Welcome to.
.
.
Sue 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 visit Chang'an.
On the morning of the Dragon Ball Festival.
The fifth D.
Of the fifth lunar month.
Nearly 1300 years ago.
At the height of the Tang Dynasty.
The city has begun to stir.
Across the eastern and western wards.
Countless gates.
Already have fresh bundles of Magwod and Calamas.
Steam rises from kitchens glutinous rice wrapped in reed leaf have cooked through the night.
Children in the lanes already wear fragrant sachet at their waist somewhere along the great avenues.
Drums echo across the rooftop.
Across the city Countless households are making the Dragon Ball Festival.
Ready in their own way.
Tonight.
We follow one such household.
And quiet in a room.
Where the festival arrives not through drums or gates.
But true fragrance.
The household has been awake for some time.
Behind its outer courts and covered walkways.
In one of the inner rooms.
A walk table has been set up for a tux that has nothing to do with the gate.
Or the Dragon Ball Festival food.
The daughter of the household sits before it.
She is 19 and has been making fragrance shea for the household.
Since the beginning of the fourth lunar month.
Today is the morning they will be given.
The final few,
Knee finishing.
The table holds everything the walk requires.
Small ceramic jars with their lids set beside them.
For the lens of Silk Wars.
In several colors.
A role of fine cord.
Needles already threaded.
A small stone mortar placed near the left corner.
The fabric for a sashay,
A light silk gauze.
Air passes gently through the weave.
Carrying the fragrance award.
A little at a time.
The scent is never trapped.
Only drifting outward with each movement.
She leaves a length of soft green gauze and holds it towards the window.
Morning light.
Passes through it.
In a gentle wash of color.
Casting a faint pattern across her hand.
The fabric is almost weightless.
She has cut lengths of several colors over the past month.
Crimson for her parents and grandmother.
Saffron yellow.
For the household seniors' attendance.
Soft grain for herself.
The embroidered panels are finished and folded the previous evening.
The last of them completed by Buddha.
Lam Lai.
When the household had grown quiet.
Only the swing of the final few.
The feelings.
And the tying remain.
Three ceramic jars stand at the table's left edge.
Their lids placed beside them.
The first jaw.
Hong's Chinese Angelica route.
The dry slices.
Pure and light.
Carrying a faint sweetness.
The second holds Calamus.
The same plant that hangs above the compound gate this morning.
Ground into a coarse powder with flecks of green still visible among it.
The third jar contains a small amount of igarwood.
And comfort.
The camphor rests in delicate white flakes.
That catches the morning light.
Like a touch of frost.
She opens the mortars and.
.
.
Walks the tree together.
Life Strokes Fest.
Just enough to combine them.
Done.
Steady your prasha.
The Angelica and Calamus.
Release their fragrance.
Right away.
Fresh and green.
The ego would and kampha take longer.
The ascent.
Emerges slowly beneath the herb.
Deep and warm.
Followed by the comfort,
Gentle coolness.
A quiet fragrance.
Begins together in the room.
Sharp at the first breath.
Warm at the second.
Then,
After a quiet moment,
A gentle coolness follows.
She covers the mortar with this cloth and set it aside.
She picks up this half green sashay face.
The peace for herself.
The last one.
Finish the previous evening.
The design shows two birds in flight.
Each holding a length of silk ribbon in its beak.
The ribbons.
Crossing at the centre.
She had added the white ribbon lines last night by Lem Lai.
The final stitches said when the rest of the household was already asleep.
By lamplight,
She could judge the stitching.
But not the color.
She holds the panel up to the morning window.
The birds.
Image Clearly.
In daylight.
Shabbat than she had expected.
The white ribbon lines catching the morning light with a tiny repetitive flash from the metallic thread.
Each stitch seems to pause the room for a breath.
The faint sound of silk on silk.
Falling away.
As the live move across it.
The tension at each stitch holds without pulling the weave.
She checks the corners with her thumb.
Pressing gently against the cause to feel whether anything has shifted overnight.
She finds.
Everything holds.
She put it down with the others.
Most of the sachets have been sewn.
10 of the 13 bodies had already been stitched and turned before she placed her needlework down at night.
The border swing easier by lamplight than the embroidery.
The stitches larger and less delicate.
Three remain.
Set aside because the feeling was to be ground fresh this morning.
She picks up the fast and complete its border.
Then the second.
Enter.
The three new sachets join the ten already waiting on the table.
Crimson.
Saffron.
And soft green.
Each left open for filling.
Each holding its shape.
The room is quiet.
The sounds of the Dragon Boat Festival morning drift in from the world outside at a pleasant distance.
Presence.
But not entering.
She removes the cloth from the mortar.
The herb blend inside.
Is a pure dry powder.
Uniform from the grinding.
She lifts the mortar and takes a small bone spoon from the table.
One spoon of powder into the first Shea body through the gap.
She walks the feeling to the center with two fingers.
Pressing lightly.
So it sits evenly.
This is She's Shape.
Holds the powder well.
The cause resists collapse.
Keeping the realm full.
The smell close like this is.
Immediate.
That comforts,
Coolness first.
Than the ego would.
Tap below it.
Then the Angelica.
Shop.
A bubble.
Three distant smell.
Done.
Blending into something that belongs to none of them individually.
She fills each sachet in turn.
The fragrance deepened as she walked through.
Accumulating in the still air of the inner room.
The row of sachet now rests full and fragrant on the table.
She reaches for the five-color silk cord.
Known as the longevity threads.
Traditionally tied during the fifth month.
She draws the cord through the opening of the sachet and ease it close.
Hands fall evenly beneath her hands.
Before she ties a simple knot.
Below it,
The brightest silk tassel.
Hangs with a gentle wave.
Ready to sway in each step.
She braided these hanging strands in the days before the Dragon Boat Festival.
Each one is waited at the end.
The silk worn back on itself and Nicely bound.
So it swings with a gentle wave.
Whenever the sushi moves.
She holds the finished crimson sachet at arm's length.
Round and plump.
With the embroidered side facing outward.
A small falcon.
Stitch in gold thread.
Its wings swept back in flight against the deep crimson gauze.
For a moment.
She studies it in the morning light.
Soon the remaining sachets are finished as well.
Before her,
A roll of finished sashay.
Stretch across the table.
Samalach!
Some.
No bigger than the palm of her hand.
That takes the shade in total.
Made over the past month.
And finish on Dragon Ball Festival morning.
The largest are for her parents and grandmother.
The mid sides.
Are for her sisters and senior attendants.
The smallest are for the youngest helping woman.
Each filled with the same plan.
The two soft green ones sit at the end of the row,
Aphorha.
She picks one up and hangs it from the cord at her waist.
The sachet sway gently as she moves.
The smell.
Reaches her.
Immediately.
The ego would and can't follow.
Already drifting through the cause.
Slow and continuous.
The room holds the mind walk in one small row.
For a moment.
She looks at them.
In the morning light.
She clears the walk table.
The ceramic jars are closed.
The mortar,
Wiped and covered.
The needles return to their case.
The table returns to a clear surface.
The whole month's work,
Non-rest in the 13th sachet,
Lay neatly across the work table.
From the outer hole comes the sound of the household.
Resembling footsteps.
A door drawn open.
Her mother's voice carrying the morning's arrangement.
The world outside carries the Dragon Ball Festival morning fully.
Drums somewhere distant.
Voices.
The smell of cooked food and fresh mugwort and calamus moving through the lanes.
She gathers Sashay carefully into her arms and carried them out towards the hall.
And Su,
The younger daughter of the household.
Carries the festival sachet.
Into the morning.
The ting fragrances the shade in various colours.
Crimson.
Saffron.
Soft green.
Each tied with five colour cords.
The fragrance already drifting gently through the gauze as she walks.
Beyond the compound gate,
The sounds of the Dragon Ball Festival morning.
Continue through the wards of Chang'an.
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.
And.
.
.
Sleep well.
Good night.
