← Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
Autumn Woods and Gentle Wisdom - A Mindful Bedtime Story About Nature and Self-Compassion
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Hey, it's Eric. Before we begin tonight's episode, just a quick reminder. You're about to hear a few ads that help to support Listen to Sleep. If you'd rather drift off without them, you can join Listen to Sleep plus and get every episode ad free plus bonus stories and meditations. Just go to ListenToSleep.com and click on support to learn more.
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- [02:02]
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Hello friends. Welcome back to Listen to Sleep. For most of my life I fought against a deep feeling of being unworthy. Not enough. I tried to fill the emptiness I felt inside with my work, relationships and material things. There was this sense that if I just got my situation right, I would finally feel like enough. Ultimately, nothing in the outer world could ever win that fight that was happening inside me. This week I've got a semi autobiographical tale for you exploring this journey from self improvement to self compassion. Tonight's story is about a woman who walks into the autumn woods carrying the familiar burden of not enoughness. The feeling that she's failing, that she should be accomplishing more, earning more, proving more, and through the patient, gentle teaching of the forest through mushrooms and flowing water and the quiet generosity of nature, she begins to remember something essential that her life isn't a problem to solve. That she's part of a web much larger than her individual struggle. That she's already enough, exactly as she is. This is a story about self compassion, about recognizing that we are not separate, not from each other, not from the natural world, not from the vast web of being that holds us all. The forest doesn't ask the trees to prove their worth. The creek doesn't blame itself for taking the longer path around the rocks. And maybe, just maybe, we don't need to either. But before we begin, I want to let you know that Listen to Sleep plus is what keeps this podcast going, and your support means the world to me. For less than a latte each month, you'll get over 500 completely ad free episodes. You get new stories a day earlier and eight full length classic audiobooks you won't find anywhere else. Try it free for seven days in Apple Podcasts or you can join@listentosleep.com support thank you so much. Let's take a deep breath in and out. Just letting go of the day, feeling the weight of gravity pulling you deep down into the mattress. Another deep breath in and out. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to be. This is your time. Quiet time. One more deep breath in and out. If you get tired while I'm reading to you, that's okay. Just let yourself drift off. Autumn woods and Gentle Wisdom the first light of dawn touched the windowsill where Maya kept her jars of dried herbs. She stood in her small kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of nettle tea that had gone lukewarm while she stared at the envelope on the table. The rent notice due in 10 days and she was short again. The shelves along her cottage walls held rows of glass jars. Chamomile, valerian root, rose hips, lemon balm. Each one represented hours of careful gathering, drying, blending, each one a small, heartfelt offering to the people who came to her door seeking gentle remedies for their sleeplessness, their anxious hearts, their weary bodies. And yet here she was, barely making ends meet. She set down her cup and moved to the window. Through the old wavy glass she could see the forest beginning to emerge from the pre dawn darkness. The oak and maple trees stood like patient sentinels, their nearly bare branches etched against the brightening sky. It was late autumn now, that in between time when the forest released its abundance back to the earth and today was her foraging day. Every week, no matter what, worries pressed upon her. She took her basket into the woods to gather what the season offered. She'd been doing this for seven years now, ever since she'd left her office job in the city to pursue this quieter calling. Seven years and she still felt like she was failing at it. Maya reached for her gathering basket, worn smooth from use, and her small folding knife with the wooden handle. She wrapped a wool shawl around her shoulders against the morning chill and stepped out her door. The air was crisp and still, that particular quality of cold that feels so clean in the lungs. Frost sparkled on what remained of the garden, the last stalks of purple coneflower now brown and brittle, their seed heads drooping. She'd meant to harvest those seeds weeks ago, add them to her immune support blend. Another thing left undone. The thought followed her as she walked down the narrow path that led from her cottage toward the deeper woods. Her boots crunched on frost stiffened leaves. With each step, her mind turned over the familiar litany. She should be better at marketing, should have a better website by now, should be attending the farmers markets every weekend instead of just once a month. Other herbalists seemed to manage it. Sarah, who she'd trained with, now had a thriving online business and taught workshops. She couldn't even seem to get past the basics of survival. The path sloped downward and the trees began to close in around her. Oak and hickory gave way to beech and birch. The leaf litter grew thicker here, cushioning her footsteps. Somewhere in the canopy above, a chickadee called out its name. Chickadee Dee Dee. And another answered from deeper in the woods. Maya paused, adjusting the basket on her arm. The forest was waking up around her, and she tried to let her attention settle into it. This was why she came here, after all. Not just for the plants, but for this. The way the woods asked nothing of her except presence. She continued walking, her eyes beginning to shift into foraging mode, that soft focus that notices pattern and color and the particular way certain plants hold themselves. To her left she spotted turkey tail mushrooms growing in layered shelves along a fallen log. She stepped off the path and knelt beside the log. The mushrooms were beautiful, concentric bands of cream and gray and brown, with a velvety texture along their growing edges. They grew in overlapping clusters, each bracket supporting the next. Maya ran her fingers along them gently. Turkey tail. Good for immune support, especially this time of year. She took out her knife and carefully cut several of the fresher brackets, leaving plenty behind to continue their work of breaking down the dead wood, returning it to soil. As she worked, she noticed how the mushrooms weren't alone on the log. Moss grew in thick cushions along the shaded side. Tiny shelf fungi she didn't recognize spiraled up from a crack in the bark. The log itself was softening, beginning its long transformation. In a few years it would be unrecognizable, completely absorbed back into the forest floor. She placed the turkey tail in her basket and stood, brushing the leaf debris from her knees. The motion was familiar, meditative. How many times had she knelt like this, harvesting her hands, learning the textures of bark and stem and root? The path led her deeper. The morning light was growing now, filtering through the bare branches and long slanting rays that caught the mist rising from the forest floor. Everything was damp with dew and frost melt. The air smelled of earth and decay and the sharp sweetness of leaves slowly composting. Maya's thoughts drifted back to her worries circling like birds returning to roost. The rent, the electric bill. The customer yesterday who'd asked if she had any certifications. As if her seven years of study and practice made meant nothing without a piece of paper to prove it. The way she'd stammered out an answer, feeling suddenly small and inadequate, she should be more confident, should be able to talk about her work without that flutter of doubt in her chest. Should be earning more by now, contributing more, accomplishing more. The word should felt heavy in her mind. Ahead, the path opened into a small clearing where an old beech tree stood, its smooth gray bark shining in the morning light. Maya had always loved this tree, the way its branches spread wide and generous, creating a cathedral like space beneath. She stepped into the clearing and stopped at the base of the beach. Growing in a loose ring around the trunk, was a cluster of late season oyster mushrooms. They cascaded down in delicate shelves of pearl gray and cream. Maya caught her breath. She'd been hoping to find oyster mushrooms. They were her favorite to cook with, and she could dry some for winter meals. She knelt in the leaf litter and looked more closely. The mushrooms were perfect, fresh, their gills straight and clean. She reached out and gently grasped the first cluster, twisting it carefully at the base. The way she'd learned it released with a soft snap as she worked, moving around the tree, harvesting perhaps half of the mushrooms and leaving the rest. She became aware of the quality of silence in the clearing. It wasn't really silence. There were birds calling, leaves rustling, the distant knock of a woodpecker. But there was a silence beneath those sounds, a kind of deep quietness that held everything. Her hands moved steadily, cutting, twisting, placing the mushrooms carefully in her basket. That's when she noticed that the oyster mushrooms were growing from a wound in the tree, from the place where a branch had broken off, leaving the heartwood exposed. The tree was feeding them, and they in turn would help break down the dead wood, recycling it back into nutrients neither was taking from the other. They were simply doing what they do, being what they are. She sat back on her heels, her basket now half full of mushrooms. Her knees ached slightly from kneeling, and she shifted to sit fully on the ground, her back against the smooth trunk of the beach. From here she could see the pattern of the forest more clearly, how the plants grew not in isolation but in relationship. The beech tree's roots, she knew, were probably connected underground to the roots of the oaks and maples nearby, all of them sharing resources through the fungal networks that threaded through the soil. The mushrooms were part of that network, the moss, the ferns, the wild ginger she could see growing in a patch near a rotting stump. All of it connected, all of it in conversation. Nothing here was trying to accomplish anything. The beech tree wasn't worried about whether it was successful enough. The mushrooms weren't comparing themselves to other mushrooms. They were simply growing, being, responding to the conditions they found themselves in. Maya closed her eyes and felt the solidity of the tree at her back, the cool, damp earth beneath her. Her breath began to slow, to deepen. For a moment the tightness in her chest, that constant companion of worry and not enoughness, loosened slightly. What if she thought her life wasn't actually a problem to solve? The thought was so unfamiliar that she almost dismissed it, but it lingered, patient as the forest itself. After a long moment she opened her eyes and stood, brushing the leaves and bark from her pants. She picked up her basket and continued on the path. The terrain changed as she walked, sloping down toward the creek that ran through this part of the woods. She could hear it before she saw it, a low murmuring over stones. When she reached the bank, she paused to watch the water. The creek was running well after the autumn rains. It moved around rocks and fallen branches without resistance, finding its way through, over, around every obstacle. Where it met resistance, it simply went another direction. It didn't blame itself for taking the longer route. It didn't wish it were a different creek flowing somewhere else. Maya smiled slightly at her own metaphor making. But there was something there, something she was beginning to sense. She followed the creek downstream, looking for the stand of willow trees she knew grew near the bend. Willow bark good for inflammation and pain. She had only a little left in her stores. The willows appeared, their long branches drooping toward the water. Like hair being washed even in late autumn, they held a golden green glow. Maya approached the nearest tree and examined the younger branches. She would only take what she needed only from branches that could spare it. As she worked, cutting small sections of bark from different branches to avoid harming any single one, she thought about how she'd been taught to forage, always with gratitude, always with restraint, always leaving more than you take. The forest's abundance wasn't limitless. It was generous, within limits, and those limits kept everything in balance. What if the same were true for her? What if her small cottage, her modest practice, her just enough income weren't signs of failure but simply the right size for this moment? What if she didn't need to be more, accomplish more, prove more? The thought made her hands pause in their work. She looked down at the bark in her palm, rough and vital, carrying medicine in its fibers. This tree wasn't trying to be a different tree. It was offering what it had to offer. Her basket was growing heavier. She added the willow bark, wrapped carefully in a cloth to keep it separate from the mushrooms, and continued walking. The path wound upward again, away from the creek into a grove of young pines. The ground here was soft with fallen needles, and the air held that clean, resinous scent that cleared the sinuses. Maya spotted what she was looking for, a patch of wintergreen growing low to the ground, their dark green leaves glossy even in autumn, tiny red berries hidden beneath. She knelt once more and began harvesting leaves, pinching them off carefully at the stem. Wintergreen for muscle aches and soreness. She'd make a salve with these, infuse them in oil with the warmth of the wood stove. As she worked, a squirrel chittered at her from a branch overhead, scolding her presence. She looked up and smiled. The squirrel had every right to its territory, its concern. She was a visitor here, a guest in this intricate community that carried on without her, that had been here long before her and would continue long after. The thought was comforting rather than diminishing. She was part of something much larger than her individual worries, her small struggles. The forest held her the same way it held the squirrel, the wintergreen, the frost melting on the pine needles. Not because she'd earned it, not because she was accomplishing enough, simply because she was here, alive, doing what she knew how to do. Maya worked steadily, her fingers practiced and sure. The repetitive motion was soothing. Reach, pinch, place in basket. Reach, pinch, place in basket. Her mind grew quieter with each motion, the worried thoughts spacing out like clouds drifting across the sky. When she had enough wintergreen, she stood and stretched. The sun was well up now, warm on her shoulders despite the autumn chill. She must have been in the forest for hours, though it felt both longer and shorter than that. Time moved differently here. She turned back toward home, following a different path that would loop through the older part of the forest, where the oak trees grew thick and massive. Her basket was pleasantly heavy now, full of the forest's offerings. As she walked, she noticed things she hadn't on the way in, the way the lichen grew in perfect circles on the oak bark, the pattern of bird tracks in a patch of mud, the architecture of an abandoned wasp nest hanging from a high branch. Each small detail was complete in itself, not striving to be anything other than what it was. She thought about her jars of herbs at home, each one representing this same kind of patient gathering, each one an offering just as the forest offered. She wasn't failing at being an herbalist. She was simply being one in the way that was possible for her with what she had. The thought settled into her body like warmth. The bath led her past the clearing with the beech tree once more. She paused to look at the oyster mushrooms still growing there, the ones she'd left behind. They seemed to glow in the slanting light, luminous and perfect. Taking only what she needed. Had felt right. It still felt right. Maybe that was true of her whole life. Maybe she didn't need more than she had. Maybe the constant striving for more more money, more success, more proof of her worth was keeping her from recognizing what was already here. She continued walking, her steps lighter now despite the heavy basket. The cottage came into view through the trees, its small windows reflecting the morning sun. Smoke would soon be rising from the chimney. She'd let the fire die down to coals before she left. She'd need to build it back up, set water to boil, begin the work of processing what she'd gathered. As she approached the door, she paused and turned back to look at the forest. The trees stood quiet and constant, gold and silver in the autumn light. Somewhere in their branches, birds were singing. Somewhere in the leaf litter, the mycelium was doing its invisible work of connecting it all. She was a part of that web. Her small cottage, her modest practice, her careful gathering. All of it was part of the larger pattern. She didn't need to prove herself to the forest. She didn't need to accomplish more to deserve her place in it. Inside, she set her basket on the kitchen table and began unpacking it carefully the oyster mushrooms went into a bowl for cooking later. The turkey tail and willow bark would need to be laid out on screens to dry the wintergreen leaves she'd spread on cloth near the wood stove. As she worked, her hands sure and practiced, she felt the peace that had begun in the forest settling deeper into her bones. The rent notice was still on the table. The bills would still need to be paid. She would still need to figure out how to make her practice sustainable. But those things felt different now. Not like failures, not like proof of her inadequacy. Just like the conditions she was working with, the way the plants worked with the rain and sun and soil, the way the oyster mushrooms grew in the beech tree's wound. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, building up the fire with kindling and small splits of wood. While the water heated, she stood at the window, looking out at the garden, the forest beyond. She had spent so much time thinking her life was a problem to solve, as if she were broken and needed fixing, as if peace would come when she finally accomplished enough, earned enough, proved enough. But the forest had shown her something different. The forest wasn't peaceful because it had solved its problems. The forest was peaceful because it was simply being what it is, doing what it does, part of a web of relationships that sustain everything. She could be that, too. She was that, whether she recognized it or not. The kettle began to whistle softly. Maya took down one of her jars, lindenflower and chamomile, her own blend, and made herself a cup of tea. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup and stood at the window, watching the light move through the trees. She wasn't separate from any of it, not from the forest, not from the creek, not from the squirrel chittering down at her. Her struggles weren't hers alone. Her small life wasn't too small. She was held by something larger than her individual story of success or failure, held the same way the forest held everything, with a generosity that asked nothing in return except her presence, her participation in this vast web of being. The tea was sweet and floral, carrying the essence of summer flowers into this autumn morning. She sipped it slowly, tasting sunlight and patience and the slow work of petals opening. Outside, the forest continued its ancient conversation with itself. Inside, Maya stood in her small kitchen with her jars of herbs and her basket of fresh gatherings, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like enough. Not because she had solved anything, not because she had accomplished more, but because she had remembered something the forest had been teaching her all along, that her life wasn't a problem to solve, but a journey to knowing more deeply who and what she was. Part of everything, held by everything. Enough. Exactly as she was in this moment. She finished her tea and set the cup in the sink. Then she returned to her herbs, her hands moving with steady purpose, processing the forest's gifts with gratitude and care. The work was the same work she'd been doing all along, but something essential had shifted. She was doing it now. Not to prove anything, not to become anything other than what she was. She was doing it simply because this was what she knew how to do. Her own small offering to the web that held her. And that, she realized as the morning light filled her cottage with gold, was more than enough. It was everything. Good.