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 late in the afternoon.
After a whole night and morning of heavy snow.
Sometime after midday.
The snowfall began to change.
The large flakes grew smaller and fewer.
Until what comes down now.
Is only a fine light snow.
Drifting.
More than falling.
As Do.
The sky has nearly finished.
And is in no hurry to stop.
The old woman has been watching it from the doorway of the inner rooms.
She knows this kind of snow.
She has lived in this mountain villa with her husband.
A retired Minister of Ten Courts.
Heavy snow keeps everyone indoors.
But this fine soft snow after a long snowfall has always been her favorite kind of winter weather.
In your path,
Want the snow softened like this?
She would go out in the afternoon.
And walk slowly.
Through the garden.
Along the lower taurus.
And towards the outer wall.
Simply to see the mountain after snow.
She has not yet taken such a walk this winter.
Today,
She decides she will.
She gets up and prepares to dress for her walk.
Over her padded silk jacket and long skirt.
She puts on a winter robe lined with fur.
Soft and heavy.
Falling almost to her ankles.
A hood or padded silk.
Trimmed with fur.
Settles over her head.
Her boots are low and lined with warm cloth.
The old woman.
Brings her a light bamboo walking stick.
Then holds the door open.
As she prepares to step outside.
The cold meets her at the doorway.
It is such a pleasant call.
After the warm room,
It feels fresh,
Clean.
Carrying the scent of pine and frozen forests.
She stands for a moment.
Just outside the door.
Letting her eyes grow.
Accustomed to all that white.
Then she gathers the hem of her robe in one hand.
So that it will not drag.
And steps down into the snow.
Her first step makes a soft press crunch beneath her boot.
Somewhere between a creek and a whisper.
She smiles a little at the sound.
The stone path through the courtyard was swept this morning.
But the swab stones have already disappeared again.
Beneath a thin even layer of white.
She crosses slowly.
Behind her.
A single line of footprints follows.
Each one.
Clear at its edges with the small round mark of the bamboo stick beside it.
In the morning.
The heavy snow filled every footprint.
Almost as soon as it was made.
Now the snow is so fine that half footprints stay.
Stay soft and slowly.
Rounding at the edges.
Bed this day.
Find snowflakes settle on her sleeve and do not melt at once She lifts her arm and looks at them for a moment.
Each one is tiny.
Its pattern resting on the winter robe like grains of salt.
On a dark like a tree.
She lets her arm fall again and walks on.
At the edge of the cord yarn.
The path turns in.
Goes gently down towards the lower taris.
This morning.
The path had disappeared completely beneath the heavy snow.
Someone has walked on it since then.
A shallow track remains beneath the new snow.
Is half line.
Leading downwards between the straps.
She followed it slowly.
The bamboo stick.
Touching the ground before half feet two.
The straps on either side are covered in white.
The up-wrenches.
Almost hidden beneath the snow.
Beside the path.
A stone basin has filled with snow.
Its dark rim just visible beneath the white.
Be on it.
The path continues downwards towards the terrace.
Somewhere beneath the snow.
A little stream still runs beneath its covering of ice.
She cannot see it.
But she can hear it.
A faint,
Thin trickle.
So quiet that.
.
.
She has to stand perfectly still.
To catch the sound.
On the lower taurus.
No one has walked since the morning.
The snow lies white and smooth from one end to the other.
She stands at the edge for a moment.
Looking across the untouched taris.
Why all day?
Fine snow.
Continues to fall around her.
Beyond the TARIS,
The bamboo grove begins.
And she goes in slowly.
Inside the groove.
The afternoon light changes.
It is softer here.
And faintly green.
Filter through,
Leave.
That still carry their snow.
The tall bamboo leans together overhead.
Bowed by the waves.
Forming a low white roof.
Be needed.
The snow on the ground lies thinner.
And she finds it,
Walking here is easier.
It is very quiet.
Then,
Somewhere ahead of her.
A bamboo stem.
Let go of its snow load.
The snow slides down a lounge of ash.
That bamboo rises slowly upright again.
It's leave.
Shaking out a fine white mist.
That hangs in the air for a moment.
And then settles.
Farther away.
Another stem answer it.
Then that bamboo groove is quiet again.
She stands in the white-green hash.
With both hands.
Resting on the top of her walking stick.
And listens for a while.
On the far side of the groove.
A path,
Runs beside the outer wall of the villa.
A long rounded ridge of snow.
Rest.
Along the top of the wall.
Broken only.
Where a pine branch leans across it.
She walks beside it slowly.
Noticing small things.
The way she always does on these walks.
A line of tiny bird footprints crosses the path and ends at the foot of the wall.
A single pine cone.
Lines in the snow dark and perfect.
As though Someone has said it there on purpose.
A tweak of all-plum tree.
Reaches over from the garden.
Its birds,
Still tight and dark.
Each one wearing a small white cap.
She stops longest beside the plum tree.
In a few weeks,
It will flower.
And she knows exactly where to stand to see its bats.
For now.
She only looks at the close buds.
And the snow resting on them.
She feels peaceful and content.
At the end of the wall stands the Villa Outer Gate.
Roof with dark tiles and covered with snow.
She does not open the gate.
She only stands beneath its little roof.
Out of their drifting flakes.
And she looks out over the low wall beside it.
And down the mountain.
The valley is clearer than it was this morning.
The fine snow hangs over it like a thin veil.
Through it,
She can see the white slopes falling away.
The dark lines of Siddha group.
And far below.
The roof of the monastery.
Grey against the white.
A thread of smoke.
Rises from somewhere near it.
Straight up into the still air.
Then things end.
It's gone.
The light is beginning to change.
The white of the slopes is turning very slowly towards blue.
The afternoon is ending.
From the monastery,
Faint and slow.
Comes the sound of the evening temple bell.
One stroke.
Then another.
Each one.
Softened by the snow.
Before it reaches her.
She turns back the way she came.
And her own footprints are waiting for her.
Along the wall,
Through the bamboo.
Across the edge of the lower taurus.
The line in a quiet line.
Soften noun N.
Rounded behind the fine snow.
That's Steel Day.
Still has.
She walks back beside them.
Not quite in them.
Leaving a second line beside the first.
Once she passes back through the bamboo.
The groove has gone dim and grey-green.
And the storks stand quiet.
Most of their snow already fallen.
The blue of dusk.
Has deepened.
The snow on the ground.
Seems to hold a faint light of its own.
Pilate in the sky.
Suit that.
She can still see the path clearly.
Find flakes.
Settle on her robe.
And on her shoulders.
Her cheeks are cold.
She doesn't mind it.
She finds it rather refreshing.
She climbs,
Slowly back up the path towards the courtyard.
At the top,
She stops to rest for a moment.
Both hands.
On that bamboo stick.
And looks across the courtyard towards the villa.
The courtyard is now covered with snow and still in the dusk.
The roof of white.
The bamboo at the far end.
Bows beneath its snow.
And across the courtyard in the reading room.
A window.
Is softly lit.
Her husband has lit his candle.
Through the wax paper of the window.
The light is more.
Warm and steady.
A single amber glue in all the blue and white.
The lattice.
Stands partly open.
As it always does on nights like this.
And she knows without seeing him.
That he is sitting beside it.
Watching the same snow.
And so the old woman stays where she is a little longer at the top of the path.
With her footprints trailing way behind her.
Into the blue dusk.
The fine snow drifts down around her.
Settling on her winter robe.
And on her sleeve.
Across the wide courtyard.
The small light.
In her husband's reading room's window.
Glues warm and steady.
And all around them.
Over the villa and the bamboo.
And the long wide slopes of Jonan Mountain.
The snow goes on falling.
Quiet and fine.
Into the coming night.
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.
