Somewhere in the past of human history.
Someone else laid awake.
With the exact same thoughts.
That's on your mind right now.
And for thousands of years.
Humans have sought for.
And found ways.
To quiet the mind.
And let go.
We'll enjoy some of that ancient wisdom.
As you settle in for a good night's sleep.
And will learn.
From four traditions.
Buddhism.
Stoicism.
That awesome?
And Xan.
All separated by centuries and continents.
Yet all somehow arriving eventually.
At a similar realization.
That peace was never something you had to go chase down.
It's something.
You simply stop resisting.
So as you find the most comfortable position in bed.
And allow your eyes to close.
You can just let your mind.
Follow the sound of my voice.
You don't need to remember what I'm going to say.
Or the stories I'll tell you.
You don't need to take notes.
Or hear every word.
Relax.
Allow the muscles of your face to soften.
And let these words of wisdom soothe you into a peaceful night's sleep.
As they've done for countless souls.
Over thousands of years.
And whenever you feel that gentle pull of sleep.
Just let go.
And for now,
I'll turn to the first of our 10 stories for tonight.
The Raft.
The Buddha once told his students,
About a traveler.
Making a long journey on foot.
And after many days of walking.
The traveler arrived.
At the edge of a Y.
And fast-moving river.
Far too wide and fast to swim.
With no bridge anywhere in sight.
And seemingly.
No way around it.
So he does the only sensible thing.
He spends the afternoon.
Gathering branches,
Reeds,
And vines from the riverbank.
And he builds himself a raft.
Sturdy enough,
He hopes.
To carry him across.
And it isn't a beautiful wrath.
It isn't built to last.
But it works.
He climbs on.
Pushes off from the bank.
And after a careful crossing.
He reaches the other side.
Safely.
And standing there.
With the dry ground under his feet again.
He feels a wave of gratitude.
Toward the raft.
It helped him through something.
Genuinely difficult.
And without it.
He may never have made it across.
The Buddha asks his students.
Now that the traveler.
Is safely on the other side.
Should he lift the raft onto his shoulders.
And carry it with him for the rest of his journey.
Should he haul it over every hill.
And down every road.
Simply because it once did him a great service.
And of course,
The students say no.
That would be absurd.
Exhausting,
Unnecessary,
And completely beside the point.
Of what the raft was for.
A wise thing to do.
Is to set it down at the water's edge.
Thank it in whatever simple way makes sense.
And walk on.
Unburdened.
The Buddha used this to teach something bigger than rivers and rafts.
Even the tools,
Plans,
And defenses.
That genuinely help us.
None of it needs to be carried forward.
Once the crossing is done.
The bracing we do.
Before a hard conversation.
The worrying.
That helps us prepare.
The armor we put on.
To get through something painful.
It all serves a purpose.
And that's allowed to be enough.
You can leave it.
There.
So think about whatever helped you.
It through the day.
And whatever it was for you today.
Thank it.
And let it go.
It did its job.
You're across the river now.
Whether you've noticed yet or not.
Attention.
The worry.
The Intense Problem Solving.
You don't have to keep carrying it.
Just because.
It was once useful.
So set the raft down.
You won't need it while you sleep.
And if a new river shows up tomorrow.
Than you know.
You have all of the skills you need.
To build a new raft.
Now our next story.
Is called.
The Two Arrows.
There's an old teaching the Buddha gave to his students.
About a person struck by an arrow.
It happened suddenly.
One moment,
Walking along.
Undisturbed.
And the next.
Pierced by something sharp.
The wound is real.
As is the pain.
Nobody.
Not even the most enlightened among us.
Gets to avoid that first arrow entirely.
Sometimes life simply hands us challenge or pain.
Without warning us.
But the Buddha noticed something else.
Watching people move through pain.
So often,
The same person is struck by a second arrow.
And this one isn't thrown by anyone else.
It comes from their own mind.
It's the worry about the wound.
The story they start telling themselves about what it means.
Why it happened.
The replaying over and over.
Of how it came to be.
Who's to blame?
What it says about them.
And what might happen next because of it.
The first arrow lasts only a moment.
The second arrow.
We inflict upon ourselves.
And it can last for hours.
Days sometimes.
It can outlive the original wound by years if we let it.
So as you relax.
Just a bit deeper into the bed.
Think for a moment.
About whatever caused you pain today.
Something that's been quietly replaying.
In the back of your mind since it happened.
That was the first arrow.
It already landed hours ago now.
And it's already over.
Whether it feels that way or not.
Everything that's happened since then.
Every replay of the moment.
Every version where you imagine doing it differently.
All of that.
Is the second arrow.
And here's the strange part.
You're the one.
Holding the bow.
Nobody is making you fire it again.
You could.
If you wanted to.
Simply set it down.
So I invite you.
To set down whatever you're still carrying right now.
And remember.
At the person with peace.
Only differs from everyone else.
And how they deal with hardship.
Everyone feels the first arrow.
Just the same.
It never feels good.
But the wise person.
Let's the wound be what it is.
And they allow it to begin healing.
Instead of reopening it.
Pestering it.
And causing it to become worse with their own hands.
So tonight.
.
.
Wherever that first arrow landed for you.
Just let it have happened already.
Let it be finished.
Exactly as it is.
Without needing to relive it once more.
Before you can rest.
There's no need.
For a second arrow right now.
You're here.
In this moment of peace and quiet.
With no problems to solve.
And absolutely nothing to do.
But relax.
So allow yourself to enjoy that.
And immediately once you do.
The healing.
Has already begun.
Our next story.
Is called.
The dichotomy of control.
Marcus Aurelius spent much of his life ruling over nearly the entire known world.
Armies,
Provinces.
Endless demands on his attention.
From sunrise.
To long after dark.
Ghost Nights.
Before sleep.
He sat.
And wrote to himself.
Not decrees for his empire.
Just quiet.
Simple notes.
Meant for no one but him.
Working through the same handful of ideas.
As if he needed the reminder.
More than once.
And one idea.
Returns constantly.
In those private writings.
In one form or another.
And it is this.
That some things are entirely within your control.
But almost everything.
Is not.
And most of the suffering we carry.
Comes from confusing the two.
From treating the things we do not control.
As things that we do.
The Stoics practice something at the close of each day.
That resembled a personal accounting.
Not a search for everything that went wrong.
Just a simple check.
What did you actually do today?
Where did you act with care?
Where did you lack it?
Did you do the honest?
Kind thing.
That was genuinely within your power.
And if the answer was yes.
And whatever happened next.
However,
It turned out.
The verdict was never on you.
It was simply what the world decided to do.
With an effort that was already.
On its own terms.
Complete.
So if there's something in your mind tonight.
That still feels unresolved.
Notice that it was never fully in your hands to begin with.
You did the part.
That belong to you.
The rest.
Belongs to time.
To other people.
Into a world.
That's always going to do what it's going to do.
Regardless of how many extra hours.
You spend lying awake.
Mulling it over and over.
So tonight.
Set down the part.
That's not yours.
Not because it doesn't matter to you.
Not because it's not important.
But because you carrying it any further right now.
Isn't going to change how it turns out.
And remember.
If it does come back into your control.
You have the skills already.
To build a raft.
That will take you across the river.
It presents.
Our next story.
Is called the month.
And the muddy water.
A young monk.
Once came to his teacher.
Frustrated.
Saying his mind felt cluttered.
No matter what he did.
Full of noise and worry.
And half-finished thoughts.
That wouldn't settle.
No matter how hard he tried to calm them.
The teacher didn't answer right away.
Instead.
He walked to the edge of a nearby stream.
Filled a wide clay bowl with water.
And stirred it hard with a stick.
Kicking up all the silt and sediment from the bottom.
Until the water turned cloudy.
Swirling Brown.
He set the bowl down in front of the young monk.
And asked him to look into it.
And tell him what he saw.
Said the monk.
Just smile.
I can't see anything at all.
The teacher nodded.
And gestured for him.
To keep watching.
They sat together in silence.
As a few minutes passed.
And nothing seemed to change.
But slowly.
So slowly it was almost impossible to notice.
The larger bits of silk.
Began to sink.
The cloudiness faded ever so slightly.
More time passed.
And the teacher didn't stir it.
Or touch it.
Or try to fix it.
He simply let it be.
And eventually.
.
.
The water in the bowl.
Went almost completely clear.
As the last of the sediment.
Fell silently to the bottom.
Undisturbed.
Than one.
Could now see his reflection.
Calm and still.
Your mind,
" the teacher said.
Is like this bowl of water.
When you stir it.
With worry or effort.
Trying to force calm to arrive faster.
You only keep the mud suspended.
And it stays cloudy.
The clarity you're looking for.
Was never something you needed to create.
It's not something you can force.
To happen faster.
But it is already there.
Lying underneath.
And all it ever needed from you.
Was to stop stirring.
So much of what feels unsettled in the mind.
At the end of a long day.
Isn't a problem that needs solving.
It's just sediment.
That got kicked up.
Somewhere along the way.
So instead of trying,
To think your way into calm.
Just stop stirring.
Let your mind.
Subtle.
On its own time.
The way it does when nothing disturbs it.
You don't have to watch it happen.
And you don't have to do anything.
To move it along.
Because it already knows how.
So whatever thoughts are still stirring in your mind.
Just let them float by.
Let them.
Come and go.
Without trying to force or change them at all.
And in time.
You'll settle deeper and deeper.
Finding your own way.
Into a peaceful sleep tonight.
Now,
Our next story.
Is called the useless tree.
And it's one pass down.
Through the Taoist tradition.
About a carpenter.
Traveling with his apprentice.
Through the countryside.
Along the road.
They passed an enormous old tree.
Ancient.
Wide as a house.
Its trunk so gnarled and twisted.
At not a single straight blank.
Could ever be cut from it.
The Apprentice.
Looked up at it.
Inside.
What a shame,
He said.
Such an enormous tree.
And completely useless.
The carpenter stopped walking.
And looked at it for a long moment.
Useless to us,
Maybe.
He said finally.
But that's exactly.
.
.
Why it's still standing.
If this tree had grown straight and strong.
The way lumber is supposed to grow.
It would have been cut down.
A hundred years ago.
Turned into beams and furniture.
Long before either of us.
Was ever born.
It's only still here.
Offering all this shade.
Holding up all of these nests.
Because it never turned out useful.
In the way everyone expects a tree to be useful.
The Taoists had a word.
For the quality that tree seemed to embody.
Without even trying.
Wu Wei.
Action without forcing.
Without straining.
Water doesn't struggle.
To make its way downhill.
It doesn't grip and grasp.
Or plan around.
Or worry about being the most efficient.
It simply follows what's already there.
And somehow.
That's exactly how it wears down mountains.
Given enough time.
So much of an ordinary day.
Gets spent straining.
Trying.
To reach maximum utility.
Trying to impress,
Produce.
And be worth something to people who,
If we're honest,
Probably aren't even watching that closely.
It's exhausting in a way.
That's easy to stop noticing.
Because it's just how most days feel by default.
But tonight.
Doesn't ask anything from you.
Sleep was never something to achieve or perform.
Or earn through enough effort.
It's perhaps.
The most natural thing the body knows how to do.
Like almost everything natural.
It happens most easily.
To those who don't strain.
Who don't force it.
And simply allow it to arrive.
So I invite you.
To be the old,
Twisted,
Seemingly useless tree.
Not productive.
Not trying to impress anyone.
Or change.
Or solve a problem.
Just resting.
Exactly in the shape you want.
You already are.
Needing absolutely nothing else.
From yourself.
And the world.
For right now.
Our next story.
Is called the frog.
In the well.
Which tells the tale.
Of a frog who lived its entire life.
At the bottom of a shallow well.
From down there.
Looking straight up.
The frog could see a modest circle of sky.
A bit of moss along the stone walls.
And a small patch of water.
Below its feet.
As far as the frog could tell.
That was the whole of existence.
There simply wasn't anything else to imagine beyond the well.
Because there had never been any reason to.
Until one day.
A great sea turtle.
Happened to pass.
Close enough to the well.
For the frog to see it.
And call up to it.
Boasting proudly about its home.
How deep the water was.
How wide the sky loomed from down there.
And how perfectly created this is.
Whole world seemed to be.
The turtle.
Listened politely.
And then.
.
.
Began describing its home in the ocean.
With water stretching.
Farther than any eye could follow.
In every direction.
For so many days that.
.
.
Measuring it.
In any familiar unit.
Wouldn't make sense.
This water was deep enough.
To swallow mountains whole.
So vast and steady.
That a thousand years of drought.
Couldn't lower it.
And a thousand years of flooding.
Wouldn't raise it.
More than the wit.
Of a single finger.
The frog.
Barely even take in what it was hearing.
But not because it lacked the intelligence to understand.
But simply because.
It had never once needed a frame of reference that large.
Its whole life.
Had fit comfortably inside the well.
And this well had always seemed.
Like more than enough.
In our own lives.
Most ordinary days.
Are like that well.
Whatever filled it.
Starts to feel for a while.
Like the entire sky.
The walls always look taller than they actually are.
Mostly because it's what you've been standing inside of all day.
And on most days.
There's a vast world.
Out beyond it.
There always has been.
And it's been going on this whole time.
Whether you had any reason to picture it today.
Or not.
And the beauty.
Is that if you'd like?
You can stay in the well.
If you prefer.
You can make your way out.
Let the sky expand.
Until there's no well left to measure at all.
And sometimes this broader view.
Helps us to put the problems and stresses of our daily lives.
Into perspective.
So that they don't bother us.
Quite so much.
Anymore.
Now,
For our next story.
The last.
From the Taoist traditions.
And this one.
Is the story of an old farmer.
Who lost his horse.
This man.
Lived near the border.
Of his territory.
And one day his horse.
His only horse.
Which he depended on for ploughing his fields.
Ran off into the neighboring territory.
And didn't come back.
His neighbors came by.
To offer their sympathy.
Such bad luck,
" they said.
But the old man just shrugged.
Bad luck.
Or good luck.
Who's to say yet?
He replied.
A few weeks later.
The horse returned on its own.
And it didn't come back alone.
It brought with it.
A fine wild horse from across the border.
So the old man now had two horses.
Instead of one.
His neighbors came by again.
This time.
To congratulate him.
On his good fortune.
But the man just shrugged again.
Good luck.
Or bad luck.
Who's to say yet?
Not long after.
The old man's son.
Who was thrilled about the new horse.
Went out to ride it.
And was thrown from the horse's back.
Injuring himself.
At which time the neighbors returned again.
Certain that the old man would finally agree.
Surely,
This was bad luck.
But the old man only shrugged a third time.
Bad luck.
Or good luck.
Who's to say yes?
Sometime after that.
A war broke out.
And every able-bodied young man in the region.
Was conscripted to fight.
Nearly all of hope.
By the war's end.
Never returned home.
But the old man's son.
Who was still recovering from his injuries.
Was the only young man in the village.
Who was spared.
He stayed home and safe.
While so many others didn't.
Now the old man never claimed to know.
At any point along the way.
Whether what had happened to him.
Was fortunate or unfortunate.
He simply noticed that.
Every single thing he'd been so sure was one or the other.
Turning into something else entirely.
Further down the road.
In ways he could never have predicted.
From where he was standing at the time.
So if there's something going on in your own life,
That seems to be clearly good.
Or bad.
Tried to take the old man's tactics.
And don't rush to agree.
With either label.
Not because it doesn't matter.
But because so much.
Of what feels finished today.
Is really just one small and early chapter.
Of a story that's still unfolding.
In directions and ways you can't yet see.
So for now.
.
.
Don't worry about deciding.
What anything means.
You're allowed to simply.
Put it down.
Unlabeled.
Leaving it uncertain.
Who's to say yet?
Anyways.
So for now.
Just let it all go.
And as you do.
You can soften that.
Little bit more.
Into the bed.
And towards sleep.
Now.
We have two more stories.
From the Zen tradition.
The first of which is called Empty your cup.
A well-traveled scholar.
Once made his way.
To a small mountain temple.
To meet with the Zen master.
He'd heard a great deal about.
Eager to learn everything the older man might be willing to teach him.
The moment they sat down together.
The scholar began talking.
About everything he already knew.
About his theories.
His years of study.
The many opinions he'd formed.
Long before arriving at the temple gates.
And to all of this,
The master listened quietly.
Said very little.
And after a while,
Reached for a teapot.
And began pouring tea.
Into the Scholar's Cup.
But once the cup was filled.
The master kept pouring.
The tea rose to the rim.
And still he kept pouring.
Until it spilled over the sides.
Ran across the table.
And dripped onto the floor.
The scholar.
Finally stopped mid-sentence.
Telling the master to stop.
As the cup was overflowing.
Yes,
The master said.
Setting the teapot down calmly.
Your cup.
Is already full.
I could keep pouring all evening.
And none of it would go anywhere new.
There's no room in it for anything I might have to offer.
Until you're willing.
To empty some of it out first.
Our own minds.
By the end of most days.
Tends to fill up.
In exactly the same way.
Full of the happenings of the day behind you.
Full of tomorrow's to-do list.
Full of all the small things.
You've convinced yourself.
That you still need to keep turning over in your head.
In order to be ready.
For what comes next.
It feels most nights.
Like all of that has to stay held on to.
Right up to the moment.
Sleep finally arrives on its own.
But you don't actually need to carry any of it with you.
Not just into sleep.
You're allowed to set it down.
Completely.
Empty the cup.
All the way.
Without ceremony.
Without needing to sort through what's worth keeping first.
Whatever's actually worth keeping.
Will still be there tomorrow morning.
Exactly where you left it.
Whether you spend tonight.
Holding on to it tightly or not.
So for now.
.
.
Let there be no problems you need to solve.
Nothing you need to hold on to.
Or keep track of.
Just let yourself.
Empty out.
Completely.
And in its place.
Perhaps you'll discover.
The pure enjoyment.
To be found.
In these restful moments.
Of peace.
And quiet.
For our last story.
About two months.
And a woman.
Two Traveling Monks were making their way.
Along a muddy road.
After a heavy rain.
On their way back to their monastery.
When they came to a river.
That had swollen far past its usual banks.
Standing at the water's edge.
Was a young woman.
In fine silk robes.
Clearly afraid to cross.
The current was too fast.
And the ground.
Too uncertain.
For her to risk it alone.
Without a word.
The older monk.
Walked over.
Lifted her onto his back.
And carried her carefully.
Across the rushing water.
On the other side.
He set her down gently.
And the two monks continued on their way.
Saying nothing more about it.
His companion,
However.
Said no words at all.
For the rest of that day.
He walked in silence for hours.
Clearly turning something over in his mind.
Until finally.
.
.
As evening arrived.
He couldn't hold it in any longer.
We took vows,
He said.
We're not supposed to touch women.
And yet you picked her up.
And carried her on your back.
Like it was nothing.
The Older Monk.
Looked at him.
Puzzled by the question.
I set her down at the river.
Hours ago.
He said.
Why are you still carrying her?
The younger monk.
Had walked this whole distance since the river.
With a weight on his back.
At the older one.
Had already put down.
The moment the crossing was finished.
One of them was lighter.
By an entire afternoon's worth.
Of unnecessary weight.
Simply because he'd let the moment end.
When it actually ended.
So.
.
.
If there's something from your day.
Or your life more generally.
That's still riding along on your back.
Right now.
I invite you.
To put it down.
Leave it.
In the moment where it happened.
In the past.
You were only ever meant to be.
To carry it.
As far as that moment lasted.
So leave it there.
Exactly when and where it occurred.
You've already carried it.
Far enough.
This time.
Is for you.
To feel relaxed.
And free.
To feel soft.
And easy.
So allow yourself.
To settle even deeper.
And deeper.
Letting go of all.
Physical sensations.
More and more.
What?
Passing breath.
Guiding you just as you are.
That little bit closer.
And closer.
To a good night's rest.
Now we've come to the end.
Of our stories for tonight.
So enjoy the sounds.
Of the crackling fire.
And this time.
For peace.
And quiet.
Sweet dreams,
My friend.
