’ve got a little story to share, one that’s been sitting with me lately, like a quiet companion on a long evening walk. It’s about a crow—a simple, ordinary crow—who lived in a sprawling forest, and how he came to see his life in a way he never expected. I think you’ll find something in it, maybe something that feels familiar, like looking into a mirror you didn’t know was there.
Picture this: deep in a forest, where the trees stretch tall and the air hums with the rustle of leaves, there was a crow. Not a particularly special crow, just… a crow. Black feathers, sharp beak, the kind you’d see hopping around, cawing at nothing in particular. But this crow, he wasn’t happy. Not at all. He felt like his life was a mess, a burden he couldn’t shake. He’d perch on branches, look around, and think, “Why me? Why this life? Nobody likes me. Everywhere I go, people shoo me away. I open my mouth to sing, and they just yell at me to leave. Nobody offers me food, nobody cares. I’d rather not be here at all.” And so, one day, he sat on a high branch of an old tree, and he just… cried. Loud, raw sobs that shook his little body. Tears fell from his eyes, dripping down through the leaves.
Now, under that very tree, a Buddhist monk was sitting cross-legged, deep in meditation. Silent, still, like the forest itself. One of the crow’s tears fell right onto the monk’s cheek. He opened his eyes, looked up, and saw this poor crow, trembling with sadness. With a gentle voice, the monk called out, “Hey, friend, what’s wrong? Why are you crying so hard?”
The crow, between hiccups, poured out his heart. “I’m done with this life, wise one. I’m miserable. Nobody loves me. They hate me, chase me away. I’m tired of being me. Death would be better than this.”
The monk listened, his face soft with compassion. He nodded slowly, as if he could feel the weight of the crow’s pain. Then he said, “My friend, wherever we are, whatever we have, we must learn to find peace in it. Happiness isn’t somewhere else—it’s in accepting what is.” But the crow… well, he didn’t quite get it. Those words felt like a distant echo, not something he could hold onto. He kept crying, his heart still heavy.
Seeing this, the monk smiled faintly and said, “Alright, don’t be so sad. Tell me, if you could be anything, what would you want to be? I have some power in my chants. I can transform you into whatever you wish.”
The crow’s eyes lit up, even through the tears. “Really? Oh, wise one, if you can do that, make me a swan. A beautiful, white swan. Everyone loves swans. I’d be happy then.”
The monk tilted his head, thoughtful. “I can do that. But first, go find a swan. Ask if they’re truly happy with their life. Come back and tell me what you learn. I’ll wait here.”
So, off the crow went, flapping through the forest with a flicker of hope in his chest. He found a swan gliding across a still pond, its feathers gleaming like fresh snow under the sun. The crow landed nearby and couldn’t help but gawk. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “That white glow, the way everyone admires you… you must be the happiest bird in the world.”
The swan turned, its eyes dull with a quiet sadness. “No, my friend. I’m not happy. Look at the world—full of colors, vibrant and alive. And me? I’m just… white. Plain. I think the parrot, with all its colors, must be the happiest bird.”
The crow blinked, a little stunned, but he didn’t argue. He flew off to find a parrot. Soon enough, he spotted one, perched on a branch, its feathers a riot of red, green, and yellow. “Oh, parrot,” the crow said, “you’re a living rainbow. So stunning. Surely, you’re the luckiest bird alive.”
The parrot let out a bitter chuckle. “No, I’m not happy. People love my colors, sure, but they trap me in cages because of them. I live in fear of being caught, locked away. I think the peacock, with its grand, colorful tail, must be the happiest.”
So, the crow kept going, chasing this idea of happiness. He found a peacock, but not in the wild—no, this peacock was in a zoo, locked in a cage. Hundreds of people stood around, staring, taking pictures. When the crowd finally thinned, the crow slipped close and said, “Friend, you’re breathtaking. People come from everywhere just to see you. You must be the happiest bird in the world. Not like me—people can’t stand the sight of me.”
The peacock’s eyes darkened. It sighed, a sound heavy with pain. “I used to think I was the happiest, the most beautiful. But this beauty? It’s why I’m trapped here. They pluck my feathers for decorations, and it hurts. I’m not free. I’m not happy.”
The crow froze, his heart thumping. “If you’re not happy, then… who is? Who’s the happiest bird in the world?”
The peacock looked at him, a faint glimmer in its gaze. “I’ve watched every bird in this zoo, and I’ve realized something. You, crow—you’re the happiest. No one traps you in cages. No one hunts you down. You’re free to fly wherever you want. I’ve been wishing I could be a crow, just to know that freedom.”
Those words hit the crow like a gust of wind. He stood there, silent, as something shifted inside him. He flew back to the monk, the forest blurring past him, and when he landed, he looked different. Lighter, somehow. “Wise one,” he said, his voice steady for the first time, “I don’t want to be anything else. I’m a crow. And I’m… I’m okay with that. I’m happy to be me.”
I’ve been thinking about this story a lot lately. You know, sometimes I catch myself scrolling through social media, seeing someone’s perfect vacation photos or their shiny new car, and I feel this little pang. Like, “Why don’t I have that? They must be so much happier.” But then I remember this crow, chasing happiness in someone else’s feathers, only to realize it was with him all along. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we keep looking outward, comparing, when maybe… maybe what we’ve got is enough. Not perfect, but enough.
So, friend, wherever you are right now, whatever you’re carrying, just take a breath with me. Look at your hands, your space, the little things around you. They’re yours. And maybe, just for today, that’s okay. I’m not saying it’s easy to stop comparing—I struggle with it too. But maybe we can try, together, to see what’s right here. To be a little kinder to ourselves.
Thanks for sitting with me through this story. If it stirred something in you, or if you’ve got your own tale of chasing happiness, I’d love to hear it. Until next time, take care of yourself. I’ll be here, just a story away.