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.
Into a mountain villa.
On a south-facing ridge of Jonan Mountain.
South of Chang'an Nearly.
1,
300 years ago at the height of the Tang Dynasty.
It is.
Deep winter.
The rest of the household in this mountain villa?
Has long since gone to bed.
Somewhere far below.
In the dark valley.
The last note of a tempo bell.
Has already faded away.
Snow has been falling since before dusk.
Thick and slow.
Without rain.
In the reading room at the corner of the villa.
A single bee wax candle.
Bend slow.
On a small table.
Beside the daybed.
An old man reclines.
Beneath a heavy quilt.
Behind the open window.
Quietly watching the snow fall into the night.
The villa stands on a broad shelter terrace.
Along the mountainside.
Fabulo.
The valleys have disappeared into darkness and falling snow.
The pine forests are little more than shadows now.
They are slopes.
Fading,
One behind another one.
Into the winter night.
The villa is made up of several low timber buildings.
Arranged around quiet courtyards.
They are tile roof.
Already deep beneath the snow.
Covered corridors,
Ran between the rooms.
Supported by dark wooden pillars.
And bamboo bends beneath the weight of white around the garden walls.
Here and there,
A little warm light shows through a lattice window.
Tonight.
Even the wind bells beneath the corners of the roof are still.
There is no win.
Only snow.
Large flakes falling slowly.
And almost straight down through the darkness.
Settling over the roof.
The courtyards.
The God in Stones.
And the mountain path beyond.
Inside the reading room.
The air is warm enough that that old man can sit comfortably beneath his quilt and watch the snow.
He is nearly 70 now.
For more than 30 years,
He served at town court in Chang'an.
Eventually becoming.
One of the Emperor's senior counsellors.
Nong.
All of that.
Belongs to another life.
He has been retired for several years and spends much of his time here in the mountains.
Beside the teapar.
Stands a bronze brazier.
Filled with willow charcoal.
It was carefully tended at dusk.
Now the charcoal glows a deep sturdy red.
Giving all.
Enough warmth.
To keep the room comfortable.
Thick woolen mats.
Kaaba.
Part of the wooden floor.
Keeping away some of the cold.
That rises through the boards.
The reading room itself is simple.
Dark timber beams cross the ceiling.
The plaster walls are left mostly bare.
On one wall hangs an old silk painting of mountain in ink.
It's brushwork.
Faded with age.
The ridges have softened over the years.
Until they seem almost to disappear into mist.
A small table beside the daybed.
Holds the candle.
Equally cup.
And a small silver incense ball.
Beyond them,
The open lattice window.
Frames the snow-covered bamboo.
And the dark mountains outside.
The incense ball rests beside the candle.
Inside,
A small piece of incense smoulders slowly.
A faint thread of smoke slips out through the tiny openings.
In the silver shield.
It calls briefly.
Through the candlelight before disappearing.
The fragrance has settled gently through the room.
Maudie Cool.
And faintly sweet.
The old man raises his cup and takes a slow sip.
The tea,
It's dark and slightly bitter.
Prepared earlier from a compressed tea cake.
And kept warm.
Beside the breeze here.
After drinking,
He keeps the cup between both hands for a little while.
Feeling its warmth against his fingers.
Outside the window.
Snow continues to gather.
On the bamboo leaf.
N.
Along the wooden sill.
Inside the charcoal glows.
The incense smoulders.
And the candle flame.
Scarcely move.
The broad window.
Has been left open for the winter night.
The bamboo blime above it.
Is rolled up.
The wooden lattice panels.
Have been pushed aside.
The air is noticeably colder.
Niyatha Opening.
Though the brazier keeps the daybed warm enough for the old man.
To remain beneath his quilt.
Outside.
The snow continues to fall.
Large flakes fall almost straight down through the still air.
Passing through the light from the room.
Before settling on the courtyard.
The tile roof.
And the tree branches beyond.
The trees nearest the window.
Are already heavy with snow.
Some of the smaller branches.
Band beneath its weight.
That all men watch for a long time.
He has seen snow fall over this villa for many winters.
But he still noticed the small changes.
From one snowfall to another.
Whether the flakes are fine or heavy.
How quickly they get out on the roof.
And whether the branches move beneath them.
Tonight.
Even the branches are still.
For a long while.
There is almost no sound at all.
Then.
.
.
Somewhere beyond the courtyard.
A small branch gives way.
Beneath the weight of the snow.
There is a soft crack.
Followed by the faint sound of snow.
Falling from the leaves.
The old man leaves his eye towards the window.
From the day bed.
He can see the bamboo nearest the room.
It's leave.
Bowed beneath the snow.
Be on it.
The dark line of a tiled roof.
Crosses the courtyard.
With one dim,
Latex window still lit in another part of the villa.
Father Wayne.
The buildings gave way to.
Pine cover slopes.
And the darker shapes of the Dronan ridges beyond.
A little snow slips from one branch.
And falls into the courtyard.
Then,
Everything is still again.
His gaze drift back into the room.
Towards the shelf.
Along the opposite wall.
From the tea bag.
The old man can see the low wooden shell.
Along the opposite wall.
Books and road scrolls rest there in neat rows.
Some wrap-in cloth.
Others tied with simple cords.
They are the books and the scrolls he chose to bring with him.
When he left Chang'an.
Along with a smaller collection.
Gathered during the year since.
There are histories he has read many times.
Older classical texts.
And several collections of poetry.
Some of the poultry scrolls have grown soft.
At the edges.
From being opened so often.
Among them are verses about mountains,
Autumn rivers,
Long journeys.
All friends.
Families and nights spent alone beneath the moon.
There are also a few scrolls of his own writing.
Poems.
Copied in his hand.
Letters from friends and notes made during his years in the mountains.
On Moore's Winter Evenings.
He takes down one of these folks and Reads for a while before bed.
Tonight,
He leave them where they are.
The snow beyond the window is enough.
The hour is very late now.
The old man.
Has now moved from the day bed.
He remains beneath the heavy quilt.
His bag,
Supported by a few cushions.
As he looked out towards the snow.
Beside him.
The breeze here still gives off a sturdy warmth.
The room remains comfortable enough for the night.
But the charcoal is beginning to fade.
A faint dry smell from the breeze here.
Lingers in the air.
He becomes familiar with the smell.
After so many winters spent here.
Beyond the open window.
The snow is still falling.
Large flakes pass quietly through the darkness and settles on the roof.
The bamboo.
And the trees.
Beyond the courtyard.
The cedar and pine farther down the slope.
Stand motionless beneath the snow.
The all-man.
Finally shifts lightly on the daybed.
N lowers his feet onto the woolen mat.
He rest them.
NYA DEPRESSIA feeling the warmth through his socks.
Inside the breath here.
The charcoal has burned lower.
By morning most of it will be ash.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
The faint fragrance of incense still lingers in the room.
Beside him.
The candle burns low.
When he opens his eyes again.
The snow is still falling beyond the window.
Snow has covered the courtyard.
The tile roof.
The Garden Pots.
And the branches beyond the wall.
Farther down the mountain.
The pine-covered slopes have disappeared into the darkness and snow.
And so The old man stays beneath his quilt for a little while longer.
With the last warmth of the breeze here beside him.
And the candle burning low on the table.
The rest of the villa is asleep now.
Outside.
The snow continues to fall over the Jonan Mountain.
At last.
He draws the quilt aside.
And rises from the deep bed.
He closed the wooden lattice panels across the window.
N.
Lowers the bamboo blind.
Then he lift the candle from the table.
And leaves the reading room for the night.
Behind him.
The room grows dark.
The breeze here.
Gives all.
Is Last Red Glow.
Beyond the closed lattice.
Snow continues to fall over the courtyard.
Rude.
And the mountains beyond.
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.
