A (3:37)

Okay. Tonight, the Wind in the Willows. The Wind in the Willows was published in 1908, the third novel by writer Kenneth Graham. Born in Scotland, Graham had a difficult childhood and went to live with his grandmother in England after the death of his mother. His father, driven to alcoholism by grief, was unable to take care of him or his three siblings. He was, however, supported by other family members, and although he never attended university, he went on to work for the bank of England as a gentleman clerk, or clerk, as they say in England, at the age of 19. An exceptionally intelligent guy, he flourished in the banking world, spending 30 years there and eventually becoming the secretary of the bank, a high and respected position. And in his spare time, Graham wrote and wrote and wrote. In 1887, at the age of 28, he began to submit his work to periodicals, eventually becoming a regular contributor to the National Observer. At the age of 49 and the year he retired from the bank, the Wind in the Willows was published. A somewhat strange story of four animal friends, mole, rat, badger and toad, navigating the English countryside. It is loosely based on stories Graham would tell his son Alastair at bedtime. Although it was greeted with somewhat cool reviews at first, the Wind in the Willows has gone on to become a beloved classic, cherished for its charming characters, descriptions of nature, and its exploration of both friendship and the simple pleasures of the English countryside. So tonight, I will be reading from the Wind in the Willow, specifically the chapter the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. And as always, I will do some deep relaxation beforehand so you can just let go and let Graham's words settle into you as rat and mole go on their little adventure. So get yourself into a safe and comfortable position. And let's begin. Allow your eyes to close easily and gently. Ah. And just bring your awareness for a moment to your breath. You don't need to do anything interesting with your breath. I'm not going to try and control it. You don't need to control it. We're just letting the awareness settle on the breath. The awareness loves to move around, and we can't actually stop it from moving, but we can invite it to settle here and there. And we begin with the breath. Good. Now I'd like you to bring your awareness up into your eyelids, please. And I want you to imagine that your eyelids are feeling heavy and sleepy and comfortable. Now, I'd like you to accept the suggestion that your eyelids are so sleepy and comfortable that they simply will not open. Now of course, if you wanted to open your eyes, you could. But I'm asking you to imagine that you can't. And now, accepting that suggestion that you cannot open your eyelids, I'd like you to test them to make sure you can't open them or to pretend you can't open them by wiggling your eyebrows. Just give your eyebrows a tug while your eyes remain closed. Good. Perfect. And now this lovely heaviness that you have in your your eyelids, this whole relaxed feeling you have around your eyes, this whole relaxed feeling is going to move through your entire body. And your whole body will feel heavy and sleepy and relaxed, just like your eyes do right now. So let's imagine this warm feeling around your eyes sort of melting back into your head. Let's imagine it moving up into your forehead and down over your scalp. So your whole head is feeling lovely and heavy on the pillow. Let your head feel like a bowling ball. Your head is actually kind of a heavy thing. So you've been holding it up all day and now boom, it gets to let go. As your head is sinking even further into the pillow, just allow the muscles of your face to become soft and relaxed. Your face can let go now, cuz the day is done. And that wonderful warm, relaxing energy that began around your eyes, let's imagine it pouring back inside your head now into your brain. That warm, relaxing energy is taking over every single cell of your brain. Just allow your brain to soak in this beautiful warm relaxation as all mental tension disappears. Just disappears. As the warm relaxation is moving down into your neck. Now the large muscles of your neck softening and releasing as the relaxation moves down into your shoulders. Now just imagine the shoulder muscles letting go, sort of melting, releasing into the bed. And as your shoulders are relaxing and releasing, all of the responsibilities you carry on those shoulders have fallen to the floor. Because the day is done. And you can pick any or all of them up tomorrow morning. But for right now, your only responsibility is to yourself being here, relaxed, allowing yourself to relax, giving yourself permission to relax. Because we're all allowed to relax at night or whenever we go to sleep. As the relaxation moves down your arms, now that nice warm, relaxing feeling, moving, rolling down your arms so that now your arms are feeling nice and heavy. Heavy, let them be heavy. And that warm feeling is moving down now into the palms of your hands, down into your fingers, rolling all the way down into your fingers as you go deeper and deeper. And you bring your awareness now to any sounds that may be happening around you in your environment and bring your awareness to those sounds, because from now on those sounds are taking you deeper and deeper into relaxation. You relax into them, you'll allow them to move through you and they're taking you deeper and the only sound you're paying any attention to is the sound of my voice. But even the sound of my voice is becoming something that takes you deeper and deeper and there will be a moment, and perhaps it's already happened, where my voice sounds distant and you detach, letting go as you go on your own little trip, as you drift and float and dream, as that wonderful warm, relaxing energy is moving down into your back, your back muscles softening and relaxing all the way down, all the way down to your lower back and your buttocks, your pelvis feeling so heavy, heavy, heavy on the bed. Now let's imagine that warm relaxed feeling rising up into your torso like a warm mist rising up into your chest cavity, into your belly, the front of your body softening and relaxing and letting go as you go deeper and deeper, relaxing energies. Energy is moving down into your legs now, rolling down your thighs, through your knees, down your calves, into your ankles and feet, toes, that warm relaxing energy causing your legs to feel heavy, heavy, heavy. And that feels good. Because the day is done. Chapter 7 the Piper at the Gates of Dawn the willow wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in the dark selvage of the riverbank. Though it was past 10:00 at night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of light from the departed day, and the sullen heats of the torrid afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool fingers of the short midsummer night. Mole lay stretched on the bank, still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been cloudless from dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to return. He had been on the river with some companions, leaving the water Rat free to keep an engagement of long standing with Otter, and he had come back to find the house dark and deserted and no sign of Rat, who was doubtless keeping it up late with his old comrade. It was still too hot to think of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool dock leaves and thought over the past day and its doings and how very good they all had been. The Rat's light footfall was presently heard, approaching over the parched grass. Oh, the blessed coolness, he said, and sat down, gazing thoughtfully into the river, silent and preoccupied. You stayed to supper, of course, said the Mole presently simply had to, said the Rat. They wouldn't hear of my going before. You know how kind they always are. And they made things as jolly for me as ever they could right up to the moment I left. But I felt a brute all the time as it was clear to me. They were very anxious, though they tried to hide it. Little Portly is missing again. And you know what Alotta's father thinks of him, though he never says much about it. What that child? Said the Mole lightly. Well, suppose he is. Why worry about it? He's always straying off and getting lost and turning up again. He's so adventurous. But no harm ever happens to to him. Everybody hereabouts knows him and likes him just as they do old Otter. And you may be sure some animal or other will come across him and bring him back again all right. Why, we found him ourselves, miles from home and quite self possessed and cheerful. Yes, but this time he's been missing for some days now. And the Otters have hunted everywhere, high and low without finding the slightest trace. And they've asked every animal too, for miles around and no one knows anything about him. Otter is going to spend the night watching by the ford. You know, the place where the old ford used to be in bygone days before they built the bridge. I know it well, said the Mole. But why should Otter choose to watch there? Well, it seems that it was there he gave Portly his first swimming lesson, continued the Rat. From that shallow gravelly spit near the bank. And it was there he used to teach him fishing. And there young Portly caught his first fish of which he was so very proud. The child loved the spot. And Otter thinks that if he came wandering back from wherever he is, he might make for the ford he was so fond of. Or if he came across it, he'd remember it well and stop there and play. Perhaps so Otter goes there every night and watches just on the chance. They were silent for some time, both thinking of the same thing. The lonely heart sore animal crouched by the ford, watching and waiting the long night through on the chance. Well, well, said the Rat presently. I suppose we ought to be thinking about turning in. But he never offered to move. Rat, said the Mole. I simply can't go and turn in and go to sleep and do nothing. Even though there doesn't seem to be anything to be done. We'll get the boat out and paddle upstream. The moon will be up in an hour or so and then we will search as well as we can. Anyhow. It will be better than going to bed and doing nothing. Just what I was thinking myself, said the Rat. It's not the sort of night for bed anyhow, and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we may pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along. They got the boat out, and the Rat took the sculls paddling with caution. Out in midstream there was a clear narrow track that faintly reflected the sky, but wherever shadows fell on the water from bank, bush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks themselves, and the Mole had to steer with judgment. Dark and deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were up and about plying their trades and vocations through the night till sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their well earned repose. The water's own noises, too, were more apparent than by day, its gurglings and ploops more unexpected and near at hand, and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call from an actual articulate voice. The line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew at last over the rim of the waiting earth. The moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off free of moorings, and once more they began to see surfaces, meadows, widespread and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous. Their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognized again under it, fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent silver kingdom and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees, the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry waterways. Embarking again and crossing over. They worked their way up the stream in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest, till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly and left them, and mystery once more held field and river. Then a change began, slowly, slowly to declare itself. The horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look the mystery began to drop away from them. A bird piped suddenly and was still and A light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling. Rat, who was in the stern of the boat while Mole sculled, sat up and listened with a passionate intentness. Mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity. It's gone. Sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again. So beautiful and strange and new. Since it was to end so soon, I almost wish I'd never heard it, for it has roused a longing in me, and nothing seems worthwhile. But just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it forever. No. There it is again. He cried. Entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound. Now it passes on and I begin to lose it, he said presently. Oh, Mole, the beauty of it. The merry bubble and joy. The thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping. Such music I never dreamed of. And the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet. Row on, Mole, row. For the music and the call must be for us. The Mole, greatly wondering, obeyed. I hear nothing myself, he said, but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers. The Rat never answered, if indeed he heard. Rapt, transported, trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp. In silence Mole rode steadily, and soon they came to a point where the river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side. With a slight movement of his head, Rat, who had long dropped the rudder lines, directed the rower to take the backwater. The creeping tide of light gained and gained, and now they could see the color of the flowers that gemmed the water's edge. Clearer and nearer still. Cried the Rat joyously. Now you must surely hear it. Ah, at last I see you do. Breathless and transfixed, the Mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up and possessed him utterly. He saw the tears on his comrades cheeks and bowed his head and understood. For a space they hung there, brushed by the purple loose strife that fringed the bank. Then the clear, imperious summons that marched hand in hand with the intoxicating method imposed its will on Mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again, and the light grew steadily stronger. But no birds sang, as they were wont to do at the approach of dawn. And but for the heavenly music, all was marvelously still on either side of them as they Glided onwards. The rich meadow grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow herbs so riotous, the meadow sweet, so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be that surely awaited their expedition. A wide half circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders of green water. The great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank, troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating foam streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and soothing rumble. In midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir's shimmering arm spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with willow and silver birch, and all alder reserved, shy but full of significance. It hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it till the hour should come, and with the hour, those who were called and chosen. Slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken, tumultuous water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island. In silence, they landed and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground till they stood on a little lawn of marvelous green set round with nature's own orchard trees, crab apples, wild cherry, and slow. This is the place of my song dream, the place the music played to me, whispered Rat, as if in a trance. Here in this holy place, here, if anywhere, Surely we shall find. Find him then. Suddenly the mole felt a great awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head and rooted his feet to the ground. It was no panic. Indeed, indeed, he felt wonderfully at peace and happy. But it was an awe that smote and held him. And without seeing he knew it, could only mean that some august presence was very, very near. With difficulty, he turned to look for his friend and saw him at his side, cowed, stricken and trembling. And still there was utter silence in the populous bird, Haunted branches around them, and still the light grew and grew. Perhaps he would never have taken dared to raise his eyes, but that though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and imperious. He might not refuse were death himself waiting to strike him instantly. Once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. Trembling, he obeyed and raised his humble head. And then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while nature flushed with fullness of incredible color, seemed to hold her breath for the event. Heaven looked in the very eyes of the friend and helper, saw the backward sweep of the curved horns gleaming in the growing daylight, saw the stern hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humorously while the bearded mouth broke into a half smile at the corners, saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the panpipes only just fallen away from the parted lips, saw the splendid curves, the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward saw last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, a little round, podgy childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw for one moment, breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky. And still as he looked, he lived. And still as he lived, he wondered. Rat? He found the breath to whisper, shaking. Are you afraid? Afraid? Murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love of him. Oh, never, never. Then the two animals crouching to the earth bowed their heads and did worship. Sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disk showed itself over the horizon facing them, and the first rays shooting across the level water meadows took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. When they were able to look once more, the vision had vanished and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn as they stared blank blankly in dumb misery, deepening as they slowly realized all they had seen and all they had lost. A capricious little breeze dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses, and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces. And with its with soft touch came instant oblivion. For this is the last best gift that the kindly demigod is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping the gift of forgetfulness, lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow and overshadow mirth and pleasure. Pleasure and the great haunting memory should spoil all the afterlives of little animals helped out of difficulties in order that they should be happy and light hearted as before. Mole rubbed his eyes and stared at Rat, who was looking about him in a puzzled sort of way. I beg your pardon? What did you say, Rat? He asked. I think I was only remarking, said Rat slowly, that this was the right sort of place and that here, if anywhere, we should find him. And look, why, there he is, the little fellow. And with a cry of delight he ran towards the slumbering portly But Mole stood still for a moment, held in thought as one wakens suddenly from a beautiful dream who struggles to recall it and can recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty till that too fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties. So Mole, after struggling with his memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and followed the Rat. Portly woke up with a joyous squeak and wriggled with pleasure at the sight of his father's friends who had played with him so often in past days. In a moment, however, his face grew blank and he fell to hunting round in a circle with a pleading whine as a child that has fallen happily asleep in its nurse's arms and wakes to find itself alone and laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards and runs from room to room. Portly searched the island, dogged and unwearying, till at last the black moment came for giving it up, and he sat down defeated. Mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal. Come along, Rat, called the Mole. Think of poor Otter waiting up there by the ford. Portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat. A jaunt on the river in Mr. Rat's real boat, and the two animals conducted him to the water side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of the boat, and paddled off down the backwater. The sun was fully up by now and hot on them. Birds sang lustily and without restraint, and flowers smiled and nodded from either bank. But somehow, so thought the animals, with less richness and blaze of color than they seemed to remember seeing quite recently. Somewhere, they wondered where the main river reached again. They turned the boat's head upstream towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely vigil. As they drew near the familiar ford, the Mole took the boat into the bank and they lifted Portly out and set him on his legs on the towpath, giving him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat on the back and shoved out into midstream. They watched the little animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance, watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his wattle break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines and wriggles of recognition. Looking up the river, they could see Otter start up tense and frigid from out of the shallows where he crouched in dumb patience and could hear his amazed and joyous bark as he bounded up through the osiers onto the path. Then the Mole, with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream bear them down again, whither it would, their quest now happily ended. I feel strangely tired, Rat, said the Mole, leaning wearily over his oars as the boat drifted. It's being up all night, you'll say. Perhaps, but that's nothing. We do as much half the nights of the week at this time of year. No, I feel as if I had been through something very exciting and it was just over. And yet nothing particular has happened. Or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful, murmured the Rat, leaning back and closing his eyes. I feel just as you do, Mole, simply dead tired, though not body tired. It's lucky we've got the stream with us to take us home. Isn't it jolly to feel the sun again soaking into one's bones and hark to the wind playing in the reeds? It's like music, far away. Music? Said the Mole, nodding drowsily. So I was thinking, murmured the Rat, dreamful and languid. Dance music, the lilting sort that runs on without a stop, but with words in it, too. It passes into words, and out of them again. I catch them at intervals. Then it is dance music once more, and then nothing but the reeds. Soft, thin, whispering. You hear better than I, said the Mole sadly. I cannot continue. Catch the words. Let me try and give you them, said the Rat softly, his eyes still closed. Now it is turning into words again, faint but clear, lest the awe should dwell and turn your frolic to fret. You shall look on my power at the helping hour, but then you shall forget. Now the reeds take it up. Forget, forget. They sigh, and it dies away in a rustle and a whisper. Then the voice returns. Lest limbs be redden and rent, I spring the trap that is set. As I loose the snare, you may glimpse me there, for surely you shall forget. Grow nearer, Mole, nearer to the reeds. It's hard to catch and grows each minute fainter. Helper and healer, I cheer small waifs in the woodland. Wet strays I find in it, wounds I bind in it, bidding them all forget. Nearer, Mole, nearer. No. It is no good. The song has died away into reed talk. But what do the words mean? Asked the wandering Mole. That I do not know, said the Rat simply. I passed them on to you as they reached me. Now they return again, and this time full and clear. This time at last. It is the real, the unmistakable thing. Simply simple, passionate, perfect. Well, let's have it then, said the Mole. After he had waited patiently for a few minutes, half dozing in the sun. But no answer came. He looked and understood the silence then smile of much happiness on his face and something of a listening look. Still lingering there. The weary rat was fast asleep. It, it, it.