Welcome to Sue Quietly.
I'm so glad you are here tonight.
Find a comfortable position.
And Let your body settle into the surface beneath you.
Relax your shoulders.
Release any tension in your jaw.
And Soften the muscles around your eyes,
Brows and face.
Take a slow breath in through your nose.
And breathe out through your mouth.
With each steady breath.
The sounds of your day.
Begins to fade.
Into the background.
Now let yourself drift into tonight's story.
Tonight.
We step into a quiet neighborhood.
North of the west market in Chang'an.
Nihali.
1,
300 years ago.
At the height of the Tang Dynasty.
It is late spring.
Rain has been falling since afternoon.
A small noodle shop.
At the end of a narrow lane.
Keeps Wan and Balem burning.
The last customer of the night has just arrived.
Outside.
The stone lane is empty and wet.
Inside.
Warmth still lingers from a full day of cooking.
The night has settled.
The curfew drums of Chang'an.
Have already sounded and faded.
Gates are latch.
Streets have emptied.
Behind compound walls,
Across the city.
Distant household lamp.
Make a scattered amber glow.
I see.
Chunk and breathe behind closed door.
Ten thousand small fires.
Each in their own sealed room.
At the end of one narrow lane.
A Claude Banner.
Mark with the character for noodle hangs dark with moisture.
Bailey's Jerry before the shop light reaches the street.
Is sent.
Arrive first.
Steamed wheat.
Age for nikah.
Ginger.
And Lambroth.
Threaded with scaly end.
Folding warm.
Into the cool night air.
On the wooden counter inside.
A small oil lamp.
Bends without wavering.
Its amber glow.
Reach.
Only you.
As far as the doorway.
Touching the wailing stones.
With a brief warm color.
Against the top.
The shop is still open.
Part.
No much longer.
Inside,
Warmth meets the skin at once.
A full day of cooking live in every surface.
The beings.
Plaster wall.
And benches.
Worn smooth by years of use.
Near the entrance.
A small ceramic banner Release the last thread of sandalwood smooth.
In a string.
And wavering lie.
The whole is small and order.
Four tables of dark stained wood.
Three are B and Y.
One remains occupied.
Red lacquer columns.
Rise at the corners of the room.
Their surfaces.
Have deepened with age.
Into a quiet red-black shine.
As the noodle shop owner,
Move past the counter.
She rests her hand against the nearest one.
Who?
Smooth.
She breathed out slowly.
At the last table.
A young scholar in plain grey robes.
Sit over a deep bowl of wheat noodles.
In Lamb Rock.
A worn scroll case.
Peek from his travel bag.
One sleeve.
Carries dried ink.
He watched the rain through the open doorway.
Lifting the bow now and then for slow sip.
The scholar finishes his meal.
He lift the ball one last time and takes a long slow sip of broth.
Then he put it down.
She knows that's how.
Above.
Please find a customer.
Fully done.
And at peace with it.
She does not look up.
The scholar leave copper coins on the table edge.
The exact amount.
He stands.
Sling his back and pause at the doorway.
To pull his collar against the night air before stepping out.
He gave's a.
.
.
Small nod towards the room.
Acknowledging the meal.
The lab.
The warmth behind him.
She returns the knot.
He steps into the rain.
His full step.
Crawls wet stone.
Clear for a few beats.
Then.
Softened into the sound of water on tiles above.
End.
He is God.
She takes the copper coins from his table and Add it to the lecker box.
Coins meet coins with one quiet metallic note.
Hot thumbs.
Press the lid closed.
The shop is empty now.
She lift the cloth from its pack and Wipe the tables.
Back to France.
One table.
Then another.
Than the scholar's table lasts.
Gathering his empty bow.
Onto a small tree.
She stands in the centre of the empty hole.
Four tables are.
Bay,
And white.
The cloth banner at the doorway.
Hangs dark with rain.
Barely moving on the counter.
The wild lamb burns with.
Perfect steadiness.
Explain.
Upright and precise.
Surrounded by a soft golden ring of light that reaches the edge of the leather box and No father.
She does no more.
She listens.
Rain on the gray roof tiles.
Even and patient.
Not heavy.
Non-argent.
The kind of rain that has the whole night.
From the kitchen partition.
Calms.
One last settling sound.
World easing.
As he leaves the beam.
And then.
.
.
Quiet again.
Through the open doorway.
Eve water.
Draw of inner slow rhythm.
Onto the whetstone below.
From beyond the world wall.
The Wooden Eye Watch blog sounds twice.
Two muted beats.
Then move north.
Softening into the rain.
N It's gone.
Her shoulders lower a fraction.
The ward is sealed.
The room settles around her.
Like a long exhale.
At the end of a day.
That has finally finished.
Asking things of her.
She steps to the doorway.
Lift the damp cloth banner from its hook and draws the door closed behind her.
She carries the lamb through the partition.
The kitchen received her.
In its particular evening smell.
LAMBROG cooling in the heavy iron pot ginger root.
The last wand of charcoal.
Dying in the clay stove.
N.
Beanie all of it.
The quiet.
Yeast and grain scent of kava dough.
Resting.
In its earthen way bound against the rare wool.
She puts the lamp.
On the high wooden shelf.
Its amber light falls across woke rim.
Hanging ladles.
On their wall pack and ceramic storage jar.
Standing in their order.
Along the show.
Each one in its right place.
She moved to the doorbell and.
.
.
Draw back the leaning square.
The dome has settled and cooled.
She pressed two fingers gently into its surface.
Thought.
A lie.
She leaned forward and breathe in.
Sweet dreams.
Faintly tangy.
She smoothed the linear square back into place and pats the side of the doll's bow once with the flat of her palm.
The doll will be ready.
Tomorrow morning.
She moved to the ceramic basin.
Why?
Thick lip.
Fitted into a wooden frame.
At the prep tables far end.
Holding.
Clean water.
Drawn before sundown.
She lowers the iron ladles.
One by one.
Is of sound.
Then.
.
.
Stillness.
She rinses each ladle slowly.
Channing Yi.
In the water.
Running hot tongue.
A long smooth iron.
Then.
.
.
Setting it up right in the wooden drawing rack.
The strainer next.
10.
The wooden noodle board.
Each finds its place.
The basing surface.
Holds the amber lamp glow in a faint shimmer.
A steel core oval.
Trembling,
Faintly.
Each time a little enters the water.
10 smoothing back.
At the right angle.
She slide the iron ledge.
Draw it close against the 9.
And lowers the wooden bar.
Into its bracket.
A low,
Subtle sound.
Final.
The kitchen is closed.
She checks the stove.
The charcoal brick has burned to an even glow.
N.
She lowers the iron cover with care.
She takes the lamp from the shelf and carries it through to the cupboard corridor.
The door slide open.
Cool A arrives.
Wet at its edges.
Carrying rain.
God is wild.
And the green freshness of things.
Growing in the dark.
The corridor.
Runs along the inner courtyard wall.
Sheltered by its deep wooden eaves.
On one side.
While the cordia.
Opens on the other.
Small and warm.
And Entirely given.
Over to rain.
Water gathers at the beam twine's overhead end.
Falls in an even rhythm.
To the white cordia stones below.
She holds the lamb at her side.
Its glow.
Moving briefly.
Across all wood ends.
Peeled plaster.
The cordia lies open before her.
Rain falls across its centre in straight lines.
Along the far wall.
Moles,
Darken.
Where each drop strikes and slides away.
The air smells of wet earth and fresh rain.
Near the wall,
The peony flowers,
Whole,
Broad,
Dark leaves.
Each one.
Weeded weeds.
Gathered water.
As she watched.
One large leaf.
Tips.
Slowly pass its balance point.
A thin stream runs off its edge.
N.
Folds to the swale below.
A breath,
Soft sound.
Then the leaf rises back.
Light and now.
Slower than it fell.
She stepped back from the cordia edge.
Into the shelter of the corridor and stand still.
The lamp held in both hands.
Through the whole evening walk.
Kitchen.
Do.
Ladles.
Stove.
She has been carrying it from place to place.
Without stopping to look at it.
Now she holds it leve and looks at the flame.
Upright.
Precise.
No larger than her thumbnail.
It's a malign.
Reaches the corridor floor.
The nearest stretch of plaster wall.
And No father.
The rest of the corridor is dark in both directions.
She breathes slowly.
The flame does not move.
Outside the Eve.
Rain continues.
Here in the corridor.
The lamb.
Holds its own small steady wither.
Warm and still.
And close by the eave above and the wall behind her.
The two things side by side.
The rain.
And the flame.
Neither.
Disturbing the other.
She turns the base of the lamp.
In her hands.
The clay is warm from the evening use.
Warmed farther now by her palms.
It gives the warmth back to her.
The oil has been burning.
Since the scholar lifted his first sip of blood.
It will last a little longer yet.
She remained standing under the E.
The kitchen is closed.
The accounts are.
Counted in box.
This shop helpers are asleep.
The Wardgate is.
See you.
Chang'an rests quietly behind its wall.
It's 10,
000th lamp.
Deeming.
One by one.
Through the long spring night.
From somewhere across the sealed ward.
A temple bell sounds.
Three low strokes.
Each one.
Softer than the last.
Dissolving into the rain.
The lamp.
In her hand.
Bends without wavering.
It's a mugglo.
Touches the wet courtyard stones.
The surface of the filling basin.
The underside of the deep wooden eave above.
Rain on the gray ceramic roof tiles Steady in.
Continuous.
Reign on the courtyard flagstones.
Each drop absorb at once into whetstone.
Rain on the broad,
Dark peony leaf.
Each one.
Bowing slowly under gathered water.
Releasing.
Rising back bowing and rising.
Patient.
The same rhythm it has kept since afternoon.
Rings arriving at the basin rim.
To solving.
Soft and steady.
Light breathing.
And so the small noodle shop comes to rest.
Tables,
Wipe and bathe.
Quines,
Counted,
And box.
Doe sleeping quietly in its bow.
While Chang'an settles deeper in its spring rain.
Grey tile by grey tile.
Lay by lay.
Growing soft and.
.
.
Still through the long spring night.
The world we visited tonight grows quiet now.
And 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 sing a little deeper.
And if you are still awake.
Just 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.
Bot.
For now.
Sleep well.
Good night.
