Cycles & Gratitude | Meditative Sleep Story With 432Hz Music

Once upon a time,

There was a girl named Maka.

She was born with the gift of wakefulness.

Never sleeping.

Not once in her life.

She has made peace with this.

She found her rest in other ways.

In closing her eyes.

In horizontal stillness.

And most importantly,

In the stories she tells herself.

And still,

She has a quiet hope,

Soft as starlight,

That perhaps one day she will know what sleep feels like.

But for now,

This is enough.

She finds contentment in her heart.

She remembers her mother telling her,

Rest is enough.

Maka knows the stars are always there.

Hidden by daylight.

Behind the clouds.

And through walls and ceilings.

They're always there,

Waiting.

She follows the rhythms of the moon.

In lunar time,

The day doesn't start with sunrise.

In lunar time,

The day begins at sunset.

As the sun dips below the horizon,

A new day unfolds.

This is when Maka shifts her energy,

Turning it inwards,

Towards rest.

Preparing herself to witness the night sky.

And while she awaits for darkness to arrive,

For the stars to reveal themselves,

She tells herself stories.

Contemplating the cycles of life.

Cycles that she's very grateful for.

Perhaps today,

She'll experience sleep.

Maka sees all living beings as her relatives.

The trees.

The rivers.

The birds and the stones.

The flowers.

And the wind.

The children and the elders.

All people.

All of us.

So,

As she tells herself stories,

Somehow,

She deeply believes that so many of her relatives could be listening.

All are welcome.

She settles down,

Arranging the blanket around her.

Finding comfort.

Finding warmth.

Her eyes are open sometimes.

And sometimes she closes them.

As she opens her eyes,

She looks up the sky.

Still holding the last light of sunset.

She settles.

Feeling her body.

Feeling her breath.

Her hand rests on her belly button.

The place where she was once connected.

Her first mark of belonging.

The memory of being held inside another human's body.

She knows that not everyone's connection to family brings healing.

Not everyone's beginning was safe.

But here,

In this moment,

With this breath,

There is a different kind of connection to all people.

To the truth that we all began this way,

Breathing through another person's breath.

A connection not to one family,

But to all people.

To the shared beginning that we all have,

Despite our differences.

She moves her hand to her heart.

Resting there.

She feels it beat beneath her palm.

Steady.

Strong.

Always in motion.

Maka chooses to close her eyes.

The stars are above.

She knows this.

Even though the sky is not yet dark enough to see them.

They are there.

Always there.

Closing her eyes,

She can sense them,

As if her closed eyelids turn off all the light pollution of the world,

Revealing what was hidden.

Maybe today,

As she rests her eyes,

As she tells herself the story,

Sleep may finally come.

Maybe today.

And there,

In her chest,

Her heart,

Beating.

Always beating.

The heart pumps,

Sending blood through every part of her body,

Carrying oxygen to places she cannot see.

Carrying healing.

Carrying care.

The blood moves through vessels,

Rivers inside of her,

Bringing what is needed,

Taking away what is no longer necessary.

Her body is preparing to reset,

To restore,

To be ready for another day,

Another cycle.

Her heart has been beating since before she was born.

And it will beat until the very end,

Never stopping,

Never resting.

A faithful companion.

A tireless drum.

Maka is very grateful for her heart.

For the way it holds her in rhythm.

For the way it knows what to do without being asked.

For the way it carries life through her body.

Movement after movement.

Beat after beat.

Always turning.

Always moving.

Always bringing her back to life.

Maka loves her breath.

Air moving in,

Filling her lungs,

Expanding her chest.

Air moving out,

Releasing,

Softening.

The breath is effortless,

Requiring her no thought,

No effort.

It just happens,

Over and over again.

She thinks of how the oxygen enters her lungs,

Meeting her blood.

It's carried by her heart throughout her body,

Feeding every cell.

She breathes out carbon dioxide,

What her body no longer needs.

And that becomes food for the trees,

For the plants,

For the green growing things.

They take what she releases.

They give her what she needs.

What a beautiful exchange,

A partnership,

A conversation without words.

As she exhales,

The trees inhale.

And as they exhale,

The trees exhale.

She inhales.

As she exhales,

The trees inhale.

And as the trees exhale,

She inhales.

This dance has been happening since her first breath,

And she knows it will continue until her last.

Maka is never alone when she's breathing.

She's very grateful for the breath,

For the way it flows without asking,

For the way it connects her to the trees,

To the air,

And to life itself.

She's grateful for the way it continues,

Whether she pays attention or not.

Turning.

Always turning.

Maka loves the trees.

Standing in forests.

Along roadsides.

In parks.

In wild places.

Everywhere.

Roots reaching deep into the earth.

Holding on.

Drinking from the soil.

Branches reaching up towards the sky.

Stretching.

Holding leaves that catch the light.

The trees breathe with Maka.

Taking the carbon dioxide she releases.

Using it to grow.

To build themselves.

To make food from sunlight.

And what they don't need,

They give back.

Oxygen.

Pure and clean for her to breathe.

She thinks how the trees also release water.

Invisible moisture rising from their leaves into the air.

The water becomes vapor.

Rising.

Gathering.

Thickening.

Becoming something new.

The trees stand through seasons.

Some evergreen.

Some losing their leaves in autumn.

Becoming bare in winter.

Budding in spring.

And full in summer.

Changing.

Always changing.

Yet somehow,

Always themselves.

Rooted.

Grounded.

Patient.

Witnessing.

The trees are her breathing partner.

Her companions in this exchange of life.

They stand beneath the same sky.

They feel the same rain.

They turn towards the same sun.

Maka is grateful for the trees.

For their patience.

For their generosity.

For the way they take what she releases.

And give her what she needs.

For the way they stand.

Season after season.

Holding the earth.

Reaching for the sky.

Breathing with all living beings.

And the clouds.

Maka loves the clouds.

Forming in the sky.

Gathering.

Pulled through from the invisible.

The water that rose from the trees.

From the oceans.

From the rivers.

From the earth itself.

Has become something new.

Vapor.

Rising.

Lifting into the cooler air.

Condensing.

Thickening.

Becoming visible again.

Fascinating clouds.

The clouds drift.

Carried by the wind.

Changing shape.

Spreading.

Thinning.

Gathering again.

Some clouds are light.

Barely there.

Some are heavy.

Thick and dense.

Full of water.

Waiting.

They travel.

Crossing distances.

Moving.

Moving over mountains.

Over oceans and seas.

Over forests and deserts.

Over cities.

Villages and towns.

Carrying water from one place to another.

Holding it with patience.

Until the time comes to release.

The trees helped make the clouds.

Breathing out moisture.

Sending it upwards.

And the clouds will return the gift.

When they become too heavy to hold any longer.

When the time is right.

As Maka inhales.

And exhales.

She loves how she contributes to clouds.

Through her connection to the trees.

She finds her connection to the clouds.

Maka is grateful for the clouds.

For the way they gather.

For the way they travel without hurry.

For their softness in the sky.

For the way they carry gifts.

Drifting.

Waiting.

Ready to give.

She's grateful to how the sky changes color around sunset time.

And how the beautiful colors of sunset reflect on the clouds.

She loves that they carry rain.

Maka loves the rain.

The clouds,

When they're heavy,

Fall.

They can no longer hold what they carry.

And so they release.

Rainfalls.

Drop by drop.

Or all at once.

Soft or strong.

Gentle or fierce.

The rain soaks into the earth.

Disappearing into the soil.

Feeding what lives beneath.

Roots.

Seeds.

Creatures hidden in the dark.

Creatures visible under the light.

The ground drinks.

Coming alive.

Softening.

Welcoming.

The rain fills the rivers.

The streams.

The lakes.

Giving life to the earth.

Giving them what they need to continue flowing.

She thinks how the rain gathers in puddles sometimes.

How it reflects the sky.

Becoming like small mirrors.

Like temporary homes for light.

The rain washes.

It cleans.

It brings life to what was dry.

Growth to what was waiting.

Green to what was brown.

Without rain,

The earth would sleep forever.

But rain comes.

The clouds release their gift.

And the earth awakens.

Maka is very grateful for the rain.

For the way it falls.

For the way it soaks into the soil.

For the way it drops over bodies of water.

For the way it comes from the sky as a gift.

Released from the clouds.

Returning to the earth.

Feeding the cycle.

Maka loves the rain.

She loves how she contributes to rain.

Through her connection to the trees.

To the clouds.

She contributes to rain.

She loves her relationship to water.

She also loves the plants.

She thinks of the seeds.

Small and humble.

Easily overlooked.

Buried into the soil.

Waiting.

When the rain comes.

Soaking into the earth.

It reaches the seeds in the darkness.

The seed feels the moisture.

Receives the invitation.

Something inside.

Shifts.

The seed begins to open up.

Cracks.

Surrendering to what is.

Becoming something new.

A tiny tiny root emerges.

Pushing down into the soil.

Pulled in by the gravity.

Anchoring.

Drinking.

And a tiny tiny shoot grows up.

It emerges.

Reaching up towards the sky.

Stretching.

The plant grows.

Fed by the rain.

Fed by the soil.

Fed by the sun.

And fed by the air.

Fed by the sun.

Maka feels how she also contributes to that cycle.

It makes her happy.

She loves the seeds.

She loves all the plants.

The leaves start growing.

Green and soft.

Catching light.

Breathing with the trees.

Making food from sunlight.

Flowers appear.

Delicate.

Beautiful.

Offering themselves to the world.

The flowers call.

Silently.

With their color.

With their scent.

What a gift it is to witness a flower.

Maka is very grateful for the plants.

For their patience in the darkness.

For their willingness to break open.

For their trust.

From waiting comes life.

She's grateful for the way they reach towards light.

For the way they offer themselves.

For the way they feed the cycle.

Turning rain and soil and sun into green.

Into beauty.

As Maka adjusts her posture,

She slightly opens her eyes.

Looking up at the darkness of the sky.

And she witnesses the moon appearing as the light fades.

Maka loves the moon.

She loves how it doesn't make its own light.

How it receives the light from the sun.

And reflects it.

Like a mirror in the sky.

Glowing.

The moon changes.

Always changes.

A thin crescent.

Barely visible.

Delicate as a whisper.

Growing night after night.

Filling up.

Becoming half.

Then more than half.

Until it's full.

Round and bright.

Illuminating the earth below.

Casting shadows.

Pulling at the oceans.

Maka is fascinated by the moon.

How she thinks it's changing.

Though in reality,

It's the same moon.

Choosing how much to reflect.

Every day is different.

She loves how the tides respond to the moon.

Rising when the moon is full.

Falling when it wanes.

Oceans listen to the moon.

Obeying its gentle pull.

Waves.

Coming and going.

All breathing with the moon's rhythm.

And then the moon begins to fade.

Releasing its fullness.

Becoming half again.

Then a crescent.

Then darkness.

Maka loves how a new moon is invisible.

Resting in the sky.

Present.

But unseen.

Gathering itself.

Preparing to begin again.

And it does.

The crescent returns.

Thin and new.

And the cycle continues.

Light and dark.

Over and over.

She loves how the moon marks time.

Like a clock in the night sky.

Reliable.

Patient.

Never rushing.

Maka follows this rhythm.

She knows the moon's phases.

She watches it change.

And watches it turn.

Maka is very grateful for the moon.

For its patience throughout all of its phases.

For its patience.

For the way it shows her that fullness comes and goes.

And how both are necessary.

How both are beautiful.

She's grateful for how the moon pulls the oceans.

Connecting to the earth.

Marking time without hurry.

Turning.

Always turning.

Through light and shadow.

In the mountains.

Maka loves the mountains.

The mountains have been here longer than anyone can remember.

Longer than any person.

Longer than any tree.

Longer than most things that live and grow.

They rise from the earth.

Rooted so deep.

Holding the land.

Steady.

Stone and rock.

Layer upon layer.

Built over time.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Rising.

She's fascinated how the mountains stand through storms.

Through wind and rain.

Through snow and ice.

Through heat and cold.

They do not bend.

They simply stand.

Snow falls on the peaks.

Melting in the spring.

Feeding the rivers below.

Giving water to the valleys.

The mountains hold the snow.

Hold the ice.

Release it slowly.

Feeding the land.

The mountains witness everything.

They watch the moon rise and set.

Night after night.

They watch the sun cross the sky.

Day after day.

They watch the seasons turn.

Year after year.

And they stand.

Silent.

Patient.

Holding the earth.

Some mountains are home to plants that grow nowhere else.

Animals that climb their slopes.

Birds that nest in their heights.

They provide shelter,

Protection,

Stability.

Maka thinks of the mountains even when she cannot see them.

Knowing they are there.

Standing.

Witnessing.

They remind her that some things do not change quickly.

That patience is measured in ages,

Not days.

That stillness has its own strength.

Maka is grateful for the mountains.

For their steadiness.

For the way they hold the earth firm.

For the way they stand throughout time.

Unchanging,

Yet somehow always changing.

Slowly,

Carved by the wind and water over millennia.

She's grateful for the way they witness all that passes.

For the way they remind her that some things endure.

She's grateful for the way they stand,

Rooted,

Patient,

Almost as if they're eternal.

Maka loves the stars.

Her eyes are still closed.

Yet she can sense them now.

Appearing one by one.

Filling the darkness of the sky.

The stars have been there all along.

Even during the day.

Shining,

Though invisible,

In the sun's brightness.

Now,

As darkness settles,

They reveal themselves.

First one.

Bright and steady.

Then two.

Then ten.

Then countless.

More than can be counted.

More than can be named.

The stars are so far away.

Unimaginably far.

Yet their light reaches us.

Their light is our light.

Their light reaches through Maka's heart.

Traveling through space.

Through time.

Arriving here.

Touching her closed eyelids.

Some of the stars she senses are already gone.

Their light is still on a journey.

Travelling.

Reaching.

Shining.

Like a gift from the past.

Arriving in the present.

She's fascinated how the stars have been used for guidance.

For finding direction.

For marking time.

For telling stories.

Travellers look to the stars.

Sailors cross oceans by their light.

And wanderers find their way home.

The stars are constant.

Rising in the east.

Setting in the west.

Predictable.

Reliable.

Night after night.

They trace the same path across the sky.

Like a map written in light.

Sometimes a star drops.

They call it a shooting star.

Moving fast across the darkness.

Brief and bright.

Here and suddenly gone.

Leaving a glimpse of a memory.

And a flash of wonder.

Maka knows the stars are witnesses.

Watching over the earth.

Watching over all the cycles below.

The breath.

The trees.

Clouds.

The mountains.

And her heartbeat.

The stars watch it all.

Silent.

Distant.

Almost as if they're eternal.

Maka is grateful for the stars.

For the way they shine even when unseen.

For the way they guide.

For how they witness.

For their light that travels so far to reach her.

And for their patterns in the sky.

For the way they mark time and space.

For the shooting stars that remind her that some gifts are brief,

Yet consistent.

How some gifts are meant only to be witnessed.

Not held.

She is grateful for the way they fill the darkness.

Countless points of light.

Turning.

Always turning.

Roaming and rotating in their great cosmic dance.

Maka lies still.

Breathing.

Eyes closed.

Aware of the cycles continuing around her.

Within her.

Her heart beating.

Her breath flowing.

And the earth turning.

As she lays down.

Finding rest.

She remembers her mother's words.

Her mom would say.

In repetition there is value.

There is meaning.

Perhaps a different part will speak to the heart this time.

Perhaps rest will come between the words.

Between the breath.

Between the cycles.

The story continues whether witnessed or not.

The cycles turn.

Whether she sleeps or wakes.

And somehow.

There is that quiet hope.

Soft as starlight.

That perhaps.

One day.

Sleep will find her.

But for now.

She is here.

Breathing.

Aware of the cycle.

Grateful.

Turning with all the cycles.

She feels her heartbeat.

Feels her breath.

She remembers her mother telling her.

Rest is enough.

And the story begins again.

Once upon a time there was a girl named Maka.

She was born with the gift of wakefulness.

Never sleeping.

Not once in her life.

She has made peace with this.

She found her rest in other ways.

In closing her eyes.

In horizontal stillness.

And most importantly.

In the stories she tells herself.

And still.

She has a quiet hope.

Soft as starlight.

That perhaps one day.

She will know what sleep feels like.

But for now.

This is enough.

She finds contentment in her heart.

She remembers her mother telling her.

Rest is enough.

Maka knows the stars are always there.

Hidden by daylight.

Behind the clouds.

And through walls and ceilings.

They're always there.

Waiting.

She follows the rhythms of the moon.

In lunar time.

The day doesn't start with sunrise.

In lunar time.

The day begins at sunset.

As the sun dips below the horizon.

A new day unfolds.

This is when Maka shifts her energy.

Turning it inwards.

Towards rest.

Preparing herself to witness the night sky.

And while she awaits for darkness to arrive.

For the stars to reveal themselves.

She tells herself stories.

Contemplating the cycles of life.

Cycles that she's very grateful for.

Perhaps today.

She'll experience sleep.

Maka sees all living beings as her relatives.

The trees.

The rivers.

The birds and the stones.

The flowers.

And the wind.

The children and the elders.

All people.

All of life.

So.

As she tells herself stories.

Somehow.

She deeply believes.

That so many of her relatives could be listening.

All are welcome.

She settles down.

Arranging the blanket around her.

Finding comfort.

Finding warmth.

Her eyes are open sometimes.

And sometimes she closes them.

As she opens her eyes she looks up the sky.

Still holding the last light of sunset.

She settles.

Feeling her body.

Feeling her breath.

Her hand rests on her belly button.

The place where she was once connected.

Her first mark of belonging.

The memory of being held inside another human's body.

She knows that not everyone's connection to family brings healing.

Not everyone's beginning was safe.

But here.

In this moment.

With this breath.

There is a different kind of connection to all people.

To the truth that we all began this way.

Breathing through another person's breath.

A connection not to one family.

But to all people.

To the shared beginning that we all have.

Despite our differences.

She moves her hand to her heart.

Resting there.

She feels it beat beneath her palm.

Steady.

Strong.

Always in motion.

Maka chooses to close her eyes.

The stars are above.

She knows this.

Even though the sky is not yet dark enough to see them.

They are there.

Always there.

Closing her eyes.

She can sense them.

As if her closed eyelids turn off all the light pollution of the world.

Revealing what was hidden.

Maybe today,

As she rests her eyes.

As she tells herself the story.

Sleep may finally come.

Maybe today.

And there,

In her chest.

Her heart.

Beating.

Always beating.

The heart pumps.

Sending blood through every part of her body.

Carrying oxygen to places she cannot see.

Carrying healing.

Carrying care.

The blood moves through vessels.

Rivers inside of her.

Bringing what is needed.

Taking away what is no longer necessary.

Her body is preparing to reset.

To restore.

To be ready for another day.

Another cycle.

Her heart has been beating since before she was born.

And it will beat until the very end.

Never stopping.

Never resting.

A faithful companion.

A tireless drum.

Maka is very grateful for her heart.

For the way it holds her in rhythm.

For the way it knows what to do without being asked.

For the way it carries life through her body.

Movement after movement.

Beat after beat.

Always turning.

Always moving.

Always bringing her back to life.

Maka loves her breath.

Air moving in.

Filling her lungs.

Expanding her chest.

Air moving out.

Releasing.

Softening.

Relaxing.

The breath is effortless.

Requiring her no thought.

No effort.

It just happens.

Over and over again.

She thinks of how the oxygen enters her lungs.

Meeting her blood.

It's carried by her heart throughout her body.

Feeding every cell.

She breathes out carbon dioxide.

What her body no longer needs.

And that becomes food for the trees.

For the plants.

For the green growing things.

They take what she releases.

They give her what she needs.

What a beautiful exchange.

A partnership.

A conversation without words.

As she exhales,

The trees inhale.

And as the trees exhale,

She inhales.

As she exhales,

The trees inhale.

And as the trees exhale,

She inhales.

This dance has been happening since her first breath.

And she knows it will continue until her last.

Maka is never alone when she's breathing.

She's very grateful for her life.

For the breath.

For the way it flows without asking.

For the way it connects her to the trees.

To the air.

And to life itself.

She's grateful for the way it continues.

Whether she pays attention or not.

Turning.

Always turning.

Maka loves the trees.

Standing in forests.

Along roadsides.

In parks.

In wild places.

Everywhere.

Roots reaching deep into the earth.

Holding on.

Drinking from the soil.

Branches reaching up towards the sky.

Stretching.

Holding leaves that catch the light.

The trees breathe with Maka.

Taking the carbon dioxide she releases.

Using it to grow.

To build themselves.

To make food from sunlight.

And what they don't need.

They give to Maka.

To give back.

Oxygen.

Pure and clean.

For her to breathe.

She thinks how the trees also release water.

Invisible moisture.

Rising from their leaves into the air.

The water becomes vapor.

Rising.

Gathering.

Thickening.

Becoming something new.

The trees stand through seasons.

Some evergreen.

Some losing their leaves in autumn.

Becoming bare in winter.

Budding in spring.

And full in summer.

Changing.

Always changing.

Yet somehow,

Always themselves.

Rooted.

Grounded.

Patient.

Witnessing.

The trees are her breathing partner.

Her companions in this exchange of life.

They stand beneath the same sky.

They feel the same rain.

They turn towards the same sun.

Maka is grateful for the trees.

For their patience.

For their generosity.

For the way they take what she releases.

For the way they give her what she needs.

For the way they stand.

Season after season.

Holding the earth.

Reaching for the sky.

Breathing with all living beings.

And the clouds.

Maka loves the clouds.

Forming in the sky.

Gathering.

Pulled through from the invisible.

The water that rose from the trees.

From the oceans.

From the rivers.

From the earth itself.

Has become vapor.

Rising.

Lifting into the cooler air.

Condensing.

Thickening.

Becoming visible again.

Fascinating clouds.

The clouds drift.

Carried by the wind.

Changing shape.

Spreading.

Thinning.

Gathering again.

Some clouds are light.

Barely there.

Some are heavy.

Thick and dense.

Full of water.

Waiting.

They travel.

Crossing distances.

Moving over mountains.

Over oceans and seas.

Over forests and deserts.

Over cities.

Villages and towns.

Carrying water from one place to another.

Holding it with patience.

Until the time comes to release.

The trees helped make the clouds.

Breathing out moisture.

Sending it upwards.

And the clouds will return the gift.

When they become too heavy to hold any longer.

When the time is right.

As Maka inhales.

And exhales.

She loves how she contributes to clouds.

Through her connection to the trees.

She finds her connection to the clouds.

She is grateful for the clouds.

For the way they gather.

For the way they travel without hurry.

For their softness in the sky.

For the way they carry gifts.

Drifting.

Waiting.

Ready to give.

She is grateful to how the sky changes color around sunset time.

And how the beautiful colors of sunset reflect on the clouds.

She loves that they carry rain.

Maka loves the rain.

The clouds,

When they're heavy,

Fall.

They can no longer hold what they carry.

And so they release.

Rainfalls.

Drop by drop.

Or all at once.

Soft or strong.

Gentle or fierce.

The rain soaks into the earth.

Disappearing into the soil.

Feeding what lives beneath.

Roots.

Seeds.

Creatures hidden in the dark.

Creatures visible under the light.

The ground drinks.

Coming alive.

Softening.

Welcoming.

The rain fills the rivers.

The streams.

The lakes.

Giving them what they need to continue flowing.

She thinks how the rain gathers in puddles sometimes.

How it reflects the sky.

Becoming like small mirrors.

Like temporary homes for light.

The rain washes.

It cleans.

It brings life to what was dry.

It brings growth to what was waiting.

Green to what was brown.

Without rain,

The earth would sleep forever.

But rain comes.

The clouds release their gift.

And the earth awakens.

Makka is very grateful for the rain.

For the way it falls.

For the way it soaks into the soil.

For the way it drops over bodies of water.

For the way it comes from the sky as a gift.

Released from the clouds.

Returning to the earth.

Feeding the cycle.

Makka loves how she contributes to rain.

Through her connection to the trees.

To the clouds.

She contributes to rain.

She loves her relationship to water.

She also loves the plants.

She thinks of the seeds.

Small and humble.

Easily overlooked.

Buried into the soil.

Waiting.

When the rain comes,

Soaking into the earth,

It reaches the seeds in the darkness.

The seed feels the moisture.

Receives the invitation.

And something inside shifts.

The seed begins to open up.

It cracks.

Surrendering to what is.

Becoming something new.

A tiny tiny root emerges.

Pushing down into the soil.

Pulled in by the gravity.

And a tiny tiny shoot grows up.

It emerges.

Reaching up towards the sky.

Stretching.

The plant grows.

Fed by the rain.

Fed by the soil.

Fed by the sun.

And fed by the air.

Makka feels how she also contributes to that cycle.

It makes her happy.

She loves the seeds.

She loves all the plants.

The leaves start growing.

Green and soft.

Catching light.

Breathing with the trees.

Making food from sunlight.

Flowers appear.

Delicate.

Beautiful.

Offering themselves to the world.

The flowers call.

Silently.

With their colour.

With their scent.

What a gift it is to witness a flower.

Makka is very grateful for the plants.

For their patience in the darkness.

For their willingness to break open.

For their trust.

From waiting.

Comes life.

She's grateful for the way they reach towards light.

For the way they offer themselves.

For the way they feed the cycle.

Turning rain and soil and sun into green.

Into beauty.

Into life.

As Makka adjusts her posture,

She slightly opens her eyes.

Looking up at the darkness of the sky.

And she witnesses the moon appearing as the light fades.

Makka loves the moon.

She loves how it doesn't make its own light.

How it receives the light from the sun.

And reflects it.

Like a mirror in the sky.

Glowing.

The moon changes.

Always changes.

A thin crescent.

Barely visible.

Delicate as a whisper.

Growing.

Night after night.

Filling up.

Becoming half.

Then more than half.

Until it's full.

Round and bright.

Illuminating the earth below.

Casting shadows.

Pulling at the oceans.

Makka is fascinated by the moon.

How she thinks it's changing.

Though in reality,

It's the same moon.

Choosing how much to reflect.

Every day is different.

She loves how the tides respond to the moon.

Rising when the moon is full.

Falling when it wanes.

Oceans listen to the moon.

Obeying its gentle pull.

Waves coming and going.

All breathing with the moon's rhythm.

And then the moon begins to change.

To fade.

Releasing its fullness.

Becoming half again.

Then a crescent.

Then darkness.

Makka loves how a new moon is invisible.

Resting in the sky.

Present.

But unseen.

Gathering itself.

Preparing to begin again.

And it does.

The crescent returns.

Thin and new.

And the cycle continues.

Light and dark.

Over and over.

She loves how the moon marks time.

Like a clock in the night sky.

Reliable.

Patient.

Never rushing.

Makka follows this rhythm.

She knows the moon's phases.

She watches it change.

And watches it turn.

Makka is very grateful for the moon.

For its patience throughout all of its phases.

For the way it shows her that fullness comes and goes.

And how both are necessary.

How both are beautiful.

She's grateful for how the moon pulls the oceans.

Connecting to the earth.

Marking time without hurry.

Turning.

Always turning.

Through light and shadow.

And the mountains.

Makka loves the mountains.

Standing tall.

Ancient.

Unknown.

The mountains have been here longer than anyone can remember.

Longer than any person.

Longer than any tree.

Longer than most things that live and grow.

They rise from the earth.

Rooted so deep.

Holding the land.

Steady.

Stone and rock.

Layer upon layer.

Built over time.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Rising.

She's fascinated how the mountains stand through storms.

Through wind and rain.

Through snow and ice.

Through heat and cold.

They do not bend.

They simply stand.

Snow falls on the peaks.

Melting ice.

In the spring.

Feeding the rivers below.

Giving water to the valleys.

The mountains hold the snow.

Hold the ice.

Release it slowly.

Feeding the land.

The mountains witness everything.

They watch the moon rise and set.

Night after night.

They watch the sun cross the sky.

Day after day.

They watch the seasons turn.

Year after year.

They stand.

Silent.

Patient.

Holding the earth.

Some mountains are home to plants that grow nowhere else.

Animals that climb their slopes.

Birds that nest in their heights.

They provide shelter.

Protection.

Stability.

Maka thinks of the mountains.

Even when she cannot see them.

Knowing they are there.

Standing.

Witnessing.

They remind her that some things do not change quickly.

That patience is measured in ages,

Not days.

And that stillness has its own strength.

Maka is grateful for the mountains.

For their steadiness.

For the way they hold the earth firm.

For the way they stand throughout time.

Unchanging yet somehow always changing.

Slowly carved by the wind and water over millennia.

She's grateful for the way they witness all that passes.

For the way they remind her that some things endure.

For the way they stand rooted.

Patient.

Almost as if they're eternal.

Maka loves the stars.

Her eyes are still closed.

Yet she can sense them now.

Appearing one by one.

Filling the darkness of the sky.

The stars have been there all along.

Even during the day.

Shining though invisible in the sun's brightness.

Now,

As darkness settles,

They reveal themselves.

First one.

Bright and steady.

And two.

More than can be counted.

More than can be measured.

More than can be named.

The stars are so far away.

Unimaginably far.

Yet their light reaches us.

Their light reaches through Maka's heart.

Traveling through space.

Through time.

Arriving here.

Touching her closed eyelids.

Some of the stars she senses are already gone.

Their lives ended a long time ago.

But their light is still on a journey.

Traveling.

Reaching.

Shining.

Like a gift from the past.

Arriving in the present.

She's fascinated how the stars have been used.

For guidance.

For finding direction.

For marking time.

For telling stories.

Travelers look to the stars.

Sailors cross oceans by their light.

And wanderers find their way home.

The stars are constant.

Rising in the east.

Setting in the west.

Predictable.

Reliable.

Night after night.

They trace the same path across the sky.

Like a map written in light.

Sometimes a star drops.

They call it a shooting star.

Moving fast across the darkness.

Brief and bright.

Here and suddenly gone.

Leaving a glimpse of a memory.

And a flash of wonder.

Maka knows the stars are witnesses.

Watching over the earth.

Watching over all the cycles below.

The breath.

The trees.

The mountains.

And her heartbeat.

The stars watch it all.

Silent.

Distant.

Almost as if they're eternal.

Maka is grateful for the stars.

For the way they shine,

Even when unseen.

For the way they guide.

For how they witness.

For their light that travels so far to reach her.

And for their patterns in the sky.

For the way they mark time and space.

For the shooting stars that remind her that some gifts are brief,

Yet consistent.

How some gifts are meant only to be witnessed.

Not held.

She is grateful for the way they fill the darkness.

Countless points of light.

Turning.

Always turning.

Roaming and rotating in their great cosmic dance.

Maka lies still.

Breathing.

Eyes closed.

Aware of the cycles continuing around her.

Within her.

Her heart beating.

Her breath flowing.

And the earth turning.

As she lays down.

Finding rest.

She remembers her mother's words.

Her mom would say.

In repetition,

There is value.

Her heart beating.

Perhaps a different part will speak to the heart this time.

Perhaps rest will come between the words.

Between the breath.

Between the cycles.

The story continues,

Whether witnessed or not.

The cycles turn,

Whether she sleeps or wakes.

And somehow,

There is that quiet hope.

Soft as starlight.

That perhaps,

One day,

Sleep will find her.

But for now.

She is here.

Breathing.

Grateful.

Turning with all the cycle.

She feels her heartbeat.

Feels her breath.

She remembers her mother telling her.

Rest is enough.

And the story begins again.

Once upon a time,

There was a girl named Maka.

She was born with the gift of wakefulness.

Never sleeping.

Not once in her life.

She has made peace with this.

She found her rest in other people.

Other ways.

In closing her eyes.

In horizontal stillness.

And most importantly,

In the stories she tells herself.

And still,

She has a quiet hope.

Soft as starlight.

That perhaps,

One day,

She will know what sleep feels like.

But for now.

This is enough.

She finds contentment in her heart.

She remembers her mother telling her.

Rest is enough.

Maka knows the stars are always there.

Hidden by daylight.

Behind the clouds.

And through walls and ceilings.

They're always there.

Waiting.

She follows the rhythms of the moon.

In lunar time,

The day doesn't start with sunrise.

In lunar time,

The day begins at sunset.

As the sun dips below the horizon,

A new day unfolds.

This is when Maka shifts her energy.

Turning it inwards.

Towards rest.

Preparing herself to witness the night sky.

And while she awaits for darkness to arrive.

For the stars to reveal themselves.

She tells herself stories.

Contemplating the cycles of life.

Cycles that she's very grateful for.

Perhaps today,

She'll experience sleep.

Maka sees all living beings as her relatives.

The trees.

The rivers.

The birds and the stones.

The flowers.

And the wind.

The children and the elders.

All people.

All of life.

So,

As she tells herself stories.

Somehow,

She deeply believes that so many of her relatives could be listening.

All are welcome.

She settles down.

Arranging the blanket around her.

Finding comfort.

Finding warmth.

Her eyes are open sometimes.

And sometimes she closes them.

As she opens her eyes,

She looks up the sky.

Still holding the last light of sunset.

She settles.

Feeling her body.

Feeling her breath.

Her hand rests on her bellybutton.

The place where she was once connected.

Her first mark of belonging.

The memory of being held inside another human's body.

She knows that not everyone's connection to family brings healing.

Not everyone's beginning was safe.

But here,

In this moment,

With this breath,

There is a different kind of connection to all people.

To the truth that we all began this way.

Breathing through another person's breath.

A connection not to one family,

But to all people.

To the shared beginning that we all have.

Despite our differences.

She moves her hand to her heart.

Resting there.

She feels it beat beneath her palm.

Deep.

Strong.

Always in motion.

Maka chooses to close her eyes.

The stars are above.

She knows this.

Even though the sky is not yet dark enough to see them.

They are there.

Always there.

Closing her eyes,

She can sense them.

As if her closed eyelids turn off all the light pollution of the world.

Revealing what was hidden.

Maybe today,

As she rests her eyes.

As she tells herself the story.

Sleep may finally come.

Maybe today.

And there,

In her chest.

Her heart.

Beating.

Always beating.

The heart pumps.

Sending blood through every part of her body.

Carrying oxygen to places she cannot see.

Carrying healing.

Carrying care.

The blood moves through vessels.

Rivers inside of her.

Bringing what is needed.

Taking away what is no longer necessary.

Her body is preparing to reset.

To restore.

To be ready for another day.

Another cycle.

Her heart has been beating since before she was born.

And it will beat until the very end.

Never stopping.

Never resting.

A faithful companion.

A tireless drum.

Maka is very grateful for her heart.

For the way it holds her in rhythm.

For the way it knows what to do without being asked.

For the way it carries life through her body.

Movement after movement.

Beat after beat.

Always turning.

Always moving.

Always bringing her back to life.

Maka loves her breath.

Air moving in.

Filling her lungs.

Expanding her chest.

Air moving out.

Releasing.

Softening.

The breath is effortless.

Requiring her no thought.

No effort.

It just happens.

Over and over again.

She thinks of how the oxygen enters her lungs.

Meeting her blood.

It's carried by her heart throughout her body.

Feeding every cell.

She breathes out carbon dioxide.

What her body no longer needs.

And that becomes food for the trees.

For the plants.

For the green growing things.

They take what she releases.

They give her what she needs.

What a beautiful exchange.

A partnership.

A conversation without words.

A relationship.

As she exhales.

The trees inhale.

And as the trees exhale.

She inhales.

As she exhales.

The trees inhale.

And as the trees exhale.

She inhales.

This dance has been happening since her first breath.

And she knows it will continue until her last.

Maka is never alone when she's breathing.

She's very grateful for the breath.

For the way it flows without asking.

For the way it connects her to the trees.

To the air.

And to life itself.

She's grateful for the way it continues.

Whether she pays attention or not.

Turning.

Always.

Turning.

Maka loves the trees.

Standing in forests.

Along roadsides.

In parks.

In wild places.

Everywhere.

Roots reaching deep into the earth.

Holding on.

Drinking from the soil.

Branches reaching up towards the sky.

Stretching.

Holding leaves that catch the light.

The trees breathe with Maka.

Taking the carbon dioxide she releases.

Using it to grow.

To build themselves.

To make food from sunlight.

And what they don't need.

They give back.

Oxygen.

Pure and clean.

For her to breathe.

She thinks how the trees also release water.

Invisible moisture.

Rising from their leaves into the air.

The water becomes vapor.

Rising.

Gathering.

Thickening.

Becoming something new.

The trees stand through seasons.

Some evergreen.

Some losing their leaves in autumn.

Becoming bare in winter.

Budding in spring.

And full in summer.

Changing.

Always changing.

Yet somehow.

Always themselves.

Rooted.

Grounded.

Patient.

Witnessing.

The trees are her breathing partner.

Her companions in this exchange of life.

They stand beneath the same sky.

They feel the same rain.

They turn towards the same sun.

Maka is grateful for the trees.

For their patience.

For their generosity.

For the way they take what she releases.

And give her what she needs.

For the way they stand.

Season after season.

Holding the earth.

Reaching for the sky.

Breathing with all living beings.

And the clouds.

Maka loves the clouds.

Forming in the sky.

Gathering.

Pulled through from the earth.

From the invisible.

The water that rose from the trees.

From the oceans.

From the rivers.

From the earth itself.

Has become vapor.

Rising.

Lifting into the cooler air.

Condensing.

Thickening.

Becoming visible again.

Fascinating clouds.

The clouds drift.

Carried by the wind.

Changing shape.

Spreading.

Thinning.

Gathering again.

Some clouds are light.

Barely there.

Some are heavy.

Thick and dense.

Full of water.

Waiting.

They travel.

Crossing distances.

Moving over mountains.

Over oceans and seas.

Over forests and deserts.

Over cities.

Villages and towns.

Carrying water from one place to another.

Holding it with patience.

Until the time comes to release.

The trees helped make the clouds.

Breathing out moisture.

Sending it upwards.

And the clouds will return the gift.

When they become too heavy to hold any longer.

When the time is right.

As Maka inhales.

And exhales.

She loves how she contributes to clouds.

Through her connection to the trees.

She finds her connection to the clouds.

Maka is grateful for the clouds.

For the way they gather.

For the way they travel without hurry.

For their softness in the sky.

For the way they carry gifts.

Drifting.

Waiting.

Ready to give.

She's grateful to how the sky changes color around sunset time.

And how the beautiful colors of sunset reflect on the clouds.

She loves that they carry rain.

Maka loves the rain.

The clouds.

When they're heavy.

Full.

They can no longer hold what they carry.

And so they release.

Rainfalls.

Drop by drop.

Or all at once.

Soft or strong.

Gentle or fierce.

The rain soaks into the earth.

Disappearing into the soil.

Feeding what lives beneath.

Roots.

Seeds.

Creatures hidden in the dark.

Creatures visible under the light.

The ground drinks.

Coming alive.

Softening.

Welcoming.

The rain fills the rivers.

The streams.

The lakes.

Giving them what they need to continue flowing.

She thinks how the rain gathers in puddles sometimes.

How it reflects the sky.

Becoming like small mirrors.

Like temporary homes for light.

The rain washes.

It cleans.

It breaks the ice.

Brings life to what was dry.

Growth to what was waiting.

Green to what was brown.

Without rain,

The earth would sleep forever.

But rain comes.

The clouds release their gift.

And the earth awakens.

Maka is very grateful for the rain.

For the way it falls.

For the way it soaks into the soil.

For the way it drops over bodies of water.

For the way it comes from the sky as a gift.

Released from the clouds.

Returning to the earth.

Feeding the cycle.

Maka loves how she contributes to rain.

Through her connection to the trees.

To the clouds.

She contributes to rain.

She loves her relationship to water.

She also loves the plants.

She thinks of the seeds.

Small and humble.

Easily overlooked.

Buried into the soil.

Waiting.

When the rain comes,

Soaking into the earth,

It reaches the seeds in the darkness.

The seed feels the moisture.

Receives the invitation.

And something inside shifts.

The seed begins to open up.

It cracks.

Surrendering to what is.

Becoming something new.

Tiny tiny root emerges.

Pushing down into the soil.

Pulled in by the gravity.

The tiny shoot grows up.

It emerges.

Reaching up towards the sky.

Stretching.

The plant grows.

Fed by the rain.

Fed by the soil.

Fed by the sun.

And fed by the air.

Maka feels how she also contributes to that cycle.

It makes her happy.

She loves the seeds.

She loves all the plants.

The leaves start growing.

Green and soft.

Catching light.

Breathing with the trees.

Making food from sunlight.

Flowers appear.

Delicate.

Beautiful.

Offering themselves to the world.

The flowers call.

Silently.

With their colour.

With their scent.

What a gift it is to witness a flower.

Maka is very grateful for the plants.

For their patience in the darkness.

For their willingness to break open.

For their patience in the darkness.

For their trust.

From waiting comes life.

She is grateful for the way they reach towards light.

For the way they offer themselves.

For the way they feed the cycle.

Turning rain and soil and sun.

Into green.

Into beauty.

Into life.

As Maka adjusts her posture.

She slightly opens her eyes.

Looking up at the darkness of the sky.

And she witnesses the moon.

Appearing as the light fades.

Maka loves the moon.

She loves how it doesn't make its own light.

How it receives the light from the sun.

And reflects it.

Like a mirror in the sky.

Glowing.

The moon changes.

Always changes.

A thin crescent.

Barely visible.

Delicate as a whisper.

Growing.

Night after night.

Filling up.

Becoming half.

Then more than half.

Until it's full.

Round and bright.

Illuminating the earth below.

Casting shadows.

Falling at the oceans.

Maka is fascinated by the moon.

How she thinks it's changing.

Though in reality,

It's the same moon.

Choosing how much to reflect.

Every day is different.

She loves how the tides respond to the moon.

Rising when the moon is full.

Falling when it wanes.

The oceans listen to the moon.

Obeying its gentle pull.

Waves coming and going.

All breathing with the moon's rhythm.

And then the moon begins to fade.

Releasing its fullness.

Then it's full.

Becoming half again.

Then a crescent.

Maka loves how a new moon is invisible.

Resting in the sky.

Present.

But unseen.

Gathering itself.

Preparing to begin again.

And it does.

The crescent returns.

Thin and new.

And the cycle continues.

Light and dark.

Over and over.

She loves how the moon marks time.

Like a clock in the night sky.

Reliable.

Patient.

Never rushing.

Maka follows this rhythm.

She knows the moon's phases.

She watches it change.

And watches it turn.

Maka is very grateful for the moon.

For its patience throughout all of its phases.

For the way it shows her that fullness comes and goes.

And how both are necessary.

How both are beautiful.

She's grateful for how the moon pulls the oceans.

Connecting to the earth.

Marking time without hurry.

Turning.

Always turning.

Through light and shadow.

In the mountains.

Maka loves the mountains.

Standing tall.

Tall.

Ancient.

The mountains have been here longer than anyone can remember.

Longer than any person.

Longer than any tree.

Longer than most things that live and grow.

They rise from the earth.

Rooted so deep.

Holding the land.

Steady.

Stone and rock.

Layer upon layer.

Built over time.

Patiently.

Rising.

She's fascinated how the mountains stand through storms.

Through wind and rain.

Through snow and ice.

Through heat and cold.

They do not bend.

They simply stand.

Snow falls on the peaks.

Melting in the spring.

Feeding the rivers below.

Giving water to the valleys.

The mountains hold the snow.

Hold the ice.

Release it slowly.

Feeding the land.

The mountains witness everything.

They watch the moon.

Rise and set.

Night after night.

They watch the sun cross the sky.

Day after day.

They watch the seasons turn.

Year after year.

They stand.

Silent.

Patient.

Holding the earth.

Some mountains are home to plants that grow nowhere else.

Animals that climb their slopes.

Birds that nest in their hives.

They provide shelter,

Protection,

Stability.

Maka thinks of the mountains even when she cannot see them.

Knowing they are there.

Standing.

Witnessing.

They remind her that some things do not change quickly.

That patience is measured in ages,

Not days.

That stillness has its own strength.

Maka is grateful for the mountains.

For their steadiness.

For the way they hold the earth firm.

For the way they stand throughout time.

Unchanging,

Yet somehow always changing.

Slowly,

Carved by the wind and water over millennia.

She's grateful for the way they witness all that passes.

For the way they remind her that some things endure.

She's grateful for the way they stand,

Rooted.

Patient.

Almost as if they're eternal.

Maka loves the stars.

Her eyes are still closed.

Yet she can sense them now.

Appearing one by one.

Filling the darkness of the sky.

The stars have been there all along.

Even during the day.

Shining,

Though invisible in the sun's brightness.

Now,

As darkness settles.

They reveal themselves.

First one.

Bright and steady.

And two.

More than can be counted.

More than can be named.

The stars are so far away.

Unimaginably far.

Yet their light reaches us.

Their light reaches through Maka's heart.

Traveling through space.

Through time.

Arriving here.

Touching her closed eyelids.

Some of the stars she senses are already gone.

Their lives ended a long time ago.

But their light is still on a journey.

Traveling.

Reaching.

Shining.

Like a gift from the past.

Arriving in the present.

She's fascinated how the stars have been used for guidance.

For finding direction.

For marking time.

For telling stories.

Travelers look to the stars.

Sailors cross oceans by their light.

Wanderers find their way home.

The stars are constant.

Rising in the east.

Setting in the west.

Predictable.

Reliable.

Night after night.

They trace the same path across the sky.

Like a map written in light.

Sometimes a star drops.

They call it a shooting star.

Moving fast across the darkness.

Brief and bright.

Here and suddenly gone.

Leaving a glimpse of a memory.

And a flash of wonder.

Maka knows the stars are witnesses.

Watching over the earth.

Watching over all of us.

All the cycles below.

The breath.

The trees.

And her heartbeat.

The stars watch it all.

Silent.

Distant.

Almost as if they're eternal.

Maka is grateful for the stars.

For the way they shine even when unseen.

For the way they guide.

For how they witness.

For their light that travels so far to reach her.

And for their patterns in the sky.

For the way they mark time and space.

For the shooting stars that remind her that some gifts are brief.

Yet consistent.

How some gifts are meant only to be witnessed.

Not held.

She is grateful for the way they fill the darkness.

Countless points of light.

Turning.

Always turning.

Roaming and rotating in their great cosmic dance.

Maka lies still.

Breathing.

Eyes closed.

Aware of the cycles continuing around her.

Within her.

Her heart beating.

Her breath flowing.

And the earth turning.

As she lays down.

Finding rest.

She remembers her mother's words.

Her mom would say.

In repetition there is value.

Perhaps a different part will speak to the heart this time.

Perhaps rest will come between the words.

Between the words.

Between the breath.

Between the cycles.

The story continues whether witnessed or not.

The cycles turn.

Whether she sleeps or wakes.

And somehow.

There is that quiet hope.

Soft as starlight.

That perhaps.

One day.

Sleep will find her.

But for now.

She's here.

Breathing.

Grateful.

Turning with all the cycle.

She feels her heartbeat.

Feels her breath.

She remembers her mother telling her.

Rest is enough.

And the story begins again.

Once upon a time.