← Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
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- [00:01]
Eric
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.
- [00:29]
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- [01:26]
Eric
Oh what you eating? The new banana split cookie from AM pm. All freshly baked with real butter with banana, chocolate and strawberry flavors. Wow, that sounds amazing. Can I have a bite? I'm sorry but no but you can't split the banana split. Not even a little. Not even a crumb. What if? No please mine when it's too legit to split. That's cravenience. Get a 3 pack for 99 cents with our app ampm. Too much good stuff plus tax where applicable. Prices and participation may vary. Terms and conditions apply.
- [01:55]
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- [02:54]
Eric
Foreign welcome to listen to sleep. I'm Eric. About 25 years ago, I traveled to Bhutan for the first time. I didn't know much about it then, only that it was a small Buddhist kingdom tucked away in the Himalayas, and that the people were said to be some of the happiest on Earth. Well, what I found there has stayed with me the stillness of the mountains, the quiet joy in the way people moved through their day, and a kind of presence that felt deeper than anything I'd ever known. One morning near the beginning of my trip, I was walking through a mountain pass just as the clouds lifted. That was the first time I saw the high Himalayan range in all its glory. I don't know how long I stood there watching, but something in me changed. Tonight's meditation is inspired by that memory. It's called Night Train to the Temple of Peace. And it'll take you on a slow, guided journey into the Himalayan mountains on an old train through quiet valleys to a hidden temple called Sering de Waaling, which means Sanctuary of long life and peace. It's a place imagined, but also real in a way I think you'll feel as you listen. So let the journey hold you. Let it remind you that there are places both within and without where peace isn't something we have to find, where it's always waiting for us here in the present moment. 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. And another deep breath in. And nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to be. This is your time. Quiet time. One more deep breath in with me and out. If you get tired while I'm reading to you, that is okay. Just let yourself drift off. Night Train to the Temple of Peace. A river glints through the folds of the valley, catching the last light of day as it winds past forests of pine and cedar. The hillsides are alive with shadow and golden dust, the kind that comes just before dusk fully settles above them. All the great Himalayan peaks wait, unseen but present, like something ancient, watching from behind a veil at the edge of a quiet town in these foothills, a century old train station stands at the edge of the forest, its thick walls built of stone from the mountains themselves, weathered by Monsoon and sun softened by by moss. Lanterns flicker under wide eaves. Time feels slow here, as if it knows there's nowhere to be. But exactly this moment, the air is cool and tinged with wood smoke. Prayer flags flutter gently above old rooftops, their edges frayed by years of wind and sun. Somewhere nearby, a bell chimes from a monastery tucked among the pines. The station is quiet now. A few travelers wait on benches worn smooth by time. An old man sips tea from a tin cup, his eyes half closed. A child leans against her mother's side, already half asleep. You pause beneath the wide eaves of the platform and look out across the valley. The trees below are already dark, their branches still in the evening air. Somewhere beyond them, the Great Himalaya begins. The train stands waiting on the far track. Its carriages are deep red with faded gold trim, their windows glowing softly from within. Steam curls up around the wheels, rising in slow spirals that catch the light just before disappearing into the dusk. The engine breathes in a slow, steady rhythm. You step forward, crossing the old wooden platform. The boards creak underfoot, a sound that feels both new and familiar, like stepping into a memory you've never had. The conductor stands near the open train door, and you nod as you pass. He returns your smile without speaking. Inside the train, the air is warm with the scent of cedar and old paper. The corridor is lined with polished wood, its grain glowing soft in the lamplight. You walk slowly, letting the rhythm of the space slow your breath. Your compartment waits at the end of the corridor. The door opens with a gentle click. Inside, everything feels prepared. A soft woven blanket rests across the bed, patterned with quiet earth tones. A cup of tea steams beside the window. The light in the room is low and warm. As you sit down, you let out a deep exhale. The seat cradles you with what feels like a quiet understanding. Outside, the train lets out a low groan and begins to move, almost imperceptibly at first, then with growing ease. The town slips gently past the window. Clay walls and wooden porches, gardens strung with marigolds. A final glimpse of the monastery bell tower against the fading sky. You take a sip of tea, letting it warm your chest, letting it mark your crossing. The foothills rise around you now, cradling the train as it begins its journey into higher places. Behind you, the day is done. Ahead, the mountains await. The train glides deeper into the folds of the foothills, your breath beginning to echo the soft rhythm of its wheels with each turn. The valley continues to disappear behind you, replaced by the shifting shadows of trees. And ridgelines. The window beside you holds a reflection of your own quiet face, and beyond that, the darkening world, layered and vast. Outside, the forest thickens. Pines and rhododendrons lean close to the tracks, their branches brushing past in slow waves. The last light of day drapes itself across the treetops like golden silk before slipping into the hush of evening. A river winds alongside the train, sometimes rushing in white foam over stones, sometimes moving slow and wide like a ribbon of polished slate. You can hear it now and then, its voice rising through the open window, carrying coolness and clarity. The train passes tiny settlements tucked against the slopes. Clusters of stone cottages, their windows lit from within. Smoke rises in slender threads from rooftop chimneys, curling into the dusk. In one yard, prayer flags stretch from tree to tree, dancing gently in the evening breeze. You see a woman lighting a butter lamp near a doorway, her hands moving with quiet care. Each light flickering in the distance seems to whisper, you are not alone inside your compartment. The warmth holds you gently. The blanket across your lap grows heavier, softer, anchoring you deeper into your seat. You sip your tea, and it's grown a bit cooler now, but still carries the taste of cardamom and something green and earthy, maybe nettle or tulsi. You let your shoulders drop, let the train carry your weight. Let your thoughts pass like the trees outside, unhurried and already on their way. The train rounds a bend and a waterfall appears, luminous and cascading down the cliffside in silver ribbons. Moonlight catches its spray, casting tiny diamonds that shimmer and vanish before the eye can settle. You breathe in through your nose, slowly out through your mouth. A thought arises, then drifts away. The track begins to climb. Now the valley deepens. The train moves more slowly, winding along the edge of cliffs and through short tunnels carved from the rock. Each turn reveals something new. Terraced fields, quiet shrines with white stupas, herds of yaks grazing under the moon's soft gaze. You feel a shift in the air, cooler, thinner, cleaner. The scent of pine deepens. Somewhere on the breeze, a faint trace of incense, of juniper and smoke. Inside you, a spaciousness begins to open. Not empty, but full of quiet, of presence, of simply being now. And here. The train rounds another curve. Ahead, the forest thickens again, and night deepens. You rest your head gently against the window. The rhythm of the train rocks you. Your eyes begin to close, then open again, halfway between waking and dreaming. And somewhere in that in between, you feel it, the truth of impermanence. Not as sorrow, but as freedom. The train climbs steadily now, leaving behind the dense forest of the lower valley Outside the window, the world opens into deep folds of shadow and light. Moonlight glides across the mountain ridges, tracing their ancient lines with silver. The peaks are taller here still and vast, their white summits beginning to gleam like stars emerging from the land itself. The air feels even thinner, clearer. You notice your breath becoming slower, more intentional, in soft and cool out, like a long sigh melting into the dark. Inside your compartment, the little lamp beside you glows, casting golden patterns across the blanket on your lap. You've barely moved in some time, though the train has carried you far. Each sway and gentle surge now feels like a meditation, your body flowing with the rhythm of the tracks. The conductor passes silently through the corridor, lighting the small wall lamps as he goes. Their flames flicker briefly, then settle with each one. The hallway behind him glows just a little more, like a trail of stars being kindled against the as you come to a narrow pass, the train slows. You see a cluster of stone houses nestled into the hillside. No roads lead to them, just a winding footpath and a scattering of prayer flags that bridge the air between the homes and the mountain itself. The train turns again, curving gently along a ledge. In the distance, the land rises steeply toward a dark ridgeline, crowned by a single peak that glows faintly in the moonlight. In the corridor outside your compartment, a bell rings once, clear and low. The sound moves through you like a breath you didn't know you were holding, like the moment just before waking or just before falling asleep. A small plaque near your window tells the story of your destination. Searing Dewaling this ancient temple was built by a wandering yogi who followed a vision of a snow lion into a remote valley 500 years ago, it has remained mostly untouched by time. It says that the temple has a large bell hanging by the entrance, and though no one ever strikes it, the bell sometimes rings when a pilgrim truly arrives in presence. The train turns again, and the mountains seem to bow in quiet welcome. As your eyes begin to close, the sound of a bell echoes softly in your chest. You don't know if it rang in the outer world or only in your own heart, but either way, something in you answers. The night deepens, the path narrows, and ahead, the temple awaits. The train begins to slow again. As it winds along a high ridge, the sound of the wheels seems to soften, as if even the train knows it's nearing sacred ground. Outside the window, the mountains have opened into a wide, hidden basin. Moonlight pours across the valley, illuminating terraces of wildflowers, stone walls built by hand and the soft curve of a footpath lined with old lanterns. The night is utterly still, yet filled with quiet life. Crickets, wind in the tall grass, the hoot of an owl. A platform appears with no signpost, just a single wooden bench, a stone pillar with a prayer wheel built into it, and a warm light glowing in the windows of the station. The train exhales gently as it comes to a stop. As you step down from the train into the air, it feels clearer than anything you've breathed in a long time, cool and still. The granite platform beneath your feet is worn smooth by time, its edges softened by moss and mountain grasses and that grow wherever they're left alone. A monk in simple robes stands waiting by the lantern lit path. He greets you with a warm smile as he bows slightly, then gestures for you to follow. His pace is unhurried, each step feeling like part of a ritual. The quiet of this place feels so complete, yet never empty. The land itself seems to be listening. As you walk, curiosity gently stirs inside you. After a while, you ask softly, not wanting to break the stillness, what does the name of the temple mean? The monk smiles without turning. Searing. Dewaling, he says in a voice like worn silk, means Long life. Dewa. Peace. Ling is sanctuary, a place to be with what is. He says, nothing more. And you don't need him to. The meaning settles somehow, feeling familiar. The path curves gently, lined with wildflowers and stone cairns left by past travelers. Then you see it. The bell. It hangs from a wooden beam just beyond the gate. There's no rope, no striker, just the bell. Simple, patient. You pause, unsure why. And then you hear it. One note, clear, full and startling in its gentleness. A sound that opens not just around you, but within you, echoing in the spaces that have long been waiting for this sound to touch them. No one touched the bell, yet you heard it ring as you take a deep breath. The monk says nothing as he opens the gate. Ahead. You step through as you begin to feel something deep inside you beginning to shift. Beyond the gate, the temple reveals itself, slowly, humble and still resting against the shoulder of the mountain. Its wooden walls are dark with age, the roof curved like the wing of a sleeping bird. Lanterns hang from the beams, their light flickering softly across the carvings. Lotuses, clouds, winding rivers, all flowing in gentle rhythm along the grain of the wood. The courtyard opens wide to the sky. A single bodhi tree stands at the center, its round leaves trembling slightly in the breeze. The monk gestures to a path that winds away into the trees, quiet and lined with moss. The air Begins to change again, warmer now, touched with earth and mineral and the faintest breath of steam. A hot spring appears like a secret the forest has kept well, tucked into a rocky hollow beneath leaning pines and tall grasses. The water is clear and still, its surface catching the moonlight in slow ripples. No fence, no roof, nothing to contain it. Just stone, water, and sky. The monk shows you to a small hut next to the spring, where you find a warm towel and robe and a hook to hang your clothes. A few moments later, you are stepping down the stone steps into the spring. The warmth enfolds you instantly. It seeps into your legs, your spine, your chest, until even your thoughts begin to stretch out and sigh. The world narrows to breath and warmth and then opens again, vast and quiet as you lean back against the smooth stone edge. The water holds you, cradling every limb. Steam rises around your shoulders, curling toward the open sky. You close your eyes for a moment, and when you open them again, there they are, the highest of the Himalayan peaks, revealed all at once in the full light of the moon rising from the dark horizon like ancient gods, jagged, radiant and impossibly still, their faces glowing in silver with the tallest among them piercing the sky itself. They are haloed in cloud and moonlight, like a prayer too large for words. You inhale deeply in both gratitude and awe. And for a long moment, nothing moves. Not the wind, not the water, not even your breath. And then, gently, you exhale into a stillness as deep as the valleys below and as high as the peaks above. Closing your eyes again, you notice that behind your lids, the mountains remain, not as an image, but as feeling, a kind of vastness that holds you without needing to explain itself. You stay in the spring as long as you need, the warmth seeming to come not just from the water, but from the mountains themselves. Steady and generous steam rising around you like a veil, softening the edges of everything. And when you're ready, you step out slowly, the cool night air brushing your skin with delicate contrast as you wrap yourself in the softness of your towel and robe. The peaks are still glowing in moonlight. You pause just for a breath, to look at them one more time. Those mountains that watched over you as you arrived. And now keep watch as you head off to rest back in your room. The fireplace glows low, casting quiet shadows across the floor. Your bed waits, heavy with blankets, soft and comforting. As you lie down, the memory of the water warms your skin. Sleep comes gently, like snow falling on a high pass, like the hush of stars above a sacred valley, like the last step of a long pilgrimage here at Searing Dewaling. You are home. Good night.