← Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
The Water Between Us - A Sleepy Tale of Finding Common Ground
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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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Why Choose a Sleep Number Smart Bed.
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Can I make my sight softer?
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Can I make my site firmer? Can we sleep cooler?
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Ever feel like you're carrying something heavy and don't know where to put it down? Or wonder what on earth you're supposed to do when you just can't seem to cope? I'm Hesi Jo, a licensed therapist with years of experience providing individual and family therapy, and I've teamed up with Better Help to create Mind if We Talk? A podcast to demystify what therapy's really about. In each episode, you'll hear guests talk about struggles we all face, like living with grief or managing anger. Then we break it all down with a fellow mental health professional to give you actionable tips you can apply to your own life. Follow and listen to Mind if We Talk on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. And don't forget, your happiness matters.
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Hi, it's Eric. Welcome to listen to sleep. I've heard from some of you lately that it's been challenging for you. Like the world is just full of loud voices. With so many opinions and so much certainty about who's right and who's wrong. It can be easy to feel like the space between us is just growing wider and like it's harder to remember what we share in common. I know that stories have always been a way to soften those edges, to help us remember our common ground without anyone telling us what to think. They invite us to listen not just with our ears, but with our hearts. And sometimes in a quiet story, we can feel the possibility of kindness where before there was only distance. Tonight's tale is one of those stories. It's a gentle myth about two tribes who can only see their differences and live under clouds of mutual suspicion. For as long as any of them can remember, they've kept their distance, certain they could never understand each other. But when they face a mutual threat to their way of life, small acts of curiosity, compassion and gentleness begin to bridge the space between them. And before we get started, I want to let you know that I've just finished something I've been working on for you for quite a while and I'm pretty excited about it. It's called the Gentle Trail to Sleep and it's a seven night audio journey of simple science backed mindfulness practices that guide your mind toward rest. Instead of trying to focus, force it to be quiet. Folks who've tried it, just Love really works for August. It's pay what you want and it's not your typical sleep hygiene course. It goes so much deeper, weaving together everything that's worked to help me get better sleep for years. If you want to try it, there's a link in the show notes. 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. And 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 water between us. The valley of the Three rivers had not seen rain in four moons. Where green fields once stretched toward distant hills, cracked earth now lay like broken pottery under the relentless sun. The river people had lived here for generations, their stone houses built along carefully carved channels that brought mountain water to their crops. Their knowledge of irrigation ran as deep as their roots in the valley soil. But this year was different. This year, even the most ancient springs that fed their channels had begun to fail. Kira pressed her palm against the warm stone of the main water gate, closing her eyes to feel the vibration that would tell her water still flowed beneath. At 22, she had inherited her father's role as waterkeeper, responsible for managing the flow to seven villages downstream. She had learned early to quiet her mind and listen to the whisper of the water through stone, to the subtle changes in the earth's mood, to the wisdom that couldn't be spoken aloud. The stone was nearly silent today, only the faintest tremor suggesting water moving somewhere far below. The north channel is completely dry, her cousin Tam told her, appearing at her elbow with dust caked boots and worry lines around his eyes. And the Hill People's livestock have been coming down to drink from our reservoirs again. Kira opened her eyes slowly, the way her grandmother had taught her, not rushing back to the world but letting awareness return like dawn breaking. She brushed dirt from her hands, feeling each grain of earth against her skin. The Hill People, nomadic herders who moved their animals with the seasons, had always been a source of tension. During good years, the River People tolerated their presence at the upper springs. During bad years like this one, every drop mattered. How many animals? She asked. Maybe 50 goats, a dozen horses? Old Jorek says he saw their herders watering them at dawn, bold as anything. The morning sun beat down on Kira's shoulders as she walked the edge of the main channel, her bare feet reading the temperature of the stones. Hot meant dry, cool meant water. Flowed somewhere beneath. She had learned to move through her inspection rounds with the steady rhythm her father had shown her, not hurrying and using all of her senses. Her people needed every precious gallon for their dying crops. The stored grain may have to last until next year's harvest, if there even was one. She feared the children in the southern villages may soon be going hungry. Yet as she knelt beside the nearly empty channel, placing both hands flat on the earth and breathing deeply, she found herself thinking of the Hill People's animals. She had seen them during better times, beautiful creatures with intelligent eyes, cared for like family members by their herders. In her mind's eye, she could see them now, ribs showing, tongues hanging in the heat. Her grandmother's voice echoed in her memory. When facing a challenge, child, first sit with it. Feel its weight, its shape, its true nature. Most conflicts come from reacting to what we think we see, not what is Actually, there. Kira sat back on her heels, letting her breath slow to match the ancient rhythm of the valley itself. The conflict with the Hill People felt solid and unchangeable, like the stone walls of the channels themselves. But she knew that water always found a way around even the most stubbor stubborn obstacles. That afternoon, as she walked the upper reaches where the channels began, Kira noticed something that made her pause. In the soft earth beside the main spring, she found tracks. Not the familiar sandal prints of her own people, but the leather boot marks of the Hill People herders. But these tracks moved strangely, circling the spring several times, then heading not downhill toward the grazing areas, but up into the rocky highlands where no water source was known to exist. Kira crouched beside the clearest footprint, tracing its outline with one finger. Something about these tracks felt different. Purposeful rather than desperate, searching rather than stealing. Her breathing slowed as she studied them the way she studied everything that mattered. There was a story written in this earth, if she could only learn to read it. The sun was setting by the time she returned to the village, painting the drought stricken fields in shades of gold and amber. Tomorrow the council would meet to discuss rationing the remaining water. The decisions would be made about whether to confront the Hill People directly. But tonight, as Kira lay on her sleeping mat with the window open to catch any breath of cool air, she found herself thinking not about confrontation, but about those strange tracks leading uphill toward a mystery. Her last conscious thought before sleep was a question that felt important in ways she couldn't yet understand. What if the Hill People knew something about water that her own people might have forgotten? The next morning, Kira woke before dawn with the strange tracks still vivid in her mind. She moved quietly through her morning routine, braiding her long dark hair back from her face while washing in the basin of precious water, and then gathering her tools. But instead of heading to the usual channels, she found herself walking uphill toward the place where she had seen those mysterious footprints. The climb was steeper than she remembered, the path little more than deer trails winding between scattered boulders. As the sun crested the eastern ridge, Kira ventured deeper into a territory she had never explored before. She moved carefully, pausing often to listen not just with her ears, but with the whole body awareness her grandmother had taught her. The Hill People were said to be fierce warriors, quick to anger and quicker with their curved blades. Yet something about those tracks suggested patience rather than aggression, purpose rather than desperation. She came around a massive outcropping of granite and suddenly found herself in a hidden canyon she had never known existed at Its heart, impossibly, was water, a natural spring bubbling up from deep rock, creating a pool surrounded by green moss and flowering vines that had somehow survived the drought. But it was not the water that made Kira freeze in place. It was the young man lying unconscious beside the pool, his leg bent at an unnatural angle, his breathing shallow and labored. Every instinct screamed at her to flee. This was one of them, the enemy, the water thieves, the dangerous nomads her people had warned against all her life. His leather clothing marked him clearly as hill people, and the curved knife at his belt caught the morning light like a threat. But his face, slack with pain and exhaustion, looked far younger than she had expected, barely older than herself, with the sun weathered features of someone who lived under open sky, but without the hardness she had been told all hill people carried. Kira found herself stepping closer, her grandmother's voice echoing in her memory. When you cannot see clearly, child, breathe deeply and let your heart show you what your eyes might miss. She knelt beside the injured stranger, close enough now to see the rise and fall of his chest and the fever flush across his cheekbones. His leg was angry and swollen. Without proper care, it could fester and become much worse. For a long moment, Kira sat back on her heels, feeling the weight of the choice before her. She could leave him here and report back to the village. The council would send warriors to capture him, to use him as leverage against his people. Or she could simply walk away, let the canyon keep its secret, let whatever happened happen without her involvement. Instead, she found herself reaching for her water gourd. The young man stirred as cool water touched his cracked lips, his eyes fluttering open, eyes the color of storm clouds, gray, green, and surprisingly gentle. For a moment he stared at her in confusion, then tried to sit up, wincing as the movement jarred his injured leg. Easy, kira said softly, though she didn't know if he would understand her language. She held up her hands, palms open, the universal gesture of peaceful intent. He studied her face for a long time, taking in her river people clothing, the water gourd in her hands, the careful way she held herself, ready to flee but choosing not to. When he spoke, his voice was rough with pain and thirst, but his words were in her own language, accented but clear. You should not be here. Neither should you, kira replied, surprised into honesty, Something that might have been a smile flickered across his features. I am Elon, he said. I was looking for something. Water. He gestured weakly toward the spring. My people know of this place from old stories, but we had never found it. We thought. He paused to study her face again. We thought it might be large enough to share. The words hit Kira like cold water. Share. Not steal. Not claim. Not take by force. Share. She found herself looking at the spring with new eyes. It was larger than any water source in the valley proper, bubbling up with the kind of steady flow that suggested deep, reliable sources. Enough for both peoples. Perhaps, if they could find a way to manage it together. How long have you been here? She asked. Two days. I fell trying to climb down here from the top of the canyon. My people will come looking. But this place is well hidden. They may not find me before. He didn't finish the sentence, but they both knew what he meant. Kira made her decision. The way water flows naturally, inevitably following the path of least resistance to her true nature. I can set your leg, she said. My grandmother taught me some healing. And there are plants here that will help with the pain and fever. Elan's storm gray eyes widened. Why would you help me? Kira considered the question as she gathered branches for splinting, her hands moving with the careful efficiency her grandmother had drilled into her. Why was she helping him? Because he was hurt. Because he had spoken of sharing rather than taking. Because something in his manner reminded her that behind every conflict were people. Real people with fears and hopes and families who loved them. Because, she said finally, kneeling beside him with her makeshift supplies, I can't just leave you here. And you found this water for all of us. It reminds me of what my grandmother always said. That water belongs to itself, not to any of us. We're all just borrowing it for a while. As she worked to clean and bandage his leg, Elan gritted his teeth against the pain but never cried out. Kira found herself thinking about the story written in those tracks. Not the story of an enemy scout looking for weaknesses to exploit, but the story of a young man willing to risk everything to find a solution that might help everyone survive. By the time the sun reached its zenith, Elan's leg was splinted and bound, his fever reduced with cooling herbs, and they had shared the simple meal Kira had brought for her day's work. And somewhere in those quiet hours of tending and talking, the shape of the conflict between their peoples had begun to shift like water finding a new channel after a stone is moved. The real question now was whether they could help their people see what they had discovered, that the greatest enemy they both faced was not each other, but the drought that threatened them all. Over the next three days, Kira returned to the hidden canyon each morning bringing food and medicine for Elon's recovery. What began as simple caregiving evolved into something neither had expected, a partnership born of shared curiosity about the water sources their people had never fully explored together. On the third day, Elon pointed to a crack in the canyon wall where water seeped constantly, explaining that his grandfather had spoken of such signs. Kira pressed her ear to the stone the way her father had taught her, hearing the unmistakable sound of steady flow moving through hidden channels far below. Working together despite Elan's limited mobility, Elon mapped the canyon while Kira felt the rock for the vibration of water. What they discovered was extraordinary. A series of natural springs fed by underground rivers that had probably been flowing beneath the valley for centuries, largely untapped because no one had known where to look. They spent hours sketching rough maps in the sandy earth, and it was clear this network of underground water could supply both tribes through the worst droughts. But they would need to combine their knowledge to make that work. The River People understood irrigation and channel building. The Hill People could read the landscape's subtle signs following water across terrain that their settled neighbors had never fully explored. As the sun set on their third day together, Elon's leg had healed enough for him to make the journey back to his people. So they developed a plan. Not an appeal to friendship or trust their drought stricken communities couldn't afford such luxuries, but a practical proposal for survival. A joint expedition to map the water sources, with representatives from both tribes working side by side. That night, Kira prepared to return to her village with more hope than she had felt in months. They would meet again in three days, each having spoken to their own tribe's leaders about cooperation born of necessary the Council of River People Elders listened to Kira's proposal with the thoughtful silence of those who weighed every word carefully. When she finished describing the hidden springs and the Hill People's knowledge of both the terrain and water signs, the truth of her secret meetings hung in the air between them like the morning mist. Chief Jorek's weathered hands rested on the smooth stone table as he considered her words. The elders exchanged glances, not angry, but cautious in the way of people who had lived through many disappointments. And after quiet deliberation, they agreed to a careful meeting with the Hill People representatives at the hidden canyon. So three days later, Kira arrived early at the spring with Chief Jorek and Elder Mira, their hearts beating faster with nervousness than any of them wanted to admit. When Elan appeared with his grandmother, Nayeli, and Thorn, his people's water finder, the moment felt both momentous and strangely ordinary. The Two groups stood on opposite sides of the spring for a long moment, years of mistrust a nearly visible barrier between them. Then Elon's grandmother stepped forward and knelt beside the water, cupping it in her weathered hands and drinking deeply. That simple gesture broke the tension like a stone dropped into still water. What followed was not a dramatic negotiation, but something far more powerful. Patient observation and shared learning. The Hill People demonstrated their knowledge of reading the landscape's subtle signs, pointing out terrain that indicated underground water, and explaining patterns that revealed where springs would flow strongest. The River People shared their techniques for building channels that worked with natural flow, and their methods for storing water most efficiently. As the afternoon wore on, both groups began sketching maps in the sandy earth, their different kinds of knowledge weaving together like streams joining into a river. The underground network was vast enough to support both communities, but only if they approached it as partners rather than competitors. Elder Mira found herself working closely with Nayeli, their shared understanding of water's behavior transcending the language barriers between them. Chief Jorek and Thorn discovered that their people's seasonal patterns complemented each other almost perfectly. The River People's need for water peaked during the growing season, while the Hill People's herds required the most water during their autumn migrations. By evening, tentative plans had emerged. A series of small projects to test their cooperation. Jointly maintained access points to the underground springs, shared knowledge about seasonal water patterns and carefully negotiated agreements about usage during dry periods. The partnership grew slowly. Small groups from both communities began meeting regularly at the hidden canyon, working together to map the underground network and plan sustainable access points. Children were often the first to cross the invisible boundaries their parents had maintained for generations. Young River People, curious about the Hill People's animals, would linger by them at the edges of the joint work sites. Hill children, fascinated by the stone channels and careful engineering, would race small boats of folded leaves the River Children showed them how to make. Kira and Elan found their roles shifting from secret allies to official liaisons, their growing understanding of each other's people making them natural interpreters of customs and concerns. They worked together to establish protocols that honored both communities traditions while creating space for new shared practices. The first joint festival emerged organically during the autumn migration season. Hill families, pausing near the spring for their traditional water blessing found themselves invited to share an evening meal with river families who had come to maintain the channels. Stories were exchanged along with food, songs shared despite language differences. And children played games that required no words at all. As seasons turned, the cooperation deepened into genuine community engineering projects that had seemed impossible for either group alone became achievable through combined effort and knowledge. The Hill People's understanding of flow patterns helped the River People plan more effective water storage. The River People's channel building skills allowed the Hill People to establish more reliable watering points along their migration routes. The hidden canyon became a meeting place where both peoples gathered to plan their shared future. Its spring a symbol of abundance that grew through sharing rather than being diminished by it. Elders from both communities would sit by the water in the evening light, watching their grandchildren play together and marveling at how quickly the young adapted to this new way of being. Years passed, and still travelers through the Valley of the Three Rivers would comment on the settled farmers and nomadic herders working in harmony. Sophisticated water management systems that served both permanent villages and seasonal camps. Festivals that celebrated both the rhythms of planting and the cycles of migration. But the heart of their success lay in the wisdom revealed by their challenge. That every stranger might carry helpful knowledge. Every difference between people might hide a complementary strength. And that the patient work of building understanding, conversation by conversation and season by season, created bonds stronger than fear or suspicion. The valley that had once been divided by the assumption of scarcity became united by the discovery of abundance, not just in water, but in the peace that emerged when different ways of seeing the world flowed together like tributaries joining in a great river. And in the hidden canyon where it all began, the spring continued to bubble up from deep places in the earth. Its constant song a reminder that some gifts grow more precious when shared. And that the greatest discoveries often begin with the simple courage to help a stranger in need. So rest now in the gentle truth that every day offers opportunities to build bridges across the small distances that separate us. And kindness, like water, always finds a way to flow toward where it's needed most. Good night.