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 tonight.
Now let yourself drift softly into tonight's story.
Tonight,
We visit Jonah Mountains.
The forest ridge that rise just south of Chang'an.
Nearly 1300 years ago.
At the height of the Tang Dynasty.
On one such ridge?
Where the trees open to a broad view across the plain.
Stands a small mountain villa.
Two sisters have lived here for the past 10 years.
Having withdrawn from long years of service in Chang'an.
There are days now passed in quiet routines shaped by the mountains.
The changing light.
And the turning of the seasons.
This afternoon,
The sky has cleared after the snow.
The pale silver light rests gently across the slope.
Only sounds.
Are the slow dripping of snow melt from the eave and somewhere among the distant pines the soft ringing of a temple bell.
Tonight,
We follow one such quiet life of Tang Dynasty.
Here live two sisters.
The elder sister was once an imperial court artisan.
Known for her painting silk and delicate embroidery work.
The younger sister once served as head cook.
Within the aristocratic Pei family household.
Now retired from the city The two women share a peaceful life together.
In this mountain villa.
Caring with them.
The knowledge and habits of the wall.
The left behind.
The villa is modest.
Two bedrooms.
A common room.
Art Studio.
ANNA KITCHEN capped with K.
It sits on higher ground.
Near the edge of a ridge.
Before it,
The hillside opens as the view.
Pine and cedar.
Stepping down the slope in an even rows.
Among them.
An all-plum tree.
Growing at the rich edge.
Is trunk.
Thick and dark.
Its branches.
Spreading bay and wide.
Over the open slope.
The drip of snow melt from the eave falls in slow,
Patient drops.
One.
Then a pause.
Then.
And Nada.
The silver afternoon light lies flat and cool across the snow-covered slope.
N.
Along the lower branches of the palm tree.
Something has slowly changed.
Small blossom have opened.
Rat.
A surprise pleasant rat.
Against all the white.
The studio is at the far end of the villa.
Set against the edge of the ridge.
It's not a very large room.
But with space for a long walk table.
A silk panel.
Stretch smooth across a wooden frame.
End.
In the corner?
Elobrecia.
Charcoal.
Already glowing.
Warm.
Spreading our world quietly and steadily.
From where the painter sits.
The seal is at high level.
And the slope opens directly before her.
The plum tree at the ridge edge.
The pines stepping down the hill.
The distant roof line.
Half-hidden among them.
And beyond.
The pale shapes of the mountains.
This afternoon,
The retired painter sits quietly at the table.
Looking out at the plum tree.
She's been sitting there for some time.
The plum blossom opened this afternoon while she was resting.
She has not expected them.
Winter had felt so fixed.
So long.
Stay the way.
Red at the tips of the dark branches.
Five petals each.
Open.
Laid out before her.
A flat in stone.
A small bronze water dropper.
A shallow wide porcelain dish.
And a small stopper ceramic jar.
Inside the jar is Cinnabar.
A rich red pigment ground from mineral stone into a fine powder.
The colour of deep plum and festival lanterns.
She pours a small measure into the dish.
And adds one drop of water from the bronze dropper.
Then she grinds the pigment slowly.
Pressing in circles.
With a small grinding stick.
Until the powder softens and the red grows deeper and more even.
Outside,
A drop of snow melt falls from the eave.
Then another after a pause.
The snow on the palm branches is beginning to loosen.
She laid the grinding stick aside.
And picks up the brush.
A slim wolf hair brush.
Fine enough to trace the edge of a single petal.
N.
Holds it near the brazier until the haze grows supple and warm.
Outside.
The plum tree stands against the snow.
A faint current drifts through the room.
Carrying the fragrance of plum.
Pale.
Sweet.
Delegate.
With the freshness of winter still upon it.
She paused for a moment.
Letting it pass around her.
Soul.
Steel.
The blossoms on the tree are small.
5 petals each.
Deeper red at the center.
And peel at the edges.
Between them.
Along the dog park.
Snow still clings on thin ridges.
She touches the brush to the silk.
Not yet with pigments.
Only the dried tip.
Learning the surface.
Then she loads the brush.
Tip into the dish of red pigment.
A slow press to remove the excess.
And then.
.
.
Raise the brush and hold upright.
One long,
Steady stroke.
Across this seal.
One petal.
Small.
Cool.
Red on white.
She lifts the brush and looks at it.
The studio is very quiet.
Beyond the open window,
A little snow loosened from a branch and drips to the ground below.
Settling with a sound no louder than a breath.
She dips the brush again.
The second petal begins.
The door opens softly.
Nor with a knock.
Always.
But with a careful footsteps across the room.
Like a tree settling onto the far side of the walk table.
Her sister.
A few years younger.
Leave the lid of a small clay teapot and pour slowly into a salad cup.
The steam rises in a pale,
Thin thread.
Blends gently into the cool air.
Drifting through the open window.
There is nothing sad.
Neither of them needs to speak.
The plum fragrance is still present in the room.
Softer now.
Mingling with the smell of tea.
Dark and faintly smoky.
The two sands settle together in the warm air without competing.
The Silver Afternoon has been sleeping as she continues to paint.
The light at the window.
It's now a cooler,
Quieter green.
And the red plum blossom have lost the sharpness they had an hour ago.
She sets the brush on its rest and lifts the salad and cup with both hands.
The tea is warm.
She holds it without drinking.
Watching the light change across the slope below.
Far along the valley,
The temple bell rings once.
The sound travels slowly through the cold air and reaches the studio window in its own time.
Illinguisd.
Then,
Fade.
The charcoal in the brassiere holds a steady orange glow.
A small one.
Enough for a Nero studio.
An unfinished painting.
She does not return to this silk immediately.
There is something she wants to watch.
The way the last daylight moves down the palm tree.
From the high branches.
Slowly to the trunk.
And then.
.
.
Draws quietly inward as the evening comes.
One blossom on the lowest branch catches the last pale light and holds it briefly.
Before the grey takes it.
The plum fragrance drifts again through the open window.
Faint now.
Almost more as a memory.
Then sent.
The way something very old returns quietly.
When the season allows it.
Beneath it.
Came another scent.
Ginger warming slowly somewhere in the kitchen at the other end of the villa.
The light outside has begun to fade.
Without being ox.
Her younger sister lights the paper lantern beneath the eve and returns to the kitchen.
The light is pure orange against the snow.
It touches the near branches of the palm tree and makes the open blossom glow.
Very lightly.
From within.
She watched it from the studio window.
Then picks up the brush again,
The second cluster of blossom.
Two flowers.
And a half-opened butt.
The branch curving upward and to the right.
She makes a little more red pigment into the dish.
Adds a drop of water and loads the brush.
Outside.
The snow has begun to fall again.
Soft.
Drifting flakes.
Calming down without sound.
The window remains open to the winter evening.
Be on it.
Snow continues to fall through the fading light.
A few flakes wander inward and settle on the wooden sill.
The room is warm enough that they lingers only briefly.
Before disappearing.
The plum fragrance comes in with the cold air.
Faint and sweet.
If drifts through the studio.
Passing the stretch silk and warm stone rim of the brace here.
The brush moves across the silk.
Snow falls in the dark outside,
Beyond the window.
The lantern holds its pale orange glow among the plum branches.
Steady and patient.
From above the eave,
One last drop of snow melt finds its way down through the new falling snow.
Plum fragrance.
Snow.
The low warmth of the charcoal spreading outward.
A little later,
From the kitchen,
Her younger sister called softly.
That the evening meal is ready.
The painter set down her brush and looks at the silk before her.
The plum branches are still and finish.
Yet the blossom already seemed to carry their own quiet life across the pale surface.
She rises and leave her studio for the evening meal.
And so the two sisters settled in the main hall of the villa with the porridge bowls.
Their ceramic bowls warm in their hands.
The ginger fragrance rises soft and family are into the room.
The honey already dissolved inside.
And the snow continuing to fall beyond the lattes.
As the evening comes properly to the mountain.
The world we visited tonight grows quiet now.
End.
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.
