Here are some of the inspirational stories from The Prophet,
Written by Khalil Gibran,
Revealing insights into the impulses of the human heart and mind.
The essays are free of dogma,
And I invite you to enjoy them as a modern addition to the classic sacred wisdom traditions.
Before we begin,
Please take your time to make yourself as comfortable as possible.
It might feel good to stretch your arms above your head and feel that stretch all the way down to your toes.
And if you wish,
You can pretend to yawn,
And feel how that becomes a signal for your mind and your body that it's time to rest.
Whenever you feel ready,
Allow your eyes to close.
And if it feels good,
You can enjoy a few gentle and slow breaths.
Breathing in.
And as you breathe out,
Allow yourself to sink a little deeper into your bed.
Beginning to release.
Beginning to let go.
For now,
There's nothing to have to do or fix or change.
Just the chance to let go and release from all preoccupations.
At any time,
You can defocus your attention from my voice and let yourself drift off to sleep.
Or you can simply listen and let the story be a soothing guided meditation.
Listening to a sleep story without any effort at all can be as soothing and as replenishing as sleep itself.
Now let's begin with the story of The Prophet.
Al-Mustafa,
The Chosen and the Beloved,
Who was adorned unto his own day,
Had waited twelve years in the city of Orpheles for his ship that was to return and bear him back to the isle of his birth.
And in the twelfth year,
On the seventh day of Ilul,
The month of reaping,
He climbed the hill without the city walls and looked seaward,
And he beheld his ship coming with the mist.
Then the gates of his heart were flung open and his joy flew far over the sea,
And he died in the silences of his soul.
But as he descended the hill,
A sadness came upon him,
And he thought in his heart,
How shall I go in peace and without sorrow?
Nay,
Not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.
Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls,
And long were the nights of aloneness.
And who can depart from this pain and this aloneness without regret?
Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets,
And too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills,
And I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.
It is not a garment I cast off this day,
But a skin that I tear with my own hands.
Nor is it a thought I leave behind me,
But a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me,
And I must embark.
For to stay,
Though the hours burn in the night,
Is to freeze and crystallise and be bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here,
But how shall I?
A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings.
Alone must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.
Now when he reached the foot of the hill,
He turned again towards the sea,
And he saw his ship approaching the harbour,
And upon her prow the mariners,
The men of his own land.
And his soul cried out to them,
And he said,
Sons of my ancient mother,
You riders of the tides,
How often have you sailed in my dreams.
And now you come in my awakening,
Which is my deeper dream.
Ready am I to go,
And my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.
Only another breath will I breathe in the still air,
Only another loving look cast backward.
And then I shall stand among you,
A seafarer among seafarers.
And you,
Vast sea,
Sleepless mother,
Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream.
Only another winding will the stream make,
Only another murmur in this glade.
And then shall I come to you,
A boundless drop to a boundless ocean.
And as he walked,
He saw from afar men and women leaving their fields and their vineyards and hastening towards the city gates.
And he heard their voices calling his name,
And shouting from field to field,
Telling one another of the coming of his ship.
And he said to himself,
Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?
And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?
And what shall I give unto him who has left his plough in mid-furrow,
Or to him who has stopped the wheel of his winepress?
Shall my heart become a tree,
Heavy laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them?
And shall my desires flow like a fountain that I may fill their cups?
Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me?
Or a flute that his breath may pass through me?
A seeker of silences am I,
And what treasure have I found in silences that I may dispense with confidence?
If this is my day of harvest,
In what fields have I sowed the seed?
And in what unremembered seasons?
If this indeed be the hour in which I lift up my lantern,
It is not my flame that shall burn therein.
Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,
And the guardian of the night shall fill it with oil,
And he shall light it also.
These things he said in words,
But much in his heart remained unsaid,
For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.
And when he entered into the city,
All the people came to meet him,
And they were crying out to him as with one voice.
And the elders of the city stood forth and said,
Go not yet away from us.
A noontide have you been in our twilight,
And your youth has given us dreams to dream.
No stranger are you among us,
Nor a guest,
But our son and our dearly beloved.
Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.
And the priests and priestesses said unto him,
Let not the waves of the sea separate us now,
And the years you have spent in our midst become a memory.
You have walked among us,
A spirit,
And your shadow has been a light upon our faces.
Much have we loved you,
But speechless was our love,
And with veils it has been veiled.
Yet now it cries aloud unto you,
And would stand revealed before you.
And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
And others came also and entreated him,
But he answered them not.
He only bent his head,
And those who stood near saw his tears falling upon his breast.
And he and the people proceeded towards the great square before the temple.
And there came out of the sanctuary a woman whose name was Almitra.
And she was a seeress,
And he looked upon her with exceeding tenderness.
For it was she who had first sought and believed in him,
When he had been but a day in their city.
And she hailed him,
Saying,
Prophet of God,
In quest of the uttermost,
Long have you searched the distances for your ship,
And now your ship has come,
And you must needs go.
Deep is your longing for the land of your memories,
And the dwelling place of your greater desires.
And our love would not bind you,
Nor our needs hold you.
Yet this we ask,
Ere you leave us,
That you speak to us,
And give us of your truth.
And we will give it unto our children,
And they unto their children,
And it shall not perish.
In your aloneness you have watched with our days,
And in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping and the laughter of our sleep.
Now,
Therefore,
Disclose us to ourselves,
And tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and death.
And he answered,
People of Opheles,
Of what can I speak save of that which is even now moving within your souls?
Then said Almitra,
Speak to us of love.
And he raised his head,
And looked upon the people,
And there fell a stillness upon them.
And with a great voice he said,
When love beckons to you,
Follow him.
Though his ways are hard and steep,
And when his wings enfold you,
Yield to him.
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you,
And when he speaks to you,
Believe in him.
Though his voice may shatter your dreams,
As the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you,
So shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth,
So is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn,
He gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant.
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
That you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you,
That you may know the secrets of your heart,
And in that knowledge become a fragment of life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor into the seasonless world,
Where you shall laugh,
But not all of your laughter.
And weep,
But not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself,
And takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not,
Nor would it be possessed.
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love,
You should not say,
God is in my heart,
But rather,
I am in the heart of God.
And think not you can direct the course of love,
For love,
If it finds you worthy,
Directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires,
Let these be your desires.
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night,
To know the pain of too much tenderness,
To be wounded by your own understanding of love and to bleed willingly and joyfully,
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving,
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy,
To return home at even tide with gratitude,
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
Then Almitra spoke again and said,
And what of marriage,
Master?
And he answered,
Saying,
You were born together,
And together you shall be for evermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
I shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another,
But make not a bond of love.
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup,
But drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread,
But eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous,
But let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone,
Though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts,
But not into each other's keeping,
For only the hand of life can contain your hearts.
And stand together,
Yet not too near together,
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said,
Speak to us of children.
And he said,
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.
They come through you,
But not from you.
And though they are with you,
Yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love,
But not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies,
But not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit,
Not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
But seek not to make them like you,
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
And he bends you with his might that his arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness,
For even as he loves the arrow that flies,
So he loves also the bow that is stable.
Then said a rich man,
Speak to us of giving.
And he answered,
You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions,
But things you keep and guard,
For fear you may need them tomorrow.
Tomorrow,
What shall tomorrow bring to the over prudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need,
But need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full the thirst that is unquenchable?
They are those who give little of the much which they have,
And they give it for recognition,
And their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life,
And their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy,
And that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain,
And that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving,
Nor do they seek joy,
Nor give with mindfulness of virtue.
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks,
And from behind their eyes he smiles upon the earth.
It is well to give when asked,
But it is better to give unasked through understanding.
And to the open-handed,
The search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall someday be given.
Therefore,
Give now,
That the season of giving may be yours,
And not your inheritor's.
You often say,
I would give,
But only to the deserving.
The trees in your orchard say not so,
Nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live,
For to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence,
Nay,
The charity of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride,
That you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver and an instrument of giving.
For in truth,
It is life that gives unto life,
While you who deem yourself a giver are but a witness.
And you receivers,
And you are all receivers,
Assume no weight of gratitude,
Lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings,
For to be over-mindful of your debt is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother and God for father.
Then a woman said,
Speak to us of joy and sorrow.
And he answered,
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the self-same well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being,
The more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous,
Look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful,
Look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say joy is greater than sorrow and others say nay,
Sorrow is the greater.
But I say unto you,
They are inseparable.
Together they come.
And when one sits alone with you at your board,
Remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver,
Needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
And an orator said,
Speak to us of freedom.
And he answered,
At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom.
Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise him though he slays them.
I in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel,
I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke and a handcuff.
And my heart bled within me.
For you can only be free when even the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you.
And when you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfillment.
You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief.
But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound.
And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding have fastened around your noon hour?
In truth,
That which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains.
Though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle your eyes and what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard that you may become free.
If it is an unjust law you would abolish that law was written with your own hand upon your own forehead.
You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the foreheads of your judges though you pour the sea upon them.
And if it is a despot you would dethrone see first that his throne erected within you is destroyed.
For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud but for a tyranny in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride?
And if it is a care you would cast off that care has been chosen by you rather than imposed upon you.
And if it is a fear you would dispel the seat of that fear is in your heart and not in the hand of the feared.
Only all things move within your being in constant half embrace.
The desired and the dreaded and the cherished the pursued and that which you would escape.
These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling and when the shadow fades and is no more the light that lingers becomes a shadow to another light when it loses its fetters becomes itself.
![The Prophet (Part 1) — A Sleep Story [no Music]](https://libraryitems.insighttimer.com/slugs/the-prophet-part-1-a-sleep-story-no-music/pictures/tiny_rectangle_medium.webp)
