After one year, the prince was to return to the temple to describe the sound of the forest.
When Prince
T’ai returned, Pan Ku asked the boy to describe all that he could hear. “Master,”
replied the prince, “I could hear the cuckoos sing, the leaves rustle, the
hummingbirds hum, the crickets chirp, the grass blow, the bees buzz, and the
wind whisper and holler.”
When the
prince had finished, the master told him to go back to the forest to listen to
what more he could hear. The prince was puzzled by the master’s request. Had he
not discerned every sound already?
For days
and nights on end, the young prince sat alone in the forest listening. But he
heard no sounds other than those he had already heard. Then one morning, as the
prince sat silently beneath the trees, he started to discern faint sounds
unlike those he had ever heard before.
The more
acutely he listened, the clearer the sounds became. The feeling of
enlightenment enveloped the boy. “These must be the sounds the master wished me
to discern,” he reflected.
When Prince
T’ai returned to the temple, the master asked him what more he had heard.
“Master,” responded the prince reverently, “when I listened most closely, I
could hear the unheard—the sound of flowers opening, the sound of the sun
warming the earth, and the sound of the grass drinking the morning dew.”
The master
nodded approvingly.
“To hear
the unheard,” remarked Pan Ku, “is a necessary discipline to be a good ruler.
For only when a ruler has learned to listen closely to the people’s hearts,
hearing their feelings uncommunicated, pains unexpressed, and complaints not
spoken of, can he hope to inspire confidence in his people, understand when
something is wrong, and meet the true needs of his citizens.
"The demise of
states comes when leaders listen only to superficial words and do not penetrate
deeply into the souls of the people to hear their true opinions, feelings, and
desires.”
© W. Chan KimRenée A.
Mauborgne
