Peonies Viewing In After The Examination | Sleep Story

Tonight, we step quietly into the third lunar month in Tang Chang'an, nearly 1,300 years ago, at the height of the Tang Dynasty.
Three newly successful scholars (jinshi ) walk toward the Great Ci'en Temple to admire its spring peonies. The examination results have been posted; the gatherings at the Apricot Garden and Qujiang have passed; and for one clear morning, the young men are free to become acquainted beyond the formal courtesies of success.
Settle in, relax, and drift gently into sleep.

Transcript

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 softly back. Nearly 1300 years ago. Into Chang'an. The capital city of the Tang Dynasty. It is a clear spring morning in the third lunar month. And a young imperial civil service examination graduate scholar. Newly named. Among the examination success. Is walking with. To new colleagues. Towards Grey Sian Temple. South of the imperial city. To see the peonies everyone in the capital city has been speaking of. Their path begins at the World Gate. Where the waking city is just starting to stir. The Ward Gay. Has only recently opened. Be on it. Chang'an Broad Avenue is beginning to wake with activities. A water carrier crossing towards a silent ocean. A shopkeeper? Raising a wooden shutter. The distant beat of a watchman's drum. Fading into the morning. The sky above the tiled roof is pure and clean. The scholar walks between his two companions without saying much. In recent days. They have met. At the posting of the examination results. Beneath the blossoms. Of the apricot garden. And among the pavilions beside Cho Ching Lake. In the southeast of Chang'an. Their names and home prefectures are familiar. Their silence are familiar too. All three of them wear freshly prepared round-collared robes. Play. But carefully arrange for the outings that follow the examination results. Their black head cloths are newly folded and None yet weighs the robes of the senior office. They are. Newly successful graduates. Of the highest. Tang Dynasty. Imperial civil service examination known as the jinshi. But. . . Their official life. Have not fully began. They turn from the avenue towards the temple district. The air begins to carry incense. Damstone and flowers. The Great Xi'an Temple. Rises south of the imperial city. One of Chang'an's Buddhist compounds. Beyond the courtyard roofline. The epic stories of the Great Wild Goose Pagoda. Rice pill. Against the spring sky. The three scholars pass beneath the gate and into the punicordia. The fragrance meets them at once. A few monks cross the far side of the courtyard carrying the fresh water towards the halls. Their footsteps. Barely louder than the breeze moving through the peony beds. Stone path. Rance between long-planted beds and along each bed. The peonies have risen. To their full spring weight. Each blossom are. White at the edge and pink at the heart. Some are clear rules. Some carry a rat so deep beneath the petals. All of Chang'an has been speaking of the blooming peonies for days. The gray layered flowers. That poets compare with wealth, Beauty. And the fullness of spring. Still, The scholar paused. He had expected flowers. Didn't expect this much abundance of varieties of peony colors and fragrance. Along the far side of the courtyard. Older officials are. Already walking among the flowers bed rows. They are bearing and formal belts. Mark them as men long accustomed to the imperial offices. To have pause beneath a deep red flower and look at it as intently as if it were a page worth rereading. Nia the Eastern Wall. A temple gardener. Carries a wicker basket and a small knife. For moving damaged stems and a rain bruised blossom. The scholar takes a breath in. Step forward. The three young men walk the fast path without speaking. Their steps fall softly on the stone. To one's high. The flowerbeds lived in careful rows. To the other. The temple wall runs long and pure. From time to time, One of them paused. Only enough to look more closely at a blossom. Ong to notice. How the morning light lies over the leaf and the blossom. Before taking the next few steps. This becomes their rhythm. Walk a little. Pause. Look. Walk again. The scholar finds himself drawn not to the brightest flowers at best. But to those whose petals have just only loosened to the day. One blossom is still half held in itself. Another has opened completely. Every Leah Visible. The center. Hidden in shadow and color. His companion on the ride. Smiles towards a pure pink bloom. The companion on the left lift one hand to indicate a white flower touch with faint green near the base of the petals. That's just char is enough. One quietly recalls half a poem line heard during the gatherings at Cho Ching Lake. Then let it fade and finish. The flower before them seems complete without it. At the center of the cordia where four parts meet. The scholar stopped beside a deep red flower. Taller than the others around it. The stem rises from a dense fan of leaf. Carrying the peony bloom at a height where he can look at it without bending. The outer petals are dark as liquor. Where the shadow falls into them. Towards the centre, The red warms and softens. He stands very still. Not thinking. Only looking. A breeze moves through. And the blossom shifts slightly on its stem. Not enough to sway. Only enough to remind him that even if flour is full still answers the morning air. He leans in a little. The fragrance is strongest here. Warm and clear. Fuller than the sand. Carried across the courtyard. Done. He straightens and steps back. The wider courtyard gathers around him again. The peony garden beds. Quiet voices. His two companions waiting a little ahead. They continue towards the pavilion. At the far end of the courtyard. On the way. The path brings them near the older officials. The three young scholars bow their heads as they pass. And the older men. And slide the gesture. Before turning back to the blue. The temple gardener has moved farther along the road by now. Placing the damaged blossom into his basket. From somewhere and at the eve of the side hall. Comes the hollow knock of wood against wood. The sound is light and brief. Beside the pavilion steps stands a stone basin filled with clean water. On the surface floats one fallen petal. Pure and almost still. Turning only when the slightest current reaches it. From the lip of the spout above. Descola, Pause here. He does not touch the water. He only watched the petal turn. One of his companions rests a hand upon the lacquer pavilion rail. The other looks towards the inner hole. Where a faint thread of incense drifts outward. After a moment. They climb the pavilion steps. From the pavilion. The cordial sounds become easier to hear. Though the hour is still morning. It is a listening hour now. Water slips softly from the narrow spout into the stone basin below. Somewhere across the courtyard. The temple gardener's knife. Clips is damn. A pair of older officials speaks in tone. Too low to become wards. From the hole beyond the puny garden beds. A low bell sound once. 10. No more. All of it belongs to the same calm. The pavilion shades the stone path beneath the scholar feet. Beyond the open side. The peonies continue their small motions. The scholar. Here's the A move. Before he fully feels it. Done. The air reaches the pavilion. With the fragrance of the flowers. Nor constant. But returning. Again and again. The three scholars remain beneath the pavilion roof. While the morning grows warmer. From here. The courtyard no longer appears at one continuous sweep of color. Each peony flower has separated into itself. One bowed beneath its own fullness. One newly opened. One beginning to lose at the edge. The scholar rests his hands on his lap. The examination hall. The exam result. And the formal gatherings of recent days. Have begun to feel. More distant. His companions are no longer merely two names from the list of successful candidates. He knows the Prefecture. From which it has troubled. The shape of each man's silence. And Which flowers make them pause? A folded paper slip rests inside one scholar leaf. Bots. He does not take it out. Not every flower must become a poem. One of them. Notice a pill bloom. Beside the eastern wall has opened farther. Since their arrival. The other's look. No one answers. Water falls softly into the stone basin. Eat Bell. Sounds once more. From a hole. Beyond the courtyard. The fragrance of the peonies pass beneath the roof. And then it's gone. Alas! An older official leaves the far path. A novice crawls beneath the carver's walkway. The young men understand that. The quiet hour is drawing to its close. Steel. They remain for another moment. Now the cordia asks for almost nothing. The nearest peony. Lift and knee the breeze in. Settles again. Another bloom beside it. Answers a moment later. Than a third. Deeper in the bed. Moves by. More than a whisper. The fragrance returns through the pavilion. Sweet. Worm. And gone again. Warm light. Rest on the path beyond the doorway. Where one fallen petal lies near the edge of that brightness. The color depends. The nearest bloom moves once more. From somewhere in the temple grounds, A bell sounds once. Very low and round. It passes through the cordia and fades until it becomes part of the silence. Already waiting beneath it. No one in the pavilion needs to speak. The three young scholars remain where they are a little longer. Hell binds the same quiet rhythm of petals. Light. And A. Then together. They rise to live. And so the young scholar leaves the great Xi'an temple. Beside his two new companions. The quiet of the peony courtyard still resting around them. Behind them, The blossoms continue to live in the third-month breeze. Warm light. Lingers on the stone paths. And the fading sweetness of the peony flowers carries the whole morning gently towards the noon. 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.