Welcome to Sue Quiet Sleep.
I am so glad you are here.
Before we begin our tonight's story.
Find a comfortable position.
Let your body settle into the surface beneath you.
Your shoulders can soften now.
If there is any tension in your jaw.
Let it release.
Soften the small muscles around your eyes and brow.
Let your hands rest gently and easily.
If your eyes are not already closed.
Allow them to close now.
Take a slow breath in through your nose.
Filling your lungs and Breathe out through your mouth.
And again.
Breathe in.
And breathe out.
Let your shoulders drop a little more.
And allowing your whole body to grow heavier and supported.
With each slow breath.
The sounds of your day begin to fade slowly into the background.
India please.
A gentle mist begins to rise.
A quiet bridge between now and then.
And as tonight's story begins.
.
.
Emerging yourself,
Stepping lightly through the mist.
Leaving the present behind.
And drifting into another time.
A slower,
Quieter warmth.
Tonight,
We step quietly into the small mountain villa.
At the foot of the Jonan Mountains.
The forested ridge south of Chang'an.
Nearly.
1,
300 years ago.
In the high of the Tang dynasty.
Here live two sisters who have withdrawn from their capital Chang'an after long years of service within the refined households of Chang'an and the Imperial Palace.
The elder sister was once an imperial court artisan.
Known for her painting silk and delicate embroidery work.
The younger sister whose story we follow tonight.
Once,
Soft as hot cocoa.
Within the aristocratic Pei family household.
Where she spent decades preparing seasonal meals for one of the noble families of the Tang dynasty court.
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.
They left behind.
It is late afternoon.
Turning towards evening.
Hour one life fades from the open slope and cold settles properly into the air.
Several days of heavy snow have already passed.
The sky cleared briefly that morning.
But now the clouds are returning once again.
And with them.
The fast snowflakes of new snow.
Drifting down through the grey dusk.
In the small kitchen of the villa.
Where charcoal smoke hangs faintly beneath the beams and the stone stove still holds warmth from the morning fire.
The younger sister begins preparing a slow winter porridge.
Thick fragrant and meant to sustain the body through the long mountain snow winter night.
Before darkness fully settles in.
Before she starts she steps out through the low kitchen door and into the open front yard.
The core is immediate and clean.
New snow has settled over everything.
Over the curved eave tiles.
Over the doorstep stones.
Over the pavilion roof.
On the side of the villa.
Where the bench and stone table sit in all weather.
The palm tree stands very still at the ridge edge.
Its lower branches lined with thin white edges of snow.
Above it,
The sky is a deep,
Heavy grey.
At the far end of the villa.
Beneath the long eve,
Outside the studio,
The paper lantern.
Has been lit.
Its pure orange glow rests softly against the darkening snow.
Inside,
Elder Sister still sits at her walk table with brush in hand.
Before a long stretch seal.
Painting in the last useful light.
Beyond the narrow lattice window,
Red plum blossom rise from the snow beside the villa wall.
Small clusters of color at the tips of the dark branches.
Vivid against the white mountainside.
Five petals each.
Open.
The younger sister paused beneath the E for a moment.
Watching the snow drift past the window.
The red plum blossom beyond it and her elder sister painting quietly in the last useful light.
Then she turns back towards the kitchen.
The kitchen is a spacious steel room with a packed earth floor and a stone stove set into the corner.
With a charcoal bank and glowing faintly at its center.
The kitchen wall holds the ordinary things of a walk-in kitchen.
A bundle of dry herbs tied with cord.
An iron ladle on a wooden hook.
A warm cloth for handling hot clay pots.
On the wooden shelf above the stove sit several ceramic jars.
One holding dried osmanthus.
One holding thought.
One sealed tightly with a cloth cap.
Beside them,
A small jar of honey.
Its surface gone thick and pale in the winter cold.
The room smells of charcoal and old wood and very faintly of the last fire.
Charcoal at the stove center glows soft and steady.
A decimal crackle.
It only breathes low and orange.
Holding its heat without announcement.
Warm and still.
On the table beside the stove.
She has arranged what she will use.
A cup of rice.
Already rinsed.
Gathered in a shallow bowl.
The grains.
Peel and clean in the winter light.
A small packet of chestnuts simmered yesterday and left to cool overnight.
Their outer skins peel back to show the soft,
Starchy flesh inside.
A handful of dry jujubes.
Red dates.
Small and dark as all liquor.
Each one holding a concentrated sweetness from the months they have spent drying.
And a piece of fresh tinder root.
Pale gold lightly twisted beneath its thin papery skin.
She begins with the ginger.
Then now.
.
.
Draws the outer skin back in thin strips.
When she makes the first cut across the root.
The smell arrived immediately.
Bright and warm.
The way cool things sometimes carry a heat deep inside them.
The ginger fragrance rises into the cool kitchen air and lingers there softly.
She lifts the clay pot from its place on the shelf and places it on the stove over the bank charcoal.
This all-clay pot.
Used for long slow cooking through many winters.
Is older than she can clearly remember.
Its outer surface is darkened from years of heat.
Marked with the evidence of many fires.
It holds one well and give it up slowly.
That is the nature of clay.
Patient.
Steady.
Reliable in ways that cannot be forced.
She pours cold water from the stone basin into the pot.
Then adds the rinsed rice.
Place the lid back on Then she kneels to the stove and blows gently on the charcoal until the coals brighten.
Going from gray edge to a clean orange glow.
She adds a small piece of new charcoal carefully.
Setting it on the edge of the heat rather than the center.
After a few minutes,
A thin thread of steam begins to rise from beneath the clay lid.
The porridge,
A thick rice congee made by simmering rice in far more water than it can absorb.
Slowly.
Until the grain and the liquid become one soft thing.
Cannot be rushed.
This is the nature of it.
It asks for time.
Time in return transforms it.
She adds the ginger slice when the water is fully warm.
They go in quietly and settle to the bottom.
Within a few breaths.
The kitchen air changes.
The rich ginger scent.
Mingles with the mild warmth of cooking rice and the earthy scent of charcoal smoke.
The steam from the clay pot rises in a soft wavering thread.
Pale against the smoke-darkened wall above the stove and the water below begins very gently to move.
Outside the kitchen window,
The snow has been falling steadily for some time now.
The open slope beyond is quiet and growing whiter.
When the porridge has thickened slightly at the edges and the ginger has had time to give its warmth to the water.
She adds the red dates.
She places them in one at a time.
They make almost no sound going in.
Their color slowly moving through the liquid.
Faint warm redness drifting through the porridge.
The way ink moves through still water.
The chestnut go in next.
Broken gently in half.
Soft enough that their edges crumble slightly.
They settle into the porridge and are absorbed.
She reduces the heat a little.
Drawing the charcoal slightly back from the center of the stove.
The simmer soften to something lower and steadier.
The steam from the lid grows thicker and more generous.
Curling upward and dissolving into the kitchen air before it reaches the ceiling.
She stirs once slowly with the wooden ladle.
Once is enough.
Then she sets the ladle against the strobe edge and simply waits.
She opens the kitchen door and looks out.
The snow is falling properly now.
Not in the thin,
Hesitant flakes of Aaliyah.
But in slow full flicks that come down in long drifting paths.
The front yard has gone very white.
The pavilion roof holds a thick ridge of new snow.
And the palm tree's branches at the ridge edge are layered again.
As though they had never cleared at all.
At the far end of the villa.
The paper lantern still glows beneath the long eve.
Pale orange.
Steady and patient.
Her elder sister has no move from her walk.
There is the small subtle shape of the lantern light.
N the faint sense of someone bent over something at the other end of the house.
The younger sister watched for a moment.
Snow falls between her and that distance glow.
Cool.
Quiet.
Then she pulled the kitchen door gently closed and turns back to the stove.
The kitchen has grown warmer while she was looking out.
The ginger fragrance has thickened and settled through the room.
No strong noun the way it was when she first cut the root.
But soft and present.
The way familiar smells become when they have been in the air long enough to belong there.
It is in the cotton of her outer robe.
In the folds of her sleeve.
The white lamp above the stove burns quietly.
Is more flame steady.
Its light reaches the worn rim of the stove and the rounded shoulder of the clay pot.
No much further.
The porridge moves slowly in the pot.
Thick.
Fragrant.
Nearly ready.
The steam climbs in.
Dissolve into a warm air above the stove.
Outside the window,
Snow falls.
Warm inside.
Call beyond the wall.
When the porridge is ready,
She left two ceramic bowls with clay lids from the shelf and placed them carefully onto a wooden tree.
She laid all slowly.
The liquid is thick and reddened from the dates.
Peel where the chestnuts have broken apart in the long cooking Steam rises from each bough in four warm clouds.
More generous now than it has been all evening.
She drizzles a little honey into each ball.
A thin thread from the jar.
Dissolving into the warm before it reaches the bottom.
Then she settles the ceramic lids gently into the place.
She calls through the interior partition.
A brief word,
Soft to her sister,
Still painting in the studio.
From the far end of the villa comes the quiet sound of a brush being set down.
Followed by a movement later by soft,
Faint footsteps crossing the wooden floor towards the main hall.
The younger sister carries two bow along the covered passage.
That connects the kitchen to the main hall.
An interior corridor.
Way that feels warm,
Collects and holds.
Through the lattice window in the passage wall.
The front yard is visible.
Deeply white now.
The eave edges thick with snow.
The palm tree branches leered again as though they had never been clear.
Snow falls still,
Patient and steady.
Into.
What has already gathered.
She watched for a moment without stopping.
Her elder sister appears at the far end of the corridor.
Moving from the studio side.
Still in her painting robe.
A faint ink mark at her wrist.
Her gaze settles briefly on the steam rising beneath the lids.
She said nothing.
She takes the nearer balm in both hands.
The warmth of this ceramic.
Settles gradually into her hands.
A thin thread of ginger fragrance rises from beneath the lid.
Soft and present.
The same warmth it has filled the kitchen all evening.
Carried down into the passage between them.
And so the two sisters settle in the main hall.
With the porridge buns.
The ceramic bowls warm in their hands.
The ginger fragrance rises soft and familiar into the air.
The honey already dissolved inside.
And the snow continuing to fall beyond the lattice as the evening comes properly to the mountain villa.
The world we visited tonight is quiet now.
N.
You are here again.
In the comfort of your room.
Your mind can rest.
Your body can relax.
If you are already drifting into sleep,
Allow yourself to think deeper.
If you are still awake,
Simply listen to the quiet.
Thank you for joining me at Sue Quietly.
I'll be here again soon to share another peaceful moment in time.
Bed for now.
Sleep well.
Good night.
