I Moved Your Cheese (2 page)

And so the mice no longer questioned why
the cheese moved. Everyone agreed that such questions had no answers. They did not try to devise plans to try to stop the cheese from moving. Only a fool would think that fate could be controlled. Above all, they never again asked the unreasonable question, “Who moved my cheese?”

Life was simpler now. It all came down to a very simple equation:

You want cheese
+
The cheese is no longer here
=
Go elsewhere to find the cheese
.

After all, for a mouse in a maze, cheese is really all that matters.

But then …

Well … then there was Max.

And Max was altogether different.

When Max was younger, he once asked his parents why there was a maze. His parents didn't understand the question. When he persisted, they told him that some questions have no answers and that the maze simply
is
. When he asked why the maze was designed the way it was, and why it had so many useless paths, they told him not to waste time wondering why. They told him to focus, instead, on learning how to navigate the maze. You don't get to the cheese by wondering why, they said; you get to it by running around the maze as fast as you can. The maze, they explained, was a
given
. You work with what you're given. It is pretty arrogant for a young mouse to think that he could do otherwise, they cautioned.

Max was not blessed with the virtue of blind obedience. Instead, he continued to annoy his parents, his friends, his teachers, and anyone else who made the mistake of discussing such matters with him. The more he questioned, the more he discovered how little the other mice understood. They
knew
a whole lot, but they
understood
very little.

One day Max came across the good book. It infuriated him. He could not figure out how such a book could be so widely read and so blindly accepted. Upon reading the book, all the other mice had resolved to accept change without question because change, it taught, was inevitable and uncontrollable.

But Max was different. And upon reading the book, Max resolved quite the opposite.

Max was determined to discover who had moved the cheese. He was determined to discover why they had moved it. He was determined to discover why the maze was the way it was. And he was determined to change what he did not like about the maze. And so he set about it.

And a long time passed.

Zed was a mouse who did not care much for cheese. He ate cheese because it helped sustain his body. And he cared to sustain his body mostly because it was needed to sustain his mind.

Zed had a reputation for being wise, although few mice had ever spoken with him in great depth. He was a popular mouse, but he usually only spoke on important matters when someone else initiated the conversation. Zed loved company, but he seemed to appreciate moments of solitude just as much.

Zed had a magnetic personality. He had a certain look in his eyes—and a half smile—that mesmerized his audiences. And an audience
is what they were—the mice who visited him were there to be in his company, to hear him speak, to be rejuvenated. No one could quite explain why he had such an effect on them.

What they knew, and what every other mouse came to know, was that Zed was a mouse like no other. He did not care for cheese, he did not care to learn how to navigate the maze, and he did not feel compelled to follow the routines and customs of the other mice. Yet, somehow, it was clear that Zed loved his life—the life of a mouse—more than any other mouse they had ever known.

As a result, those who knew Zed—or had heard of him—simultaneously revered and feared him. They revered him because his mere presence—his manner of being—inspired them to be great. They feared him because he
was living proof that someone who seemed to challenge their every belief about what was important could still be happy—and in fact, could be happier than any other mouse in the maze.

One day, on seeing Zed sitting quietly in one corner of the maze, a small group of mice gathered. As Zed lifted his eyes, he noticed that they were eager to speak with him. Zed had grown accustomed to such unplanned, informal discussions. He was accustomed to the way they began, the way they progressed, and the way they tended to end. He did not expect any surprises.

That, perhaps, is why they are called surprises.

One of the younger mice in the group spoke first.

“Zed,” began the young mouse, “my friends and I were discussing the good book. We were talking about how we might learn to accept change—how we might get past idle speculation about ‘why' change happens. You know, it is said that change is inevitable and cannot be controlled … Well, certainly you've read the good book. Anyway, my friend here mentioned that you do not care much for the book. That you do not really believe what it says. Which is—well, I must say that I think you're wrong. I mean … Of course, I want to hear why you would think so. Everyone says that you are a
great thinker and that you are very wise. But … I know that you're wrong. How can you possibly reject the great insight of our age—of all ages! I was hoping—well, we were hoping to hear what you had to say about it. It's not true, is it? Do you disagree that change is inevitable?”

Zed smiled. “I do not disagree. The good book is quite right. Change is inevitable.”

The young mouse was visibly relieved. He felt he should thank Zed. He was about to express his gratitude when Zed spoke again.

“I do not disagree,” Zed repeated. “But I think it is unimportant. It is irrelevant.”

The young mouse was stunned. He wished Zed had outright disagreed with him. Difficult as it is to hear that your thinking is flawed, it is much worse to hear that your thinking is pointless.

“How can you say that!” exclaimed the young mouse.

“Well,” replied Zed, “let me start by asking you a question. You tell me that change is inevitable. What is so important about this insight of yours?”

“It … it tells us how to live. It explains what is important. It explains what we can control and what we cannot—so it helps us focus. It tells us how to make the best use of our time.” The young mouse was beginning to gain confidence. “It teaches us to be efficient. It helps us become more effective. It does all of this—and perhaps more.”

“Very well,” said Zed. “That is an impressive list.”

The young mouse looked pleased.

“Will you indulge me just once more?” asked Zed.

“Yes, of course,” replied the young mouse.

“You say the insight explains what is important,” started Zed. “Tell me—what have you learned is important? What have you been taught to focus on? What goal does the good book suggest you spend your time pursuing? What are you efficient at achieving? Your effectiveness is measured
by what standard
?”

The young mouse looked at him. He thought about answering each question in turn. He was preparing to do this—and then it dawned on him. There was one answer. The same one answer to every question Zed asked. And the young mouse fell silent, shocked by what he realized.

More mice had gathered by now. All eyes were on the young mouse. They were waiting for him to answer. They were getting anxious.

“Cheese,” answered the young mouse. “The answer to all of your questions is cheese. That is what I have learned is important. It is what all of us have been taught to focus on. It is what we spend our time chasing. All we can control is how fast we run in search of cheese. The best among us are efficient at finding cheese. Our effectiveness—the standard by which we measure success—is just that: How much cheese do we have?” And then he added a final word. It was not in response to anything that Zed had asked. It was in response to the realization that overwhelmed him.

“Why,” stated the young mouse solemnly. It was an answer—a conclusion—and not a question.

Zed smiled compassionately.

By now, the crowd was much agitated. They felt betrayed by the young mouse.

“What is the meaning of all this?” shouted an elderly mouse. “What is the point of this discussion? Who are you to decide what is relevant? Why, you agreed that change is inevitable—that it is uncontrollable—and—”

“I did not agree to that,” interrupted Zed. “I did not agree that change is uncontrollable.”

“If you disagree, then you're a fool,” sputtered the elderly mouse.

“Perhaps.”

The elderly mouse continued, angrily. “And what can be more important than this? What can be more relevant to a mouse than this?

Do you not wish for us to pursue what might make us happy?”

Zed continued to look at the young mouse. The young mouse had moved closer to Zed, away from the crowd. Zed looked at him, gently, and spoke, answering the elderly mouse but still addressing the young mouse.

“What I wish is not that you pursue happiness, but that you actually find happiness. Is it possible to pursue happiness if the pursuit itself does not make you happy?”

The young mouse answered, sadly: “No. Not in the maze. In the maze, there is only pursuit. It has no end. No matter how much cheese you accumulate, you keep running. You don't find happiness here. You only find more cheese.”

The crowd was in despair. The elderly mouse took to the offensive.

“Those are fine words. But they are not worth much. A mouse must take the maze as given. All a mouse has to think about is how best to navigate this maze. And when the cheese moves, the only thing a mouse has to ponder is how to find it again. What would you have us ponder instead?”

Zed looked at the elderly mouse and smiled. Then he answered.

“Why, there are many more interesting and important things to ponder,” Zed responded matter-of-factly. “Have you ever thought about
why
change is inevitable? Have you ever wondered
why
the maze is the way it is—what purpose it serves? Have you ever thought to ask
why
mice spend their entire lives in search of cheese? Have you ever wondered, upon finding it missing,
who moved my cheese
?”

The last of these struck the crowd. All at once the anxious mice began to retort—to shout:

“This is a waste of time.”

“Why ask such questions?”

“It's preposterous.”

“Ludicrous.”

“Childish.”

“Impractical.”

“No one can know
who
moved the cheese.”

“There is no answer to
that
.”

The crowd settled, and there was a brief silence.

And then, shattering the stillness of the moment, a voice from behind the crowd was heard. The voice was powerful, confident, and dispassionate—almost indifferent. But the words were spoken deliberately.

“I know who moved the cheese,” it said. “And I know why they moved it.”

The crowd was aghast. They turned to see who had spoken those impossible words. They turned to see whether anyone would lay claim to such an utterance. They turned and saw Max. No one had seen him in almost a year. He was exultant.

Max was looking past the crowd—through them. His gaze was fixed on Zed. He did not seem to notice the crowd.

“I know who moved the cheese,” Max repeated. “And I will tell you about it.” He was speaking only to Zed.

The crowd was silent. They would have quickly disregarded the outburst as a lunatic's rant, but
Max had a look in his eyes that dismissed such a notion. Each of the mice, individually, knew that he was serious. As a group, they were unwilling to consider this possibility. They did not know what to think. They did not want to think. Each of them was waiting for someone else to do the thinking—for someone in the crowd to decide how they should all react. Finally, the elderly mouse snickered.

“How wonderfully absurd! We have no time for tall tales. We were having a serious discussion here. Awfully rude of you to interrupt us like that, don't you think? Well, we won't be baited by your silly remarks. Come, friends. This discussion is going nowhere. And it's getting late. I, for one, have better things to do.”

The elderly mouse had spoken with marvelous eloquence, especially considering how unsure
he was of his own words. And the other mice were grateful for his effort. Slowly, the crowd dispersed. They had lingering doubts about whether they should leave, but those doubts would vanish in time. In a week, the entire episode could be forgotten. Except, perhaps, by the young mouse.

Only Zed remained after the crowd had dispersed. He had not moved at all. Max approached him.

“I would like to speak with you,” said Max.

“I am quite sure that I will want to hear what you have to say,” replied Zed.

“It has been quite a year,” continued Max. “So much has happened. I have seen so much. I have learned and done so much. Zed, you are the first mouse I have encountered who I am
sure will understand what I have to say—and what it signifies. Will you listen?”

“Yes.”

Max walked toward Zed and sat next to him. He noticed that Zed looked very young. He had heard of Zed and had expected to find someone much older.

“I will start from the beginning of my journey. Please believe that everything I am about to tell you is true … even the impossible.”

“I know,” said Zed.

Max began to tell his story.

“One year ago today, I made a promise to myself. It was a decision—the most difficult decision I had ever made. I decided that I would discover why the maze was designed as it is; I would discover why the cheese moved; and I would discover who moved the cheese. At the time, I had no reason to believe that I would be able to discover these things. I only knew that I had to spend my life trying.

“For weeks, I spent time talking with other mice, especially the elders. I asked each of them whether they knew the answers to my questions. Not one of them did. And not one of them understood why I was asking. To them, curiosity is natural in a young mouse, but it
doesn't mean that mice have the ability to satisfy their curiosity. That is what they told me: Not all questions that begin with
why
have answers—and even if they did, it was not for mice to know. It was not for mice to question. It was for mice to accept. But, you see, Zed, I could not.