The other day I was told to “shut up and stop mentally masturbating. Just surrender.”
I have been sitting on what that means.
I often preach the phrase “take small bites of the elephant” as an important business tool. I know the phrase, but I don’t always understand the phrase nor do I practice it fully.
The notion of these two thoughts together inspired me to write a short fable in the style of one of my favorite children’s books, Japanese Children’s Favorite Stories by Florence Sakade.
ELEPHANT FABLE
Long ago, in a quiet village nestled between the mountains and the sea, there lived a young woman named Hana. She was small like a sparrow, but carried the quiet strength of an ancient tree. Her hair, black as the night river, cascaded down to her knees, swaying like willow branches in the wind.
One evening, she sat by the fire with the wise elder, Auntie Kame, whose face was a map of years and wisdom. Hana was troubled, tangled in thoughts of all she wished to do, all she wished to become.
“Auntie, how does one complete an impossible task?” she asked.
Auntie Kame smiled and placed a warm hand over Hana’s restless fingers. “You eat an elephant, one small bite at a time.”
Hana nodded. She had heard this before. And yet, as always, her mind swirled with questions, darting about like startled fish.
“What if I try this way?” “How could I do it better?” “Maybe I should change my plan.” “What about this new idea?”
She chewed on her thoughts ravenously, filling herself with questions as though they were food, yet never feeling full.
Seeing this, Auntie Kame suddenly clapped her hands together, the sharp sound slicing through Hana’s clouded mind.
“Child, stop your mental feasting! Tell me, are you even hungry?”
Hana blinked, startled. She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. Was she hungry? She had been so lost in thoughts, she had not asked herself.
“Close your eyes,” Auntie Kame said gently. “Do not ask your head. Ask your body.”
Hana obeyed. She breathed in the night air, felt the warmth of the fire on her cheeks, the weight of the day in her limbs. Her shoulders were tight. Her hands were cold. Her legs, curled beneath her, aching slightly. And yet… her stomach did not cry out for food.
She was not hungry.
She opened her eyes, understanding dawning like the moonrise.
“All this time, I have been eating because I thought I must,” Hana whispered. “But I never stopped to ask if I was truly hungry.”
Auntie Kame chuckled, her eyes crinkling like autumn leaves. “The mind is clever but restless. It will always ask and answer a hundred questions. But the body—it only tells the truth. If you do not listen, you will fill yourself with empty thoughts, running until you collapse, not knowing why.”
Hana let the words settle like tea leaves in warm water. She exhaled, slow and deep.
“In this moment… am I hungry?” she asked herself again.
The wind whispered through the trees. The fire crackled. Her body answered.
“A little,” she admitted. “But I will eat slowly.”
Auntie Kame smiled and handed her a small bowl of rice. “Then eat. But let it be enough.”
And so Hana ate—not in a rush, but in peace. The world would wait. The tasks would wait. And for the first time, she knew she would not be swallowed by them.
That night, as she lay beneath the quiet stars, Hana made a promise to herself.
Before anything else, she would always ask: Am I truly hungry?
