You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there on the night the girl from the moon returned to the stars. I was just a lowly apprentice to the bamboo cutter, an old man named Taketori no Okina, which means “Old Man who Harvests Bamboo.” He had no family left, and though he rarely smiled, he showed me kindness enough to make me stay.
We lived at the edge of the forest, where the bamboo grew tall and whispered in the wind. Each morning, we rose before the sun, carrying our knives into the cool green shade to slice the stalks. That’s when everything changed—on the morning he found her.
Inside a glowing stalk of golden bamboo, he discovered a tiny girl no bigger than a plum blossom. She was radiant with warmth, her eyes soft and wise. He brought her home and named her Kaguya-hime, which means “Radiant Night Princess.” She grew quickly, and in just a few moons, she had become a young woman of such beauty that even the birds seemed to hush when she walked past.
But this is not just a tale of beauty. What I remember most is her stillness.
The Emperor himself—rich and noble—came to court her. Princes crossed mountains just to be near her. Yet she refused each of them, her gaze calm, her voice gentle. She would sit for hours in the garden, watching the moon rise. I asked her once, “Lady Kaguya, why do you never speak of the future?”
She looked at me, a hint of sadness in her smile. “Because the future is not for holding. Like the clouds, it passes whether we chase it or not.”
Only later did I learn the truth—Kaguya-hime was no ordinary girl. She came from Tsuki no Miyako, the City on the Moon, and was sent to earth for a time of trial. A karmic lesson, she once whispered when she thought I was not listening. To live a short life of sorrow and attachment, to awaken to detachment and peace.
One evening, after many months, I found her weeping beneath the plum tree. “The time has come,” she said. “Soon, they will return for me. I cannot stay, for my heart is bound to the Dharma. I was sent here to learn what it is to suffer—and to let go.”
The night her people returned, they descended in a shimmering cloud. Old Okina, who had loved her like his own daughter, wept bitterly. We begged her to stay. But she turned to him and bowed deeply. “Do not grieve, Father. What begins must end. What is loved must be released.”
As she rose into the sky, she left behind a letter and a small jar of elixir. “But he will not drink it,” I was told. “He will walk his path according to karma, bearing the lesson I leave behind.”
Years have passed, and now I am an old man. The world has changed, but her memory has not. As I walk this earth, I carry the truth she gave us: inner peace is not found through holding on, but in stillness, letting go, and listening.
I watched the moon last night. It was full and bright.
And I remembered her—Kaguya-hime, the princess who taught us that liberation often begins with silence.
You won’t find my name in any scroll, but I was there on the night the girl from the moon returned to the stars. I was just a lowly apprentice to the bamboo cutter, an old man named Taketori no Okina, which means “Old Man who Harvests Bamboo.” He had no family left, and though he rarely smiled, he showed me kindness enough to make me stay.
We lived at the edge of the forest, where the bamboo grew tall and whispered in the wind. Each morning, we rose before the sun, carrying our knives into the cool green shade to slice the stalks. That’s when everything changed—on the morning he found her.
Inside a glowing stalk of golden bamboo, he discovered a tiny girl no bigger than a plum blossom. She was radiant with warmth, her eyes soft and wise. He brought her home and named her Kaguya-hime, which means “Radiant Night Princess.” She grew quickly, and in just a few moons, she had become a young woman of such beauty that even the birds seemed to hush when she walked past.
But this is not just a tale of beauty. What I remember most is her stillness.
The Emperor himself—rich and noble—came to court her. Princes crossed mountains just to be near her. Yet she refused each of them, her gaze calm, her voice gentle. She would sit for hours in the garden, watching the moon rise. I asked her once, “Lady Kaguya, why do you never speak of the future?”
She looked at me, a hint of sadness in her smile. “Because the future is not for holding. Like the clouds, it passes whether we chase it or not.”
Only later did I learn the truth—Kaguya-hime was no ordinary girl. She came from Tsuki no Miyako, the City on the Moon, and was sent to earth for a time of trial. A karmic lesson, she once whispered when she thought I was not listening. To live a short life of sorrow and attachment, to awaken to detachment and peace.
One evening, after many months, I found her weeping beneath the plum tree. “The time has come,” she said. “Soon, they will return for me. I cannot stay, for my heart is bound to the Dharma. I was sent here to learn what it is to suffer—and to let go.”
The night her people returned, they descended in a shimmering cloud. Old Okina, who had loved her like his own daughter, wept bitterly. We begged her to stay. But she turned to him and bowed deeply. “Do not grieve, Father. What begins must end. What is loved must be released.”
As she rose into the sky, she left behind a letter and a small jar of elixir. “But he will not drink it,” I was told. “He will walk his path according to karma, bearing the lesson I leave behind.”
Years have passed, and now I am an old man. The world has changed, but her memory has not. As I walk this earth, I carry the truth she gave us: inner peace is not found through holding on, but in stillness, letting go, and listening.
I watched the moon last night. It was full and bright.
And I remembered her—Kaguya-hime, the princess who taught us that liberation often begins with silence.
