A Monk Beneath The Desert Stars And The Milky Way

Tonight, we step quietly into the open desert of the ancient Silk Road, nearly 1,300 years ago, at the height of the Tang Dynasty.

In this sleep story, a Buddhist pilgrim monk returning from years in India pauses for one perfect late-spring night at a desert oasis along the ancient Silk Road. He walks out from the sleeping camp into the open sand and watches the vast silver arc of the Milky Way — fill the sky from horizon to horizon.

The desert is still.
The oasis pool holds a mirror of stars
And the world asks nothing of him at all.
Settle in, relax, and drift gently into sleep.

Chapters

00:00 Welcome
02:56 Sleep story begins
33:08 Goodnight

Transcript

Welcome to Sue Quiet Sleep. I am so glad you are here. Before we begin our tonight's story, Find a comfortable position. Let your body settle into the surface beneath you. Your shoulders can soften now. If there is any tension in your jaw, Let it release. Soften the small muscles around your eyes and brow. Let your hands rest gently and easily. If your eyes are not already closed. Allow them to close now. Take a slow breath in through your nose. Filling your lungs and Breathe out through your mouth. And again. Breathe in. And breathe out. Let your shoulders drop a little more. And allowing your whole body to grow heavier and supported. With each slow breath. The sounds of your day begin to fade slowly into the background. India, Please. A gentle mist begins to rise. A quiet bridge between now and then. And as tonight's story begins. . . Emerging yourself, Stepping lightly through the mist. Leaving the present behind. N. Drifting into another time. A slower, Quieter walk. Tonight? We Step. Into the open desert of the ancient Silk Road. Nearly 1, 300 years ago. In the high of the Tang dynasty. It is late spring. A caravan has stopped for the night at a small desert oasis. Far west of Chang'an. Along the Northern Caravan Road. That runs towards the western regions. A basin of pale sand and loose crap. With a shallow pool. And a fringe of dry reeds. Far from any city or settlement. The stars are just beginning to appear above the darkening eastern horizon. A travelling monk. Place down his simple clay bowl and Rest his hands in his lap. For many years, He has traveled across mountains and deserts. Between India and Chang'an. Carrying Buddhist scriptures slowly home along the Silk Road. The desert tonight is very quiet. The coke fire has burned down to a low orange glow. Someone has laid a last few pieces of dry desert scrap. Whose thin feathery branches burn with a faint resonant smoke. Onto the cause and the effect. The smoke drifts sideways across the camp and fades into the open air. The camels are gathered in a line at the edge of the oasis. Their great bodies folded quietly to the sand. Now and then one of them shift and exhales. A long slow sound. That carries easily through the motionless night. From some way among the tents. A low mama of voices. Continues for a moment. Two traders, Perhaps exchanging a few words before sleep. And then the two fell quiet. The camp settles around the dying fire. From the direction of the oasis. A thin breath of night wind moves through the dry reeds. And the read's answer. A faint, Peepery whisper. Bailey Day. And then The monk rises quietly from the mat where he has been sitting and folded once. Setting you against the tent. He wears his patchwork monk robe. Panels of faded brown and grey hemp. Stitched together in the old tradition. Gentle against his skin from years of washing and desert wind and long roads. He steps away from the camp, Moving towards the edge of the oasis. Where the light from the dying fire does not reach. His woven grass sandals make almost no sound on the sand. Each step produced only the faintest shift of grains beneath his feet. The oasis pole appears ahead of him. Perfectly flat and still in the windless night. He paused at its edge. The water holds the stars. Small bright points reflected in the dark surface below. As I'm moving as the sky above. He stands at the water's edge for a long time. The pool is shallow and dark. Ring with a narrow broader of dry reeds Whose thin stem catch no light. There's a face. There's no more. In it? He can see the stars. Nor a blurred suggestion of them. Actual stars. Exact and bright. Reflected without trembling. The eastern sky above. And the oasis water below. Hold the same constellations. In the same positions. A second sky. Opening. Beneath his feet. As though the desert basin had swallowed a piece of heaven and kept it there. Calm and moving. He thinks of nothing in particular. Above and below. The same stars. Patient. A sect. Indifferent to the distance between them. The reeds at the pool's edge do not star. The faintest possible breath of air. Touches them. N. They settle again. Near the pool where the sand is slightly damp. And the reeds grow in a low cluster. The desert is not entirely motionless. He can hear if he listens carefully. The small sounds of things resting. A night bird. Perhaps, It does a lot. Has tucked itself somewhere into the base of the reeds. He cannot see it. Only sense the slight disturbance of it settling in the stillness. The tracks of a small animal. Sand fox that had come to drink before the caravan arrived. Cross the damned earth in delicate double lines and disappear into the scrap beyond. These small lives ask nothing of Him. They continue without him. The oasis holds them gently. As it has held travelers and animals and stars for longer than any history he has read could measure. The night wind breathes again through the reeds. A faint dry whisper. And then the oasis. Falls still again. He leaves the oasis behind and walks farther out. Pass the last dry scrap. Past the low rises of sun that mark the oasis edge. Onto the open desert floor. Where the sand is pale and smooth. And the night sky has no boundary. The sand beneath his sandals has been cooling since sunset. It is no longer hot. It is cool now. Smooth and faintly yielding. Still carrying somewhere deep within it. The warmth of the day's long sun. Releasing the warmth slowly upward through the night. He fills it through the thin woven soles. Nor heat. But the memory of heat. He stops walking. And looks up. Above him, The Milky Way has appeared. What the Tang Dynasty people called the Heavenly River. That great arc of silver stardust spanning the entire sky from south to north. So dense and bright. In the dry desert air that it casts a faint pale glow on the sand at his feet. The Milky Way was not, Tonight, A subtle thing. In the cities, Including Chang'an. It was a pale smear glint between roof lines. Lost in the lamplight of 10, 000 households. In the eastern mountains, He had sometimes caught it through a gap in the trees. Reduce to a bright streak above the canopy. But here. They were no mountains. No trees. Nor roof lines. No fires for a long day walk in any direction. The desert horizon was. Simply the edge of the earth and above it. The sky want. All the way down. N The Milky Way fills the sky from edge to edge. A river of cool light. Each grain within it a star. Two things to name. All of them together. Making something immense. He stands beneath it with his hands resting at his side. The smooth, Dark, Wooden prayer beads he has worn at his wrist for many years than he can easily count. Rest quietly against his skin. The sky does not feel distant. That is the strange thing. In temples, The sky had always been above. Glimpse through incense smoke and curved eaves. Always slightly removed. Here, There is no roof. No curve being between him and it. The desert floor reaches the horizon without interruption. The sky comes all the way down to meet it. He does not feel small beneath it. He simply feels present. He has stood beneath skies in India. In Nalanda. One of the great buddhist monasteries of the ancient world own mountain passes of Hindu Kush. N Each sky had its own weight and character. But none had felt quite like this. This guy is desert born. Dry Clear. Absolute. The stars at the horizon. Do not waver. As they might through humid air. They shine steadily without flickering. The milky way stretches overhead, Wide and deeply white. He does not count stars or trees, Constellations. He simply looks. The night is completely still. Years ago, At the beginning of his journey westward. He had crossed a desert smaller than this one and found it overwhelming. The vastness had felt like an absence, Like something had been removed from the world. Leaving only heat and exposure. He had hurried through it with his head down. Then monk. That younger man with his fear and his hurry. Feels very far away tonight. The desert has not changed. The openness is the same openness. The sun, The same sun. What has changed is only what he brings to it. After India after many years of learning. How to be small in the presence of something immersed. The emptiness no longer feels empty. From the direction of the oasis. Far behind him now? The reeds stir again. A thin drying sound. On a breath of warm air. Then, Nothing. He stands where he is and does no more. Somewhere back in the camp, In his tent. The scriptures are resting. Wrapped in layers of white cloth and packed carefully against the wooden frame of his travel trunk. As they have been wrapped and repacked at every oasis. Every relay station. Every mountain shelter since India. The Azhiv. After everything. Every storm. Every difficult crossing. They are safe and whole and near. He had not expected to feel so much about it. Standing under the stars. In a desert. In late spring. And yet. Here it is. Something gentle and complete. Nor dramatic. Nor overwhelming. Simply present. The way the oasis pool holds its star without effort. The way the Milky Way shines across the sky. Things being exactly as they are. He reached up and touched the prayer beads at his wrist. Turning one slowly with his thumb. The beat is smooth. Warmer than the night air. After a long time, He turns in. Begins the slow walk back towards the camp. The oasis pool catches his attention. As he approaches from the open sand. The water is still holding the sky. That calm, Dark surface with its scattered reflections. The stars within it and change from when he passed before. The world is the same in every direction. It does not need him to be moving through it. He passes through the ring of reeds. Without disturbing them. The last breath of Nightwing has died. The reeds stand straight and moving. And the faint pippery sound they had made. That dry desert mama. Is gone now. He reaches the come. The fire has collapsed to a single thin layer of glowing embers, Orange and blue. The camels breathe in their sleep. He steps inside his small tent and lowers himself onto the woven mat. Pulling a light wool blanket to his chest. Through the loose front of the tent. One bright star is visible. Hanging very still. In the ink blue sky. Above the open desert. And so the monk lies still on his mat. The wool blanket settled over him. The single bright star motionless in the opening of the tent. The scriptures saved Aniya. The desert breathes around the oasis. That low breathing of sand and wind and drawing reeds and star. It asks nothing of him at all. The Milky Way moves in above the tent. As it always has. The pool at the oasis edge holds its star without trembling. The reeds make no sound. The desert is Entirely still. The world we visited tonight is quiet now. N. You are here again. In the comfort of your room. Your mind can rest. Your body can relax. If you are already drifting into sleep, Allow yourself to sink deeper. If you are still awake, Simply listen to the quiet. Thank you for joining me at Sue Quietly. I'll be here again soon to share another peaceful moment in time. But for now. . . Sleep well. Good night.