← Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
The Garden of a Thousand Wings - A Tale of Peace and Unity - Part One
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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.
- [00:30]
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- [01:54]
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Foreign. It's Eric welcome back to Listen to Sleep, where ancient wisdom meets deep rest. A few days ago, I connected with someone on Instagram who's from Iran. We both felt so sad about everything happening there, and she felt powerless being so far away from her family. That conversation got me thinking about tonight's story, based on one of the most beautiful Persian poems ever written, the Conference of the Birds by attar. Written over 800 years ago, it's a mystical poem about birds seeking the Simurgh, a legendary king, but who discover through a difficult journey that the divine wholeness they sought was within them all along. This retelling keeps that ancient framework with its seven valleys, its birds, its journey of transformation, but shaped around themes of unity across difference, of finding strength through companionship, of discovering we're not as separate as we think, because those stories feel urgent right now, especially for people whose own journey towards freedom and dignity continues. When we learn to see truly, to love across differences, to trust the journey even when we can't see the destination. That's not just mindfulness, that's how peace actually happens, one heart at a time, expanding to hold more than we thought possible. This story is for everyone who's walking that path, and it's especially for those so suffering under the oppression of those who would tell them who or what to be, and who right now are showing such courage in their own journey toward freedom and human dignity. May this retelling of an ancient tale from the cradle of civilization remind all of us that we're never as separate as we may think, and that the journey toward peace begins with each of us choosing to see each other truly before we get started. Quick word if you're enjoying these stories and want to support what I do here, you can do that by joining Listen to Sleep Plus. It gives you access to over 500 episodes ad free, including bonus episodes and early releases. Your support really does make a huge difference, and you can learn more about all the great perks supporters get@listentosleep.com support there's a link in the show Notes. Let's take a deep breath in and out, 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. The Garden of a thousand wings Part 1 the opening there is a garden that has stood for a thousand years, nestled in the mountains where the old trade routes once wound between ancient cities whose names are now remembered only in in poetry and song. The walls are made of clay bricks worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, their surface warm to the touch even as evening comes on, still holding the memory of the day's sun. Inside these walls grow pomegranate trees so old that their trunks have twisted into shapes like dancers frozen in time, their branches heavy with fruit that glows like lanterns in the fading light. Tonight, as the sun sets behind the mountains and the sky turns from gold to rose to deepest blue, something is stirring in the garden. Not a disturbance, but a gentle awakening like the moment before a dear friend speaks a truth you have been waiting all your life to hear. The air itself seems to be listening, holding its breath between the warmth of day and the cool of coming night. The fountain at the center is carved from white marble, its basin divided into four parts and in the old way, representing the four rivers of paradise. Water has flowed here for longer than anyone can remember, whispering as it falls, each drop catching light and releasing it, an endless conversation between water and stone and time. The basin is lined with tiles of turquoise and cobalt that seem to glow from within as the shadows lengthen. Tonight, the water catches the last of the daylight and holds it like a pearl in an open palm. In the corners of the garden, the roses are closing their petals for the night, drawing their sweetness inward. The cypress trees stand tall and dark against the sky, swaying slightly in the evening breeze that comes down from the mountains. And tonight the birds are arriving. They come from different corners of the garden, from different parts of the mountains beyond, each one drawn by something they cannot quite name, a sound, a fragrance on the cooling air, a sense of that something is waiting to be remembered, to be found, to be finally understood. The nightingale arrives first, small and brown and unassuming. She settles on a low branch of the pomegranate tree, her feathers still warm from the day's sun. She has lived in this garden all her life, singing at twilight of longing and beauty, of the ache that knows both joy and sorrow. As one thing, her song has been the garden's heartbeat, the pulse that marks the passage of seasons. Tonight she is quiet, listening to something beyond her own song, something that makes her heart quicken with a feeling she cannot name. The hawk glides down from the eastern wall, his wings catching the last golden light, so that for a moment he seems made of fire and air. He is a hunter, sharp eyed and proud, used to seeing the world from great heights where everything appears small and clear. He circles once, then lands with precise grace at the fountain's edge. He dips his beak into the cool water and tastes the mountain snow that fed this spring centuries ago, tastes stone and sky and the mineral patience of the earth itself. A dove arrives, soft gray as the gathering dust, her wing beats making a quiet whistling sound. She lands near the arbor where the old roses grow wild and fragrant, their thorny branches creating a shelter that is both protection and embrace. She tucks her head against her chest, content simply to be here in this breath between day and night. The parrot comes, chattering softly to himself, bright green even in the dimming light, his feathers catching the last rays of sun and throwing them back in flashes of emerald and gold. He is irrepressible hope itself, always speaking of tomorrow, of possibility, of sweetness surely lying just beyond the next branch. The owl arrives in perfect silence, as owls do. Her great golden eyes seeing what others cannot. The shapes moving in shadow, the truth that hides in darkness, the wisdom that only comes when the busy day releases its hold on the mind. She perches high in the ancient cypress, a patient keeper of mysteries. And last comes the hoopoe, crested and elegant, with a crown of feathers like a fan of light upon her head. She has traveled far, over desert and mountain, over cities sleeping and cities waking. And she carries in her wings the memory of distant places and the knowledge of paths that lead beyond what is known, into what is possible. The hoopoe lands at the fountain's edge and looks at each bird in turn. The nightingale with her songs of longing. The hawk with his fierce clarity. The dove with her peace. The parrot with his irrepressible hope. The owl with her golden eyed. Wisdom. Different, all of them. So different that on any other night they might have kept to their separate corners, each one certain that their way of being was the only way, the right way, the true way. But tonight they all hear it. Less than a sound at first, more like a feeling in the air, a shimmer in the growing darkness, as if the stars themselves are beginning to sing. It seems to come from beyond the garden walls, from somewhere in the mountains where the last light still touches the highest peaks. Or perhaps from deeper still. Do you hear it? The hoopu asks softly. Yes. Each of them hears it. The nightingale beneath her own songs. The hawk in the silence between wing beats. The dove in the peace she has always sensed but never quite touched. The parrot in his hopes made real and calling the owl in the truth she has been seeking in the darkness. There is a garden beyond this garden, the hoopoe says, her voice gentle but clear. Clear the way. There crosses seven valleys, each one a threshold, each one a letting go of what we think we know, to discover what we truly are. She pauses, and in that pause the fountain whispers and the pomegranates hang heavy. And somewhere in the distance, from a tower in the city below, the evening call to prayer drifts up like smoke, like longing, like an invitation to bow before mystery. The journey will ask everything of us not to become different than we are, but to become more truly ourselves than we have dared to be. The birds are quiet, considering. Above them the first stars are appearing, pinpricks of light in the deepening blue, ancient and patient, burning with a fire that has traveled across impossible distances to touch the Earth with gentle radiance. Will you come? The hoopoe asks. And one by one, without knowing exactly why, without any certainty about what lies ahead, each bird lifts its wings. They rise together from the garden as the last light fades from the walls, as the turquoise and cobalt tiles begin to glow, soft as dreams in the starlight. They circle once above the pomegranate trees, above the roses, drawing their sweetness inward, above the cypress and the marble fountain with its four divisions. Then they turn toward the mountains, toward the first valley where the journey begins, not with knowing, but with asking. Not with certainty, but with longing. Below them, the garden grows small and distant. Above them, the stars wheel in their ancient patterns, the same stars that shone on this land a thousand years ago, patient witnesses to all the journeys undertaken in the name of truth, in the name of love. And ahead lies the first valley, wrapped in twilight and possibility, waiting. They fly into the cooling night, and below them, the familiar world grows strange and beautiful. The city with its domed roofs and narrow streets, its courtyards and minarets, fades into a pattern of lamplight and shadow. The river that winds through the valley becomes a silver thread catching starlight. Everything they have known becomes smaller, becomes memory, becomes something they are already leaving behind. The air changes as they climb cooler against their wings, thinner, carrying different scents. No longer the roses and jasmine of the garden, but wild sage and thyme, the sharp, clean smell of pine from the mountain forests. This is the first teaching that to seek anything true, we must be willing to let go of the comfort of what we already know. The nightingale feels it first, a tightening in her small chest. With every wing beat, she moves farther from her rose, farther from the familiar branch where she has sung every evening of her life. What if she forgets the melody? What if the rose blooms and fades without her? The hoopoe flying beside her seems to sense this fear without needing to be told. Tell me about your rose, she says gently. And so the nightingale speaks of the rose's perfume at dawn, how it hangs in the air like a prayer. She tells of the way the petals unfold, like secrets being shared, of the deep crimson color that seems to hold all the longing and beauty of the world has ever known. I sing to the rose because loving something beautiful is the only thing that has ever made sense to me. But what is a nightingale without her rose? The hoopoe is quiet for a moment, and in that quietness, the night deepens around them. They have entered the first valley. Now, though it is hard to say exactly when the crossing happened. The stars seem brighter here, more Present, as if the valley itself is somehow closer to the heavens. Perhaps, the hoopoe says, finally, you will discover that you are not the nightingale who sings to the rose, but the nightingale whose song is the rose itself, blooming in the darkness where no rose could grow. Perhaps you carry the rose within you and have all along. The nightingale considers this and finds she cannot quite understand it. Not yet. The words are like a door she can see but cannot yet open. But something in her eases just a little. The willingness to not understand she is learning, is its own kind of understanding. The hawk, too, wrestles with leaving. He has always known exactly where he was, which peak, which valley, which current of wind would carry him higher. Navigation has been his gift, his certainty. But now, flying through darkness with these other birds, toward something he cannot see or map, every instinct in his fierce heart wants to turn back. The owl, flying on her silent wings nearby, turns her great golden eyes toward him, seeing his struggle even in the darkness. This is the valley of quest, fierce one. Here we learn that seeking is not the same as knowing. The question is not whether you can see the destination, but whether you can trust the journey itself. The hawk looks around at the other birds, each one flying steadily through the darkness, each one as uncertain as he is and yet continuing anyway. The nightingale, with her small wings beating so fast. The dove in her peaceful, unhurried way. And he feels something shift in his breast, something hard, becoming softer. Perhaps there is another kind of seeing. Perhaps trust is its own form of vision. The dove flies in her gentle, steady way, not troubled by not knowing, content simply to be here, to feel the night air cool beneath her wings. The parrot keeps up his hopeful chatter about the beauty of the stars, about the mountains dark and magnificent below. And slowly, so slowly they barely notice it happening, something begins to shift in each of them. The nightingale finds herself singing not the song she sang for her rose, but a new song, one that wells up from someplace inside her she didn't know existed. The hawk discovers that flying without knowing exactly where he is going brings a strange kind of freedom, a lightness he has never felt before. They fly on, and the valley deepens around them, and the moon begins to rise ahead of them, enormous and golden on the eastern horizon. And below them, unseen in the darkness, unmarked by any sign, the first valley gives way to the second. The moon transforms everything. What was darkness becomes silver and shadow. What was unknown becomes mysteriously beautiful. The mountains are no longer simply shapes, but presence. Ancient stone wearing moonlight like a shawl. Valleys filled with shadow, velvet peaks touching stars with Patient dignity. They land to rest in an old garden, abandoned or perhaps just very old, tended by time itself rather than human hands. There is a fountain here, too, crumbling at the edges but still flowing, water falling from a lion's mouth, carved in stone so worn that the lion seems to be slowly returning to the mountain from which it was cut. Ancient fig trees grow wild and generous, their branches spreading wide. The night blooming jasmine that grows along the walls releases its perfume into the cool air, sweet and piercing and somehow holy. The birds settle on an ancient mulberry tree, its trunk thick and gnarled, its branches strong enough to hold all of them. They are tired, but it is a good tired, the kind that comes from having traveled toward something true rather than simply away from something difficult. The nightingale looks at the hawk perched on a higher branch, his fierce profile outlined against the moon. She has always thought of hawks as dangerous as predators, as beings whose very nature was opposed to her own small vulnerability. But now, watching him in this silver light, she sees something else, something that looks almost like loneliness. You are afraid, too, she says softly, and there is no judgment in her voice, only recognition. The hawk turns his sharp gaze toward her, and for a moment she thinks he will deny it. But something has changed in him during the crossing of the first valley. Yes, he says simply. I am afraid of not knowing, of losing my way, of becoming lost in this darkness. But you flew anyway, the nightingale says, wonder in her voice. Even afraid, you flew. That must take a different kind of strength than I understood. The hawk looks at her, this small brown bird who has always seemed too delicate, too consumed with singing about feelings. But now he sees the courage it takes to have a heart so tender and yet keep singing to love, knowing that everything you love will fade. You sing anyway, he says, working out the words as he utters them, even when your voice can't protect you. That must take a different kind of courage than I understood. And there it is, the teaching of the second valley, arriving quietly in the space between them. Love is not agreement. Love is not sameness. Love is the willingness to truly see another being, to recognize that their way of moving through the world is as valid and necessary as your own to let your heart be changed by the encounter. The dove, listening from her branch, makes a soft, cooing sound of recognition. The parrot hops closer to the owl on her high branch, and they speak quietly, hope learning that silence is not the absence of hope, but maybe hope holding its breath, and wisdom learning that chatter is not the absence of wisdom, but maybe wisdom testing Itself against the world. Under the moonlight, the birds rest together. The nightingale tells the hawk about beauty and longing and finds that he listens with his whole fierce attention. The hawk tells the nightingale about freedom and clarity and finds that she understands something about the price of his sharp vision. The jasmine keeps pouring its sweetness into the night. The fountain keeps whispering its ancient conversation. The moon climbs higher, growing smaller and whiter as it rises. The second valley has changed them. They are still themselves, the nightingale still tender, the hawk still fierce, the dove still peaceful. But now their hearts have opened to include each other, to make room for ways of being they had never imagined could coexist with their own love. They are learning. Is the expansion of the heart to hold more than you thought possible? When the moon has climbed higher and the night is deep and quiet, they rise again and take to the air. They fly higher now, up into the mountains proper, where the air grows thinner and colder and the stars seem close enough to touch. The world below has disappeared entirely. No city lights, no river, no gardens or any sign that anyone has ever lived or loved or built anything. In the vast darkness below, there is only the flight. The stars, brilliant and numberless above them, the other birds, dark shapes against the sky. And the mysterious song growing stronger with every wing beat. The nightingale has been singing quietly as she flies, not thinking about it, just letting the song come. And she realizes it is not the song of longing for her rose, but a new song, one that seems to contain all the birds. The hawk's fierce heart and the dove's peace and the parrot's hope and. And the owl's wisdom and her own tenderness woven through it all like a golden thread. Do you hear it? She asks the others, the way our different songs are becoming one song. The owl's voice, when it comes, is filled with something like awe. Yes, this is the valley of understanding. Here we learn that what we thought were separate melodies were always harmonies, always meant to sound Together. We were never truly separate. We only thought we were. The hawk, flying strong and steady, suddenly understands something that makes him catch his breath. All his life he has flown alone, trusting only his own vision, his own strength. But now, flying in formation with these other birds, matching his wing beats to theirs, he realizes that their presence makes him stronger, not weaker. The owl's wisdom guides when his sharp eyes cannot pierce the deepest darkness. The dove's peace steadies when his fierce heart wants to race ahead. We are not six birds, he says, slowly, working it out as he speaks. We are one bird with six different ways of Flying six different gifts that make us whole. Yes, the hoopoe says, and her voice is warm with recognition. You are beginning to understand. You are not losing yourselves. By joining together, you are becoming more fully yourselves than you could ever be alone. They fly on through the deep night, and something extraordinary begins to happen. Their wing beats synchronize without anyone trying to make it happen, falling into rhythm like hearts beating in the same chest. Their breathing falls into the same pattern. When one bird adjusts course, the others adjust with them, not following, but moving together as if guided by a single intention that holds all their separate intentions within it. And the song, the mysterious song that called them from the garden, is no longer somewhere ahead of them in the distance. It is around them. It is in them. It is them. They are the song they have been seeking. The nightingale realizes she is not flying toward the rose of her longing. She is. The rose has always been the rose blooming in the darkness with petals made of starlight and courage. The hawk realizes that clarity is not about seeing everything perfectly from a great distinction distance. It is about trusting the journey, even when the destination is hidden in night. The dove understands that peace is not the absence of change, but the presence of trust even in the midst of transformation. The parrot knows that hope is not blind optimism, but the deep certainty that meaning is being made, that love is at work even in darkness. And the owl perceives that wisdom is not having all the answers, but dwelling comfortably in the questions, letting mystery be a home rather than a problem to solve. They begin to descend, guided by the hoopoe, spiraling down toward a high meadow where a stream runs silver in the moonlight and wild poppies grow thick as stars, their petals closed for the night. We will rest here, the hoopoe says gently. Three valleys crossed, three thresholds passed. You have learned to quest without knowing the destination. You have learned to love across difference. You have learned that you are not alone, have never been alone, that you are part of a wholeness that was always singing you into being. The birds land in the soft grass, and the poppies fold around them like a blessing. The stream whispers its endless conversation with stone and gravity and time. Above them, the stars are turning in their ancient dance, and the moon, now high overhead, pours its silver light down like a blessing, like recognition, like welcome. They tuck their heads beneath their wings, these six birds who are becoming one. And as sleep takes them, they dream the same dream. A garden with walls of clay bricks worn smooth by wind and time. A fountain carved from white marble, divided in the old way into four parts and in every branch, on every stone, in every drop of water, falling silver into silver, a song. A single, perfect song that contains all songs, all voices, all the longing and fierceness and peace and hope and wisdom that has ever been or will ever be. They are the song. The song is them. And there are still four valleys ahead, four more thresholds to cross, four more dissolvings and becomings. Before they arrive at the garden beyond the garden. The place where all seeking ends, where all journeys come home. But tonight, in a high meadow filled with poppies and moonlight and the whisper of a stream, they rest. They rest in the understanding that they are already becoming what they seek. And the journey continues. Even in dreaming. Even in sleep. Even in the soft, dark, holy night. Rest well, friend. Good night.