This is Sue.
Inviting you.
Into a quiet spring night.
In ancient China.
A few minutes to lie still.
Listen to the rain.
And drift towards sleep.
Make yourself comfortable.
Allow your hands to rest gently beside you.
Let your eyes close.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
And out through your mouth.
Once more,
Breathing in,
And ah.
Allow your forehead to smooth.
Your jaw to loosen.
And your shoulders.
Sink into the surface beneath you.
Now let your attention settle here.
With your breath.
Imagine You are tucked into bed.
In a garden estate in Chang'an.
A bow.
1,
300 years ago.
In the Tang Dynasty.
The lamp on its stands.
Has already been put out.
The room is dark and still.
The lattice window stands a little open.
A spring breeze comes through it.
Cool and damp.
Carrying the smell of wet earth.
From the garden and the pond.
Rain has been falling since evening.
And it has cooled the night.
Beneath the light quilt,
You are warm.
Listen to the rain.
At first.
It is far away.
A soft hash.
Over the whole garden.
Over the apricot trees.
Along the path.
And the willows by the pond.
Listen a little closer.
Now,
It is on the roof tiles above you.
Elight.
Steady Petta.
Raindrops gather at the edge of the eave and fall.
One after another.
Onto the stones below the window.
Somewhere underneath those ears.
The swallows are tucked into their nests.
Quiet in the rain.
Let the breeze inside the room touch your face.
Whom?
And then let your attention return to the rain sound.
After a while.
.
.
The rain in the garden.
On the roof.
And from the eve.
Blends into.
Wanshof studies how.
If it all comes.
You do not need to follow it.
Just listen for the rain again.
It has been falling.
The whole evening and night.
There is a tan poem about a spring night like this one.
The poet slept so soundly that He did not notice the dawn arrived.
When he woke up,
All he remembered of the night was this.
In the night,
Came the sound of wind and rain.
Perhaps he lay listening.
Just as you are now.
Until the sound carried him into sleep.
Tonight.
There is nothing for you to hold.
The rain falls on the tiles.
And soaks into the garden all by itself.
As it always has.
Each breath.
Can be a little slower than the last.
And each sound a little farther away.
You are only listening.
Listening asks nothing of you.
Naum You do not need your picture.
Anything at all.
The Garden.
The E.
And the open lattice.
Can soften into the dark.
The quilt around you.
Is simply the warmth.
Of your own bed.
Only the sound of rain remains.
And your breathing.
Let the rain go on.
My voice will grow quiet now.
The rain can carry you into sleep.
I wish you a peaceful night.
