Welcome to.
.
.
Soothe quietly.
I'm so glad.
You are here tonight.
Find a comfortable position.
N Let your body settle gently beneath you.
Relax your shoulders.
Release any tension in your jaw.
Soften the muscles around your eyes and brow.
Take a slow breath in through your nose.
And breathe out through your mouth.
With each steady breath.
The sounds of your day.
Begin to fade.
Quietly.
Into the background.
There is nowhere else you need to be denied.
Now let yourself drift softly into tonight's story.
Tonight.
We step quietly back.
More than 2,
000 years ago.
Into the Qing dynasty.
Is of the imperial capital of Xianyang.
At the foot of the mountain.
Dozens of low wooden workshops stand beneath broad sheltering eaves.
Each is devoted to one part of the walk.
Shaping legs and bodies.
Forming arms and head.
Tonight.
We follow one young apprentice.
Through an ordinary spring walk day.
As he shapes the body of one of these Highland guardians.
Later known as Terracotta Warrior.
It is early morning in spring.
A fine rain has been falling since before dawn.
Steady enough.
To keep the yellow earth moist and easy to shape.
In one of these choir workshops.
The Young Apprentice.
Kneels at his work table beneath the white eve.
Where the rain cannot reach the clear.
He has walked here for.
Two spring seasons now.
Long enough that His hands know the feel of the earth.
Before his eyes have finished studying it.
Before him.
Stands a pair of solid clay legs.
Completed at another walk table.
The previous afternoon.
And set up right.
On his work board before sunrise.
Today.
As on most days.
His task is to build a body.
That will rise above them.
It is careful and hard work.
N.
In its choir rhythm.
He has come to understand that.
Clay is best guided gently.
Rather than false.
The clay comes from the soft yellow earth of the nearby hills.
Each week.
It is dark from the clear yard.
Behind the workshop.
And brought in my cart.
Before the day's work begins.
It is cleaned of stones.
Mixed with fine sand to help prevent cracking.
N covered with damp cloth for several days before it reaches his table.
He presses his thumb into the lamp before him.
And It gives in easily.
Beneath the pressure.
Cool and faintly sticky.
Carrying the plain familiar smell of wet earth before spring rain.
Rain taps against the shed tiled roof above him.
Steady as breathing.
He walks a portion of clay between his palms.
Until it softens further.
Forwarding you.
Over on itself.
And Feeling full.
Any hidden pockets of A.
That could cause the clay to crack as it dries.
Only when it feels smooth and even beneath his hands.
Does he know it is ready?
The body of each clay soldier is built much like a large storage jar.
Long ropes of clay are laid in wide circles.
One upon another.
Each gently press into the layer below.
Until a hollow body begins to take shape.
Only the legs beneath are made of solid metal.
To support that figure's weight.
While the body remains hollow.
So the clean heat can warm the clay evenly.
One firing time comes.
He rolls a lamp of clay beneath his palms.
Back and forth across the walk table.
Until it becomes a long,
Even rope.
About the width of two fingers.
Lifting it with both hands.
He lays it gently.
In a complete circle.
Upon this holy lax before him.
The soft rope.
Bends easily.
Beneath its own weight.
Settling into a neat circle.
Around the legs.
Like the first course of a tall earthen jar.
Using the flat of his thumb He presses the new clay gently.
Into the layer beneath.
Until the drawing disappears.
And the wall feels like one continuous piece.
This first circle.
Becomes the beginning of the hollow body.
That will rise.
One Leah after another.
Throughout the morning.
One cycle after another.
The body takes shape beneath his hands.
Over two full seasons of this same patient walk.
He has learned not to hurry the clay.
Allowing the soft layers below to settle before another is placed above.
Roar!
Loops.
Press.
Smooth.
The same four movements repeated in an unhurried rhythm.
Until his hands no longer need his thoughts to guide them.
Every so often.
He paused to let his fingers travel around the growing body.
These search for places.
Where the surface is not yet quite even.
Smoothing away the smallest imperfections.
Before the next layer is added.
Bye now.
The hollow body has risen.
Almost to his waist.
Its smooth walls,
Climbing steadily from the solid legs below.
Near the top of the growing wall.
His fingertips.
Pause.
Where the clay feels a little thinner than the rest.
He pressed a small piece of soft clay against the inside end.
Walks a flat with a rounded wooden tool.
Until it feels even.
Beneath his touch.
He puts the wooden tool aside and studies the clay once more.
His fingers move slowly over its surface.
Lingering.
Until every part feels smooth and even beneath his touch.
Midday through the morning.
The Elder Cropsman.
Who oversee this row of tables passes behind the young apprentice.
He paused beside him.
Offering a small familiar smile and a gentle nod.
Before turning his attention to the growing clay body above the solid legs.
No words are exchanged.
None are needed.
The elder gives the outer wall a light tap with his knuckles.
Listening Once.
Before moving his hand to another place.
Along the growing wall.
The sound of the knuckle tap.
Tells their experience here.
Much about the walk.
Beneath the surface.
Is hot.
Even note.
Where each layer has blended smoothly into the next.
A lighter sound.
Wherever the clay still needs a little more care.
Today.
The sound is hot.
Even.
And reassuring.
The apprentice has come to understand that the elder's quiet nod says enough.
He watched the elder move to the next table.
Before returning to his own patient walk.
After a time.
He stretches his fingers and wrists.
To relieve the stiffness before returning to the next layer.
In that brief pause He listens to the workshop around him.
Beneath the neighboring eve.
Another apprentice beads a fresh lamp of clay.
Against a wooden board to drive out the Last pockets of A.
The soft steady them settling easily.
Into the hush of the rain-softened yard.
When the sun has climbed as high as it will manage behind the clouds,
The whole workshop slows for a short while.
He wipes his hands clean on a cloth.
Kept for exactly this purpose and settles back against the wooden post.
That holds up the shed white eve.
A simple meal is passed along the row of tables.
Millet.
A few soft greens.
Nothing that asks more than a few minutes to eat.
He eats slowly.
Watching the rain beyond the eve.
Around him,
The other apprentices talk in low,
Easy voice.
O.
Say nothing at all.
Content.
Simply to rest for lunch.
He finishes his meal and sets the bowl aside.
He stretched gently.
Easing the stiffness from his neck,
Shoulders and wrist.
Then returns to his walk table.
The clay waits exactly as he left it.
Cool and patient beneath its damp cloth.
Wrong.
Lift.
Breaths.
Smooth.
The motions come even more easily to him now.
The clay,
Yielding to hands.
That have repeated the same talks throughout the season.
He does not count the layers as he goes.
He simply knows by long habit.
When the body has reached its proper height.
He stops there.
The open rim of the hollow body.
Sitting level.
All the way around.
He smooths the top edge one last time.
Before covering the figure carefully.
With a damp cloth.
Protecting the fresh clay from drying too quickly.
Legs and growing body.
Rest quietly beneath the cloth.
Until then.
Tomorrow's walk begins.
Once the day walk has been carefully covered,
There is little left to do.
Back to tend to the figures already resting nearby.
He checks the cloth cover yesterday figures.
Damping one corner.
That has begun to dry a little faster than the rest.
Weeks from now.
After arms and hands and a carefully shaped head have been drawn to the body.
The finished Terracotta Warrior will finally be ready for the clean.
For now.
The body simply rests above its holy legs.
Patient beneath its clot.
Taking its shape slowly.
The way all good clay mess.
Rain settles gently over the whole yard.
A soft grey hash.
Spreading evenly across the tiled workshop roof.
And so,
The young apprentice leaves the covered figure.
Resting quietly on its board.
Rain whispering over the eave.
The Elder's Round complete.
Along the row of tables.
And the workshop beneath the mountain.
Easing into the patient rhythm.
That will carry this unfinished body.
Towards the silent ranks waiting in their burial pits.
The world we visited tonight grows quiet now.
N.
You can simply rest here.
Comfortable and at ease.
Your mind can relax.
Your body can soften.
If you are already drifting into sleep.
Allow yourself to sink.
A little deeper.
If you are still awake.
Listen to the quiet.
There is nothing more to do.
Nowhere else to be.
I'll be here whenever you need another peaceful moment like this.
Bye for now.
Rest gently.
Eh.
Sleep well.
Good night.
