Learning from the Rabbit in the Moon
by Dana Gerhardt
 

I didn’t see the rabbit in the moon until recently.  As a child, it was always the man-in-the-moon I saw, a thoughtful, reassuring face, although how he got there and what he did up there were mysteries.  People throughout history, especially in the East, have seen a hare in the moon’s craters and seas.  Unlike my man-in-the-moon, this rabbit comes with a story. 

The moon’s rabbit used to live on earth.  He enjoyed his time with three good friends, a monkey, an otter, and a jackal.  All were wise, and of course, all had to eat.  The otter found fish, the jackal hunted meat, the monkey gathered mangoes.  The rabbit nibbled a meal of grass.  One day it occurred to the hare if any of his friends were really, really hungry, offering up his grass would be pretty sorry hospitality.  He got an idea.  He would sacrifice his own body if anyone asked him for food.

Whenever such a completely selfless thought occurs on earth, the thrones of heaven glow white-hot.  One of the gods looked down; zeroing in on the rabbit, he decided to visit and test him.  He took the form of a priest and went first to the otter, begging for food.  The otter offered fish.  The jackal and monkey, in turn, gave him meat and fruit.  When he requested alms of the rabbit, the rabbit was overjoyed. 

“Today you’ll get the most delicious alms!” he declared.  “Gather some wood and prepare a fire.  Tell me when it’s ready.”  The god made a heap of live coals and told the rabbit all was ready.  The rabbit sprang into the flames, happy as a flamingo in a bed of water lilies.  But the fire didn’t burn.  It was cold as the air above clouds.  “Huh?”  The god revealed himself and explained to the puzzled rabbit, “I was just testing your virtue.” 

“Not necessary,” the rabbit replied.  “You would have seen me do the same for any hungry creature.  I would have given myself up for anyone.” 

“So wise for a little rabbit,” said the god, “I’ll proclaim your virtue planet-wide.”  He took a mountain in his hand and squeezed it, and with the juicy mountain ink, drew a picture of the hare on the moon. 

The association of hares with willing sacrifice is long-standing; most cultures that perceive the lunar rabbit have some version of this story.  But it might be difficult for us, who don’t live among rabbits or in whose impressionable childhood eyes and ears this myth didn’t take root, to think very much of the tale.  More influential perhaps were all those anti-codependency books and workshops from the eighties.  These taught that self-sacrifice was a sign of low self-esteem.  Clearly this rabbit had a troubled childhood. 

Such is the dilemma ancient myths present to us.  We want so much of what the past has to offer.  We sense their stories have a wisdom and a way of seeing that can heal us.  But we must first make them our own.  How do we take that leap?  It was hard enough just to let go of seeing my man-in-the-moon and replacing him with a hare.  But in an experimental frame of mind, I decided this was as good a place to begin as any. 

Under a nearly full moon, I sat.  There was that familiar moon-man face.  My skin tightened.  My body felt solid:  “But I love that face, the one that’s been looking back at me ever since I was a girl… my dear old friend.”  Could I sacrifice this part of me?  I remembered the rabbit and how he asked the priest to prepare a fire.  I imagined a fire building in my body, burning my resistance and attachment.   Then I saw it:  the rabbit on the moon.  A few stars around the moon twinkled.  The sky deepened.  Giving away my man-in-the-moon didn’t kill me after all. 

I recalled what one of my Buddhist teachers once said, “Giving up and opening oneself is not particularly painful, when you begin to do it.  But the idea of giving up and opening is very painful.”  My experiment in letting go felt very much like the rabbit jumping into cool fire; it didn’t hurt once the deed was done.  Over the next few days I continued the experiment, making a sacrifice of many of the little daily things I felt compelled to hold onto.  When I really let go of them, as willingly as the hare let go of his life, I felt joyous.  If I only half let go, the flames burned.  If I couldn’t even start to let go, I really suffered.

The rabbit brings a simple, powerful lesson.  But it’s not an easy one to sustain.  I understand now why the god was impressed enough to grab a mountain and draw that rabbit on the moon.  Thousands of years later, I’m grateful it’s still there to remind me.  Sometimes a sacrifice can be the shortest route to joy.  A fine moon teaching, ours for the asking, when we perceive the rabbit in the moon.