← 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 Two
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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. Hello friend, it's Eric. Welcome back to Listen to Sleep, where ancient wisdom meets deep rest. We have had fog rolling up the canyon in the mornings here on the mountain lately. The cabin, the trees, the familiar landmarks I navigate by every day, all of it disappears into white. And there was this moment sitting on the dogs out on the deck the other morning where it felt like I couldn't tell where I ended and the fog began. There was just this softness, just presence, no edges. If you're joining us for the first time Tonight, this is part 22 of a story called the Garden of a Thousand Wings. You can absolutely listen to this on its own. I'll catch you up in a minute, but if you want the full journey, part one is waiting for you. Tonight we rejoin our six birds. The nightingale, the hawk, the dove, the parrot, the owl, and the hoopoe who guides them as they continue on their flight through the remaining four valleys. They've already learned to trust without knowing, to love across difference, to recognize their unity. Now comes the deeper work, letting go of identity itself, dissolving into bewilderment, discovering what remains when everything you thought you were falls away. This is the mystical heart of the journey, the part where the seeking ends by revealing it never really began. Where home turns out to be exactly where you've always been, just seen with new eyes. Before we continue. If you're enjoying these stories and want to support the work 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 makes 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 when 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 2. The Becoming in a high meadow where the air is thin and clean, where wild poppies sleep beneath the moon's silver gaze. And a stream speaks endlessly to the stones it has known for centuries. Six birds rest. They have come far already. Three valleys crossed, three thresholds passed. They began their journey at twilight in an ancient garden called by a song they could not name. And they have learned what only the journey itself could teach them. In the Valley of Quest, they learned to fly without knowing the destination, to trust the path even when darkness hides the way. In the Valley of Love, they learned to see each other truly. The nightingale discovering courage in the hawk's fierce heart. The hawk finding tenderness in the nightingale's song. Each bird recognizing the difference is not division, but completion. In the Valley of Understanding, they learned that their separate songs were always one song, that they were never truly alone, but always part of a wholeness that was singing them into being. Now they sleep, these six who are becoming one. Their breathing has fallen into the same gentle rhythm. Their dreams move through the same landscapes of memory and longing and promise. But the night is not over yet. The moon continues its slow arc across the sky. The stars move overhead in their patient dance. And there are still four valleys ahead, four more thresholds waiting to be crossed. The deepest teachings lie ahead, the hardest lettings go, the most profound dissolvings, the final surrenderings that lead to arrival. The journey continues, even in sleep. And soon, very soon, the birds will wake and fly again. The birds wake not to dawn, but to deeper night. The moon has moved past its zenith and now descends toward the western peaks, smaller and harder, casting shadows sharp as blades. The poppies remain closed. The stream's voice has quieted to a murmur. The hoopoe stirs first, her crown of feathers catching starlight. We must continue, she says softly. The night grows short and the way grows long. They rise together, shaking the dew from their wings. The cold air takes their breath, sharp and clarifying. They lift into the darkness. And immediately they feel that something has shifted. The air is different here, denser somehow, as if the darkness itself has substance pressing gently against them, asking questions without words. This is the valley of detachment, though no one names it. They simply feel it in their wings, in their hearts, in the way the familiar world keeps falling away behind them. The nightingale feels it first, a strange loosening in her breast, as if something she has held tight for her entire life is beginning to slip free. Her rose. She realizes suddenly that she has not thought of it in hours. The memory is still there, but it no Longer pulls at her the way it did. I am forgetting, she says, and her voice holds wonder rather than fear. The owl flies close. You are not forgetting. You are releasing. The rose is not lost. It is becoming part of the larger song you carry. You are learning that you are not your longing. You are what gives the longing voice. The nightingale flies on, and with each beat of her small wings she feels herself becoming lighter, as if she is shedding feathers of identity, of certainty, of the stories she has told herself about who she is. The hawk feels the fierce grip of his independence loosening. All his life he has prided himself on flying alone, on needing no one. But now he realizes that his solitude was not strength, but armor, that his sharp vision was sometimes just a way of keeping the world at a safe distance. I am dissolving, he says, and there is a tremor in his voice. I can feel the edges of myself becoming unclear. Yes, the hoopoe says, this is the valley of detachment. Here we learn that we are not the edges we thought defined us. We are something both smaller and infinitely larger. The dove simply releases. She has never held tight to anything, but even she finds that there are attachments she didn't know she carried. Attachment to being peaceful, to being the one who comforts. Even gentleness can become a prison if we cling to it as identity. The parrot's chatter has grown quiet. He who has always spoken of tomorrow finds himself releasing the future, not his hope. Hope remains, but different now, present in this very moment, rather than grasping towards something not yet here. And the owl releases her wisdom, or rather, releases her attachment to being wise. She lets go of the need to understand, and in doing so becomes truly wise, wise enough to know that not knowing is its own kind of knowledge. They fly through the valley, and as they fly, they become less distinct, not disappearing. They are still themselves, still six separate birds, but the boundaries between them grow softer, more permeable. Below them. The land has changed. They fly now over what looks like water, but it doesn't move. It is still as glass, dark as obsidian, reflecting the stars so perfectly that they cannot tell which stars are above and which below. What we are releasing, the hoopoe says, is not who we are, but who we thought we had to be. We are becoming free to simply be, without the weight of our own stories. The nightingale understands now. She is not losing her rose. She is discovering that she never needed it to be complete. The rose was always just a doorway. She is the love itself. They fly on, and the valley deepens. The reflected stars below begin to blur. And swirl. The air grows colder, still cold enough that their breath makes small clouds of mist. And then, without warning, they are through. The Valley of detachment releases them, and they find themselves flying over terraced hillsides planted with olive trees, their silver green leaves catching the starlight. They have released what they thought defined them, and the fifth valley opens before them like an invitation. The stars are beginning to fade, just slightly, just at the edges of the sky. Not dawn yet, but the first whisper of its possibility, the way the deepest darkness begins to know it will not last forever. The birds fly lower now, close enough to hear the rustle of olive leaves, close enough to smell the earth, the ancient scent of soil and stone and growing things. And something is happening to them that is harder to describe than anything that has come before. They are still six birds. Each one retains their distinct shape, their particular way of being. But when the nightingale sings, and she is singing now, it is somehow also the hawk singing, also the dove. Also all of them at once. The song comes from her small throat, but it carries the fierce beauty of the hawk's clarity, the softness of the dove's peace, the brightness of the parrot's hope. When the hawk adjusts his flight, all of them feel a shift in their own wings. When the dove exhales, they all exhale with her. When the parrot's heart lifts with sudden joy, they all feel that joy as their own. How is this possible? The nightingale whispers. I am still myself, and yet I am also all of us. The hawk finishes. We are one, but we are not the same. We are unified, but not uniform. The hoopoe's voice comes warm. Yes, this is the valley of unity. Oneness does not mean sameness. A river is one thing, but it is made of countless drops of water, each one unique, each one essential. They fly on, and the experience deepens. The nightingale can see through the hawk's eyes now, can feel the rush of wind over his strong wings. And at the same time she is still herself, both at once, one and many. The hawk can hear through the nightingale's ears, can feel the song rising in her throat as if it were his own. He is still himself, still seeing with sharp gaze, but now his strength includes her tenderness. The dove contains them all, and they contain her. She is a vessel large enough to hold the entire flock, and yet she remains herself, gentle, gray, peaceful as morning. Below them, the olive groves give way to orchards of almond trees, their branches bare but swelling with the promise of spring. Stone pathways wind between the trees, converging and diverging, never quite the Same, but always part of a larger pattern. We are the pattern, thou says. Suddenly each of us is a path. Together we are all of it, the whole living system. Yes, the hoopoe says. And the song that called you from the garden. Do you understand now what it is? They understand. The song is not something outside them. The song is them. It always has been. Each bird is a note, a particular frequency. Together they are harmony. They are melody. They are the music that the universe makes when it remembers itself. They fly through the Valley of Unity, and the experience is so beautiful it is almost unbearable. To be yourself and also everyone. To be separate and also whole. To be the single note and also the entire symphony. The sky is lighter now, definitely lighter. Not the deep black of midnight, but the softer darkness of the hour before dawn. They fly on, and the almond orchards give way to wild hillsides covered in low shrubs, sage and thyme and other herbs whose names have been forgotten. The scent rises up, sharp and clean, a smell like clarity itself. And ahead, unmarked but unmistakable, the sixth valley waits. The change is subtle at first, just a slight disorientation, a gentle confusion that feels almost like sleepiness. The birds fly on, but they are no longer quite sure where they are. The landmarks below begin to blur and shift. Or perhaps it is the bird's perception that is shifting, loosening its grip on the familiar categories of here and there, before and after. The nightingale tries to sing and finds she cannot remember how the song goes. Not that she has forgotten. The melody is still there somewhere, but she can no longer find the beginning of it. Does a song start anywhere, or is it always already going? She opens her beak and sound comes out. Beautiful sound, strange sound. A song she has never sung before and yet feels older than the mountains. She is bewildered by her own voice. She does not understand what she is singing, but it is beautiful anyway. The hawk tries to orient himself, to determine their position, their direction. He has always been able to do this, but now all of that falls away. He doesn't know where they are. He doesn't know where they're going. There is only this, the movement of wings through darkness, the cold air, the flight itself, which has no beginning and no ending, but simply is. I don't know, he says aloud, and his fierce voice trembles. I don't know anything anymore. Good, the hoopoe says gently. This is the Valley of Bewilderment. Here we learn that not knowing is not a problem to solve, but a truth to embrace. Mystery is not the enemy of wisdom, but its deepest form. The dove finds that even Peace becomes strange here. Is this peace she feels? Or is it something else, something that has no name? She doesn't know. She. She rests in not knowing. And the not knowing is itself a kind of peace, deeper than any peace she has known before. The parrot tries to speak of hope, of tomorrow, but the words won't come. Hope has dissolved into something larger, into trust, perhaps, or into simple presence. He opens his beak, closes it again. Finally, a sound comes out. A single note, sustained and pure. Meaning nothing and everything. All at once. The owl discovers that wisdom has led her to this complete bewilderment. All her knowledge, all her careful observations, it all dissolves in this valley like morning mist. And she finds she is grateful. How sweet, to finally set it down, to admit that she knows nothing. They fly on. Or do they? They cannot tell if they are moving or if the world is moving around them. They cannot tell if time is passing or if they are suspended in an eternal moment. They cannot tell if they are six birds or one bird or no bird at all. Below them, or is it above them? The landscape has become impossible to describe. It shifts and shimmers. Sometimes it looks like mountains, sometimes like water, sometimes like nothing they have ever seen. Colors that are not quite colors, shapes that are not quite shapes. Everything uncertain, everything mysterious. The stars overhead have faded completely now, lost in the lightning sky. Or perhaps the stars are still there, and it is only their vision that has changed. The Hoopu speaks and her voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. In this valley we learn that we do not need to understand in order to be part of the whole. That meaning is not something we grasp, but something that grasps us. The nightingale wants to ask a question, but she has forgotten what questions are. The hawk wants to protest, but he has forgotten what certainty feels like. The dove wants to rest, but she is already resting, has always been resting. The parrot wants to hope, but hope has become indistinguishable from being. The owl wants to understand, but understanding has revealed itself as just another form of mystery. They are utterly lost. And in being lost, they are found. The bewilderment is complete. It fills them like light, like water, like breath. And the bewilderment is beautiful, is holy, is the threshold they have been seeking all along. And then, softly, gently, like a door opening in a room they didn't know they were in, they pass through. The sixth valley, releases them. And ahead lies the seventh valley, the final valley, the valley where all seeking ends, the valley where all journeys come home. The sky is gray now, the gray of pre Dawn. Neither dark nor light, but something in between. The birds can see each other clearly for the first time since night fell. See each other's feathers, each other's eyes, the small movements of breath and being. And what they see is this. They are transparent. Not invisible, but transparent. As if they are made of light instead of flesh. As if the substance of them has become so refined that it is almost not there at all. The nightingale can see through the hawk to the sky beyond. They are becoming glass, becoming air, becoming nothing. And it is not frightening. It is the most peaceful thing that has ever happened. This is it, the hoopoe says, her voice almost a whisper. The final valley, the place where the journey ends by revealing it never began. Where the self you thought you were dissolves like salt in water. They fly on, but the flying no longer feels like effort. They are not pushing against the air, but moving with it as it becoming it. The distinction between bird and sky grows softer with each moment. They are less and less solid, more and more space, more and more presence. The nightingale feels herself fading, and there is no fear in it, only relief. She has been carrying the weight of the nightingale for so long, and now all of that is gently dissolving, melting away like ice in spring. What remains is not nothing. What remains is everything. She is the song she has been singing. She is the air that carries it. She is the listening that receives it. She is not the nightingale. She is nightingale ing. She is the verb, not the noun. She is the act of beauty moving through form. The hawk feels his fierce identity dissolving. And instead of the loss he feared, he finds liberation. He is not the hawk. With his sharp vision, he is seeing itself. He is clarity itself. His boundaries fade, and he expands to include the sky, the earth, the other birds. The dove discovers that peace is not something she carries. Peace is what she is, what everything is, what remains. When all the stories fall away, the parrot finds that hope is not something he feels. Hope is the fundamental nature of existence itself. The owl understands that wisdom was never hers. Wisdom is what knows through her, what sees through her, what has always been present. They are disappearing, and in disappearing, they are arriving. Below them, a garden comes into view. They recognize it immediately, though it is not quite the garden they left. Or perhaps it is exactly the garden they left. And they are seeing it now for the first time, as it truly is. They are the walls of clay, bricks, weathered and warm. There is the fountain with its four divisions, water falling silver in the growing light. There are the trees, branches reaching toward the sky, roots deep in earth. They spiral down toward the garden, almost completely transparent now, almost completely dissolved into light and air and presence. The hoopoe speaks one last time. Do you understand now? You have traveled seven valleys to arrive where you have always been. You have dissolved the self to discover the self. You have become nothing, to become everything. The song that called you was your own song, calling you home. The garden beyond the garden. Is this garden seen truly they land, or do they? They are so insubstantial now, it is hard to say if they land or simply merge with the garden becoming part of its breathing, part of its presence. The fountain speaks, they are the water. The stones speak, they are the foundation. The trees speak, they are the branches reaching. The light speaks, they are the seeing. The nightingale opens her beak and what comes out is not her song, but the song of the entire garden, the music that has been playing since before time began. The hawk opens his eyes and what he sees is the garden seeing itself through him, Awareness beholding its own beauty. The dove breathes and her breath is the breath of peace itself, breathing through the universe. The parrot's heart beats and it is the heartbeat of hope, the pulse that that moves through all things. The owl's wisdom perceives the great mystery, that there is no separation, has never been separation, that the journey and the arrival are one thing, that home and seeking are one thing. They are here, they have arrived. They have become what they always were. The sun begins to rise behind the mountains. And the first rays of light touch the garden, touch the fountain, touch the trees, touch the six birds who are one bird, who are no bird at all, but presence itself, consciousness itself, love itself, taking form and releasing form in an endless dance of being and becoming. The seven valleys are complete. The journey is finished. And in being finished, it begins again, as it always has, as it always will. The nightingale sings, the hawk soars. The dove rests. The parrot hopes. The owl watches and the garden receives them all, holds them all, is them all. One song, one breath, one light breaking over the mountains. One eternal morning, one perfect, peaceful, whole and holy moment that contains all moments, all journeys, all seekers, and all that is sought here now always. Rest well, friend. Good night.