Letting Go Lighthouse

Hello my friend.

Welcome to your sleep story.

My name is Stephen Dalton.

I'm an Irish storyteller.

And it's my grace privilege.

To be the voice that you listen to.

As you go to sleep tonight.

Tonight I continue my Letting Go series.

These are stories.

In which I encourage you to just let go as you move towards sleep.

Each one is set in a calming situation.

In tonight's story.

Is set in a lighthouse.

You will arrive early in the day.

And as the day passes,

You will explore this amazing old lighthouse.

Each moment.

Leading to more and more letting go.

I hope you like it.

Did you know that only half of you who listen regularly are subscribed to my channel?

So if you want.

Please do so.

It's free and only takes a second.

Okay,

Let's do the relaxation session now,

Which will take a few minutes before tonight's sleep story.

I'm going to count down from ten to one,

And as I do,

Allow yourself to let go.

More and more.

Feel the support of the bed beneath you.

Or the floor.

Or whatever you lie upon tonight.

Really feel that support.

And beneath all of that,

There is the support of the earth.

Our home.

Our constant support.

And notice that the more you become aware of that support.

The more you can let go.

The more you can.

.

.

Sink into this moment.

Nein.

You.

Safe.

Know that tonight My voice is nothing but a friend.

A guide of kindness.

That will only ever take you to safe places.

Allow my voice.

Be an anchor of peace.

Guiding you.

To beautiful.

Wondrous places.

Become aware of your body now.

And as you do.

Just become aware of your breath for a moment.

Perhaps take a deep breath in through your nose when you're ready.

And breathe out when you're ready.

And maybe another deep breath.

And And as you.

Become aware of that breath.

The breathing out.

With each out breath.

Let go.

A little more.

Maybe.

Move through your body.

Check where you're holding tension.

Or pain?

Maybe it's in your feet?

Your lower legs.

Your thighs.

Your belly.

You just.

.

.

Her shoulders.

Your hands.

Your arms.

Your neck.

Or maybe you're like me.

Do you hold the tension in your face?

Just let it all go now.

Seven.

The day is done.

Whatever has been.

Has been.

.

.

Whatever will be.

Whoopi.

Whatever thoughts you may be having.

Don't fight them.

See them for what they are.

Thoughts.

A symptom of being human.

And as they arrive,

Welcome them.

And then just let them go.

Watch them float away.

Like leaves on a moonlit river.

More clouds passing.

Through a starlit sky.

Six.

This is your moment.

This is your time.

You.

Deserve for us.

You deserve peace.

There is nowhere to be now.

Nowhere to go.

No obligations.

Absolutely nothing to do.

But settle into this moment.

Five.

Peace.

Lives within you.

It is always there.

It's just waiting to be found.

Waiting to be felt.

Maybe you can find it tonight.

Maybe you can.

.

.

Journey to that peace.

With your mind's eye now.

Maybe you find it in your chest.

Or in your head.

Wherever you might find it.

Know that it's a constant friend.

Four.

Perhaps.

.

.

Feel a little gratitude now.

Gratitude for the simple things.

Through the shelter you have tonight.

Whatever it may be.

The use of your body?

With the ability to just lie here and listen to a sleep story.

For those you love.

And who love you.

Know that you are love.

Whoever you are.

And wherever you are tonight.

Three.

Begin to engage with your imagination now.

Begin to see yourself.

In a car.

Driving along a beautiful coast road.

You are about to have a day.

Where nothing matters.

Other than letting go.

And being at peace.

Enjoy that fact.

As you move towards the beautiful lighthouse.

That you see now.

On the horizon Check in with your body one more time now.

Releasing anywhere.

That you're still holding on.

And one Completely letting go now.

As I tell you.

Tonight.

Sleep Story.

You drive along the coast road.

In the early light.

The sky is pale.

And the sea beside you.

Moves like something breathing.

You roll down the window.

The wind is cool.

You can smell salt.

And something clean in the air.

The road curves.

Far ahead.

You see it.

The Lighthouse.

Standing on the edge of the land.

You slow the car and let it roll a little.

Just to hear the sound of the tires on the gravel.

The light at the top of the tower is off now.

It only turns on when the night comes.

The building looks white and steady against the grey of the morning.

And you feel something in your chest.

Begin to settle.

When you step out of the car You hear the sound of gulls.

And the sound of waves hitting rocks below.

It's not loud.

Just.

.

.

Constant.

You close the door of the car.

And the sound of the sea fills the space where the engine was.

You walk towards the door.

The air smells of wet stone and seaweed.

The key is already there.

Tucked in a small tin box where you were told it would be.

You open the door.

Inside.

It is cool.

The walls are sick.

But you can still clearly hear the sea.

Just a little softer now.

You leave your bike by the door and stand for a while.

There is a table.

A chair.

A shelf of books.

A kettle on the stove.

Nothing more.

It's enough.

You sit down.

And breathe.

This place will hold you for a while.

Then you fill the kettle and set it on the stove.

The metal clicks as it heats.

You find a mug in the small cupboard beside the sink.

There's a tin of tea.

Simple black leaves A little worn arounds the edges.

Don't you spoon some in and wait?

The room feels still.

You pour the tea and sit by the small round window.

The sea stretches out forever.

A fishing boat.

Moves far out.

Tiny and slow.

Barely making a mark on the water.

You take a sip.

The taste is strong.

It fits the place.

After a while.

.

.

You put on your coat and step outside.

The grass is damp from the night before.

The rocks below shine in the morning light.

The waves strike them again and again.

You walk the narrow path that runs around the lighthouse.

Win.

Presses against your face.

And do you lose it?

You stop where the cliff bends and look out.

The horizon is pale gold now.

The air smells sharp and new.

You take a deep breath.

And feel your chest rise.

And then we'll For the first time in a long time.

There's no rush to be anywhere.

You're already here.

When you come back inside.

You sit at the table and open your journal.

The first page is blank.

It's waiting to be written in.

You hold the pen for a while before you start to write.

The words come slow.

But they come.

You write about what you've been carrying.

What you're ready to let go of.

And what might come next?

If you allow it.

There's something that.

.

.

Comes through rising.

Brain-body connection.

Where we put.

.

.

Whatever is inside And to paper And in a way.

.

.

Through those words.

There is a letting go.

After you've written what you need to write.

You find a book.

That needs to be read.

The book is sent.

With a pale blue cover.

The title is faded to almost nothing.

You run your thumb over the letters.

And can just make out the word Notes from the Sea Wall You begin to read.

I have lived by the sea for most of my life.

The years pass here.

Without fanfare.

I have learned the shape of the tie.

And the moods of the wind.

I no longer count the days.

They come as they please.

The light.

Turns.

The water breathes.

And I remain a witness.

When I first came to this coast The lighthouse was new.

Its wolves were bright.

And it steps clean and sharp I was young then.

Proud to tend the light.

That's nice.

I climbed the narrow stair.

And watched the lamp revolve.

Slow and patient.

I remember the sound it made Yes sir.

Mechanical side.

It never hurried.

Sometimes on rough nights Waves would strike the windows with salt and foam The glass would tremble.

But the light never fails.

I used to think that was the point of it.

Not to fight the storm.

But to keep shining through it.

The sea would come.

And morning would come again.

As it always did.

You pause for a moment and look up from the page.

The same sea moves outside the window.

And change.

You turn another page.

In time.

I stopped writing down the ship names that passed.

I stopped keeping lists of winds and temperatures.

There's only so much one can measure.

Before it all becomes the same truth.

Let the sea come.

The sea goes.

Let the light turn The light rests.

What matters is to keep the lamp clean.

And your heart clear.

Some men dream of far ports But I found my voyage here.

There is peace in repetition.

To rise.

To ten.

To what?

To rest.

The world beyond these cliffs will change But the water always returns.

It teaches a man to let go.

It teaches him that holding on is not strength.

It is fear.

Disguised as juicy.

One winter.

A great storm came from the west.

The wind tore its roof.

And the waves rose higher than I had ever seen.

I thought the glass would give way.

I thought the light might go out for good.

But it didn't.

When dawn broke.

The tower still stood.

And I felt something inside me.

Give way instead.

I stopped being afraid of endings.

Now I am old.

And the lamp turns without me.

The new keepers come and go.

They bring their new ways.

The radios.

Their bright tools.

I have no need for them.

The sea does not ask for progress.

Only patience Only care.

I will stay here until my eyes grow dim.

And when the time comes.

I hope the last thing I see Is the light turning across the water?

You close the book slowly.

Resting your hand on its cover.

Outside.

The sound of the sea is steady.

Almost kind.

You feel as if you've just spoken with someone.

To understand something you've always known.

But could never put into words.

You look out the window again.

The life is higher now.

The waves brighter.

The sea keeps moving.

And you let your shoulders drop You take a deep breath.

And for the first time in a long time.

You.

Beer.

Nicer.

Now you move your chair so that it faces the water You sit and rest your hands on your knees.

You breathe in through your nose.

And out through your mouth.

The rhythm is slow.

The breath feels heavy at first.

Then it evens out.

Matching the pull of the tide outside.

You let your eyes half close.

You listen.

There is the sea.

The wind around the tower.

A distant girl.

Equi.

In the wars.

Each sound rises and falls like your chest.

You don't need to name any of it.

You just hear it.

You notice thoughts coming and going.

The small noise of the mind trying to speak.

You don't push them away.

You just see them.

Like boats.

Parash on the horizon.

De paz.

They fade.

The sea.

Remains.

You rest there a long time.

The body settles first.

Shoulders drop.

Stomach loosens Sure unclenches.

Then the mind begins to soften too.

The stories.

The worry.

The small rehearsals of the past they start to lose shape.

They dissolve the way foam does.

After a wave breaks You take another breath.

And feel the air move all the way down.

Into your stomach You hold it for a moment.

And let it go.

Now you bring a hand to your chest You feel your heart beat.

Steady.

That's slower now You whisper quietly to yourself.

Just a few words that come naturally.

Maybe it's.

.

.

I'm here now.

Maybe it's.

.

.

I can rest.

You don't need to force it.

Outside.

The light shifts a little.

You can tell it's late morning.

The sea hasn't changed.

Moves as it always has.

You realise.

This is the lesson.

This place keeps teaching.

That you can move through the hours.

Without holding on so tightly.

You sit there for a while longer.

Dashing the quiet To its work.

When you finally open your eyes fully Nothing has really changed.

Everything feels.

.

.

Lighter the lighthouse dance.

To see.

Move.

And you are simply breathing.

After your meditation.

You stand and stretch.

Your legs feel light.

A little unsteady in that pleasant way.

You look around the room again.

And realise how little of it you've really seen.

Do you decide to explore?

The stairs curve up along the wall.

Narrow and worn smooth from use.

You run your fingers along the cold stone as you climb.

The air changes as you rise.

Soul tear.

Zinner.

Touched by wind that sneaks through small cracks in the frame The light from the windows falls in slices.

Moving across your hands as you go At the top.

You bind the lamp room.

The great land still stands there.

A heavy glass machine built for endurance.

It's quiet now.

Asleep until nice returns.

You walk around it slowly.

The matter gleams faintly in the daylight.

You imagine the men who worked here long ago.

Turning the crank.

Polishing the glass.

Keeping the flame steady through storms.

They would have stood here too.

Listening to the same sea.

Feeling the same pull towards something wordless and vast.

You rest a hand on the brass railing And look out through the wide windows.

The ocean stretches forever.

Silver under the sun.

You can see the curve of the coastline And you stay there a while.

Leaning on the rear.

The wind presses against the windows.

And you think about all the people.

You must have seen this view.

And then gone on with their lives.

The lighthouse remains.

It keeps.

.

.

Standing.

Keeps turning.

Keeps forgiving everything that passes.

This room you're in.

Holds the weight of years.

You notice faint marks carved into the railing.

Initials.

Dates,

The scratches of knives or keys.

A small history of hands.

That once steadied themselves here.

Some of the marks are too old to read.

The metal around them has dulled and smoothed with time.

You open a narrow door behind the lens Inside is a storage I'll cover.

Dusty and still.

Shelves of old oil cans line the wall.

Their labels worn away.

A pair of gloves hung from a hook.

Fingers stiff with age There's a box of wicks and a logbook.

Its cover faded almost to grey.

You carry it to the light and open it.

The handwriting is neat and plain.

Each line a record of a day.

Wind directions sea state.

Lamp rotations Some entries have short notes.

Storm from the east.

Waves broke over the rocks Handwriting changes every few years.

You keepers.

Same tasks.

Each man quietly adding his part to the story.

You imagine them in this same space.

Long night.

Oil lamps burning low the sea beating against the tower.

The rhythm of duty and isolation.

You picture one of the old lighthouse keepers stepping out onto the balcony.

Coat pulled tight.

Pipe in hand.

Looking out at the Black Sea.

And thinking of nothing but the light that must not fail.

You can almost hear the sound of his boots.

On the iron floor.

You rest your hand on the lens again.

It's cold.

But alive in its own way.

A machine made to save lives.

But also to remind those who keep it.

That they are part of something larger.

Something constant.

You think of how the light.

.

.

Once swept across the water.

Guiding ships you'll never know.

People you'll never meet.

The quiet generosity of it moves you It's the kind of work that leaves no monument.

It means everything.

You close the log book gently.

And place it back on the shelf.

As you start down the stairs.

Your hand trails along the cool wall.

It feels almost like a pulse.

Slow,

Steady beat.

That has been here for centuries.

You pause halfway down the stairs.

Something has caught your eye.

A small alcove you hadn't noticed before.

It's half hidden.

Behind a wooden panel.

That doesn't quite fit flesh against the wall.

You press against it.

And it moves.

With a faint creak.

Inside.

The air is dry and cold.

Dust rises in the thin light.

There's a small wooden chest there.

Plain and square.

The size of a bread box.

The brass latch has gone green.

You open it slowly.

Inside are a few objects A folded cloth A rusted compass.

A glass bottle half filled with sand.

And a bundle of letters tied with strings.

The paper is yellowed and soft Edges curling from dumps You lift them out carefully and sit on the step to read.

The handwriting is small and deliberate The letters are dated from almost a hundred years ago.

They're written to someone named Anna.

You read the first one.

The nights are long here.

But the light holds steady.

I keep thinking of the sound the sea makes.

When it hits the rock.

And how it never tires.

It reminds me of you in a way.

Steady.

Patient.

Always returning.

Sometimes I wish I could bring you here.

If only for a day.

You'd like the mornings best.

The sea looked softer then.

And the girls stay close to the cliffs.

I keep your photograph by the lamp.

The glass reflects it sometimes when the light turns.

And for a moment.

It looks like you're here.

You turn to the next letter.

The storm last night.

The strongest yet.

Waves high enough to touch the windows.

I thought of what you said before I left.

That you hoped I'd find peace in the quiet I think I have.

It isn't the quiet I imagined,

Though.

It's the kind that makes you face yourself.

Out here.

There's no escaping your own thoughts.

You either make peace with them.

We don't sleep.

Than another.

Here the world is changing.

Radios.

Electric lights.

Machines that fly It's strange to think of all that.

While I'm here still trimming wicks and keeping the flame alive.

Maybe one day they won't need us anymore.

But until that day.

.

.

I'll climb these stairs and watch the light turn.

And I'll think of you.

The letters aren't sad.

They're calm.

Accepting.

The man who wrote them seemed to understand.

Something most people only find at the end of their lives.

That peace doesn't come from what lasts.

But from learning to let things go when they must.

You place the letters back in the chest and close the lid for a moment.

You sit there.

Listening to the slow.

Breathing of the sea through the walls.

You think of all the people who've loved and lost here.

All the hands that have tended this light.

The thought doesn't make you sad.

It makes you feel joined.

A small part.

Of the same long story.

When you finally stand.

You feel lighter.

You tuck the chest back into the alcove.

And press the panel closed.

The sound of it sliding shushed.

It's.

.

.

Bye now.

Like the end of a sigh.

You walk down the rest of the stairs.

One step at a time.

Your hand still brushing the stone.

Tracing the line between past and present.

You light a small fire in the stove when you reach the bottom.

The flame catches low.

Then steadies.

The room fills with a quiet,

Shifting glow.

You sit close.

Watching the wood darken and split.

The sea outside is changing colour again.

The silver is gone.

Now it's a darker blue.

Heavy with dusk.

You hear the waves.

Breaking harder against the rocks.

The tide has turned.

You open your journal again.

The words come slowly at first.

You write about the letters.

About the man who stayed long enough to learn peace.

You write about the storm he described.

The way he kept the light going through it.

Then you write about yourself.

Not in detail.

Just enough.

A few lines about what you brought here.

What you've been trying to hold.

And what you're letting go of.

You sit back and read what you've written The handwriting looks calmer than usual.

Pure crossings out.

The space between sentences feels wider.

You close the book.

And place it on the table beside you.

For a while You just sit and listen.

The stove hums softly.

The sea moves without pause.

You realize.

You don't need to decide anything tonight.

You don't even need to understand everything that has happened.

You just need to be here.

To let the lighthouse the sea and the quiet.

Do their work.

The firelight flickers over the walls.

And uneven.

You can see small marks in the plaster.

Scrapes.

Memory of tools It makes you think of how many people have found comfort here.

Sitting in this Same light.

Listening to the same endless sea.

Letting go.

You look towards the window.

The first star has appeared.

You think of the keeper who once stood where you were.

Writing to Anna.

Wondering if the world would move on without him.

It did.

It always does.

But he left something behind.

The calm that comes when you stop asking for the sea to stay still.

You breathe deeply.

And something inside you eases.

There's no ceremony to it.

No sudden realization.

It's just a quiet acceptance.

You have come.

As far as you need to for today.

You reach for the blanket draped over the chair.

Wrap it around your shoulders.

And let the sound of the waves fill the room.

You climb the stairs just after dark.

The air has cooled.

And the stones hold the chill.

The small window at each turn.

Shows a different piece of the night The dark sky.

A thin moon.

The faint outline of the horizon.

You carry a small lantern in one hand.

The light.

Sways with each step.

At the top.

The great lamp waits in silence.

You opened the hut Switch on the mechanism.

And watch it begin to move The glass turns slowly.

Reflecting itself in every direction The light builds with every rotation.

Reaching farther and farther across the sea.

You step out onto the narrow balcony.

The sea below is almost invisible.

A dark,

Endless pulse.

Each time the light turns.

It catches the edges of the waves for a second.

Then let them go again.

The beam moves like breath.

You stand there for a long time.

Hands resting on the railing.

Sweeps the horizon.

Again and again Each pass slower than you expect.

You close your eyes.

And feel the wind move through your hair.

You realize you're breathing in time with the turning of the light.

And you stay like that.

Until you lose track of minutes when you finally go back down.

The fire has burned low.

And you move to the narrow bed beside the wall.

The blanket smells faintly of sea air and ash.

You lie down.

And pull it over yourself.

The window beside the bed.

Is open just enough.

For the sound of the waves to come through.

You close your eyes.

The last thing you see.

Is the faint blush of the lighthouse beam?

Moving across the ceiling.

Then fading again.

The lie.

Tense the sea breathes and you let go drifting quietly End to sleep.

You don't need to hold anything now.

The lighthouse will keep the watch.

The sea will turn and turn again.

As it always has.

Whatever you brought here.

Whatever you carried in with you.

It can stay or it can go.

It's alright either way.

You are safe here.

But keep sweeping over the water.

Through the night,

Calm and unhurried.

You don't have to sing.

Or plan or fix anything.

Just.

.

.

Breathe.

You have done enough for today.

Let the rhythm of the waves take the rest.

Sleep now.

The sea is near.

The light is steady.

And to you.

Our home.