Welcome to Zen Stories for Sleep Time,
Volume 2.
I'm Helen and together we will be meandering through these different tales,
Guiding you through some contemplation and peacefully taking you into a deep sleep or deep relaxation.
So let your body soften,
Let your mind quieten.
And as your jaw loosens and your fingers uncurl,
Notice how your thoughts begin to slow down,
Like a stream reaching a quiet pool.
And as we wander through this garden of Zen stories,
Some of these are ancients passed down through generations of monks and masters.
And other tales are new ones,
Woven from the same timeless wisdom,
With the same themes and messages.
Chapter 1.
The Gates of Paradise.
Our first story is a classic Zen tale about a warrior,
A master and the nature of seeking.
There once was a great and powerful warrior who had spent his entire life fighting battles and conquering lands.
He had achieved everything a man could desire,
Wealth,
Fame,
Respect and fear from his enemies.
Yet in the quiet moments between campaigns,
He felt an emptiness he could not name,
A racelessness that no victory could cure.
He heard of a wise Zen master who lived as a hermit in the mountains,
A man who found peace without ever lifting a sword.
The warrior,
Accustomed to getting what he wanted,
Decided he would go and demand this peace for himself.
He traveled for many days,
Climbing higher and higher into the misty mountain,
Until he finally arrived at the master's small,
Humble hut.
He dismounted from his horse,
Strode to the doorway,
And found the master sitting quietly,
Eyes closed,
Utterly at peace.
The warrior,
Feeling impatient and powerful,
Drew his sword and pointed it at the master's throat.
Old man,
He boomed,
I have heard you possess a great treasure,
A peace that cannot be disturbed.
I have come to take it from you.
Tell me your secret,
Or I will run you through.
The master opened his eyes slowly and looked up at the warrior,
With infinite calm.
He looked at the sword at his throat,
Then back into the warrior's fierce eyes.
And with a voice as gentle as falling snow,
He spoke two words,
Open it.
The warrior froze.
For a moment he did not understand,
But then,
Like a flash of lightning illuminating a dark sky,
He saw it.
He saw himself standing in the doorway of a simple hut,
Threatening a peaceful old man.
He saw his own grasping,
His own desperation masquerading as power.
He saw that he had been carrying his sword,
His anger,
His demands,
Right up to the very gates of peace,
And he had almost missed the entrance entirely.
In that instant,
Everything dropped away.
His sword arm fell to his side,
The sword clattered to the ground,
And he fell to his knees,
In awe of the simple truth that had just pierced his heart.
The master smiled,
And gestured to the small cushion beside him.
Come,
He said,
Sit.
The gate was never locked.
This story reminds us that we often search so fiercely for peace,
Or for answers,
For something to complete us,
And then we fail to notice where we are,
Who we are.
The warrior came with his sword drawn,
Ready to fight for peace,
And missing the irony completely.
And the master's simple words opened a door that had actually always been open.
So as you rest here now,
Consider this for yourself.
Are you searching for something that is already with you?
And is there a sword that you can lay down,
Perhaps a sword of striving,
A sword of protection,
Or something else?
Or perhaps you might like to consider what gate are you standing in front of?
And what does it mean for you to know that this gate has always been open?
Quietly consider these questions for the next minute,
Before we begin the following chapter.
Chapter Two.
The Stone Cutter.
Our next story is inspired by an old Japanese folk theme.
There was once a stonecutter who worked every day in the shadow of a great mountain.
From dawn until dusk,
He would chip away at large blocks of stone,
Shaping them for buildings and temples.
It was hard,
Dusty work,
And his hands were always rough and pallid.
One day,
He was hired to cut stone for the home of a wealthy merchant.
He brought his blocks to the merchant's estate,
Saw for the first time how the rich lived.
It was silk cushions,
Cool fountains,
Servants bringing sweet tea,
And soft beds piled high with blankets.
Stonecutter looked at his rough clothes,
His tired body,
And he felt dissatisfied.
How powerful that merchant must be,
He thought to himself.
If only I could be a merchant instead of a poor stonecutter.
A voice as quiet as the wind seemed to answer from within.
And it said,
You want to be a merchant?
Then let it be.
The stonecutter blinked,
And in that instant,
He was transformed.
He was no longer standing in the dusty street.
He was inside the merchant's house,
Wearing fine silks,
Sipping tea from a porcelain cup.
He was a merchant.
And for a time,
He was happy.
But then,
One hot afternoon,
The merchant,
Former stonecutter,
Sat by his window.
And as he looked out onto the street,
He saw a powerful official whom everyone was bowing to.
Even the other merchants bowed.
Look at that,
The man thought,
An official everyone bows to him.
He has more power than a mere merchant.
Only I could be an official.
Again,
The quiet voice answered,
You want to be an official?
Then let it be.
In an instant,
He was transformed.
And all of a sudden,
He was wearing ornate robes,
And people were bowing to him.
He felt so important.
For a time,
He was happy.
Then,
One day,
As he was walking through a farming village,
He saw the suffering of the people.
The sun was scorching hot,
And the rice crops were withering in the fields.
Farmers looked up at the sky,
Pleading for rain.
The sun only grew hotter.
The official looked up at the sun blazing in the sky,
And he thought,
Now that is true power.
The sun gives life or takes it away.
Everyone fears the sun.
If only I could be the sun.
And the little voice answered,
You want to be the sun?
Then let it be.
In an instant,
He was the sun,
Blazing in the sky,
Pouring light and heat down upon the world.
He felt immensely powerful.
For a time,
He was happy.
Then,
One day,
As he shone down,
He noticed a cloud moving across the sky.
A cloud passed in front of him,
Blocking his light,
Casting a shadow over the earth.
No matter how brightly he shone,
He could not penetrate the cloud.
This cloud,
He thought,
Has power over me.
It can block my light.
If only I could be a cloud.
The voice answered,
You want to be a cloud?
Then let it be.
In an instant,
He was a great cloud,
Floating through the sky,
Blocking the sun,
Releasing the rain upon the earth.
He felt powerful and essential.
For a time,
He was happy.
But as he drifted,
He noticed something below him.
The mountain.
The same ancient mountain that had stood beside his stone-cutting yard for all those years.
The rain fell upon the mountain.
And yet,
The mountain stood unmoved.
The wind blew against the mountain.
The mountain did not bend.
The cloud could pour rain.
The wind howl.
The sun blaze.
And the mountain remained.
This mountain,
The cloud thought,
Has more power than any of us.
It simply sits and everything passes over it.
If only I could be the mountain.
The voice answered one last time.
You want to be the mountain?
Then let it be.
In an instant,
He became the mountain.
Vast,
Ancient,
Immovable.
Centuries passed like moments.
Storms raged against his slopes.
Seasons changed around him.
And he remained.
For a time,
He was content.
Then,
One day,
He felt a small,
Cistern.
Tapping at his base.
He looked down and saw a humble stone-cutter.
Chipping away with his simple tools.
Shaping a block of stone.
It was in that moment that the mountain understood.
The stone-cutter,
With nothing but his simple tools and his patient labor,
Was shaping even the mountain.
The power had been with him all along.
The mountain smiled.
And in that smile,
The cycle dissolved.
Stone-cutter found himself back in his dusty,
Old world.
Dusty yard.
Chisel in hand.
Facing a block of stone.
But everything was different.
He looked at his hands with new eyes.
He felt the sun on his back.
The mountain at his shoulder.
And the simple joy of his work.
He needed nothing more.
As you rest here now,
Feel the simple truth of your own existence.
Knowing that you are not lacking anything.
Ask yourself,
What would it feel like to stop wanting to be like something or someone else?
Simply be as I am,
Right now.
Bringing your attention to your breath.
Let's now move to chapter three.
Mud and the Lotus.
This is a traditional Zen teaching,
Often told through the image of the lotus flower.
A young monk was struggling.
He had been practicing meditation for several years,
But instead of feeling more peaceful,
He felt more aware of his own darkness.
He saw his anger,
His jealousy,
His fear.
And they seemed to bubble up more than ever before.
He was doubting himself and wondering if we were simply not cut out for his path.
One morning,
He went to his master and confessed his struggles.
Master,
He said,
I came to the monastery to find peace,
But I only find more suffering inside myself.
My mind is filled with mud.
How can I ever become pure?
The master listened patiently,
And then gestured for the young monk to follow him.
They walked out of the meditation hall,
Past the gardens,
And down to a small pond at the edge of the monastery grounds.
The master pointed to the pond.
It was not a clear pool.
It was muddy.
Filled with dark water,
Thick brown silt at the bottom.
Dragonflies skimmed the surface and frogs croaked from the edges.
Look,
The master said.
The young monk looked.
It saw only mud and murky water.
Look deeper,
The master said.
The monk peered more carefully.
And there,
Rising up out of the dark,
Muddy water,
He saw it.
A lotus flower.
Its stem rose straight and strong through the mud,
And at the top,
A perfect white flower bloomed,
Untouched by the mud from which it came.
Its petals were immaculate,
Pure,
And luminous in the morning light.
The master explained,
The lotus flower needs the mud.
Without the mud,
There is no lotus.
The mud is not the enemy of the flower.
It is its very foundation.
The beauty of the lotus exists because of the mud.
The young monk gazed at the flower,
Understandingly.
And then the master continued.
Your mind's mud.
Your fears,
Your anger,
Your struggles.
These are not obstacles to peace.
They are the very soil in which peace grows.
Without knowing suffering,
How could you know peace?
Without knowing darkness,
How do you recognize light?
Do not try to destroy the mud.
Let the lotus of awareness bloom right here in the middle of it all.
The young monk felt a great weight lift from his shoulders.
He was not failing.
He was simply seeing the mud more clearly,
Which meant the lotus was beginning to grow.
Consider for yourself now if there is any mud that you are trying to escape.
And then ask of yourself,
Can I instead let a lotus bloom in this mud?
Can I let a lotus bloom in this mud?
As you slowly notice your breath,
Let's move to chapter four,
The Tiger and the Strawberry.
Now,
This is a classic Zen tale about living fully in the present moment.
A man was traveling through the countryside when he noticed something in the distance.
And it made his blood run cold.
He saw a tiger,
Large and hungry.
Tiger began to move towards him.
So,
Of course,
The man turned and fled in terror.
He ran faster than he had ever run in his life.
His heart pounding,
His breath rugged.
Behind him,
He could hear the tiger gaining ground,
Its powerful paws thundering against the earth.
Man ran until he came to the edge of a cliff.
Below him was a long drop to a rocky river far below.
Tiger was almost upon him.
So,
With no time to think,
The man leaped over the edge.
Grasping at a thick vine growing from the cliff wall,
He caught it and swung down.
He was now dangling between the cliff face and the abyss.
Above him,
The tiger paced at the edge,
Snarling,
Waiting for him to climb back up.
While below,
The rocks and rushing water promised certain death.
As he hung there,
He heard another sound.
He looked down and he saw two mice,
One black,
One white,
Emerging from a crevice in the cliff.
They then began to gnaw at the vine from which he hung.
Oh,
The man felt despair wash over him.
Above the tiger,
Below the river,
And the vine,
His only lifeline,
Slowly being chewed through by the mice.
His death was certain.
It was only a matter of time.
And then,
In a moment of utter hopelessness,
His eye caught something.
Growing from the cliff,
Just within reach,
Was a single wild strawberry,
Perfectly ripe and glistening with dew.
It was,
In fact,
The most beautiful strawberry he had ever seen.
Without a moment's hesitation,
The man reached out,
Plucked the strawberry,
And put it in his mouth.
It was,
Without question,
The sweetest,
Most perfect strawberry he had ever tasted.
As you drift now,
Let go of the tigers of tomorrow,
The cliffs of yesterday,
And instead,
Taste the strawberry of this present moment.
As you quietly return to focusing on your breath,
Let's relax now into Chapter 5,
The Empty Boat.
Our final story is one of the most loved in Zen tradition.
It is attributed to the great master Linji,
Though it has been told in many different forms.
A monk was living a simple life in a small hut near a beautiful lake.
He spent his days in meditation,
His evenings in quiet contemplation,
Watching the water and the sky.
He had found a deep sense of peace in his solitary life.
One night,
As he sat meditating by the shore,
He heard a sound,
A soft bump,
Then another.
He opened his eyes and peered into the darkness.
He could just make out the shape of a boat,
Drifting loose from its mooring somewhere upstream,
Bumping gently against his own small dock.
The monk felt a flicker of irritation.
Someone must have been careless.
Now his dock might be damaged.
He sat for a while,
Waiting for the owner to come and retrieve the boat,
But no one came.
The bumping continued,
Soft but persistent,
And with each bump,
The monk's irritation grew.
Finally,
His meditation burned,
He stood up and walked to the dock,
Grabbed the drifting boat and began to push it away,
Intending to set it adrift again.
But as his hands touched the wood,
It stopped.
He looked at the boat more closely in the faint moonlight.
It was empty.
There was no one inside,
No careless owner,
No one to blame,
Just an empty boat,
Drifting on the wind and current,
Bumping against his dock.
In that instant,
The monk's irritation vanished completely,
Dissolved like mist in the morning,
And he laughed to himself.
The bumping was exactly the same,
The dock was exactly the same,
But without someone to blame,
The anger had no place to land,
So it was gone.
This profound teaching reached the monk's heart,
And he realized that in life,
We often act as if every bump is caused by someone who meant to disturb us.
We fill the empty boat with an imagined enemy,
Then we suffer because of our own creation.
But what if we could see that most boats are empty?
What if we could meet each bump with the same clarity and peace with which the monk had met the empty boat?
He returned to his meditation spot,
And for the first time,
He understood what it meant to be truly free.
As you soften your heart,
Gently drop this question in there.
What empty boats have I been filling today,
And can I simply let them be?
As our time together slowly draws to a close,
Feel your breath receiving peace with each inhalation.
And releasing any thoughts,
Worries,
Or tension through your exhalation.
Inhale stillness,
And exhale breath.
Breath.
And as you drift,
Carry with you the image of the lotus blooming in the mud,
The taste of the strawberry,
The sight of the empty boat.
And these are reminders of peace,
Feeling complete and whole.
May you rest deeply and wake gently,
And may the peace of these stories accompany you through the night into the morning light.
