Welcome to Zen Stories for Sleep Time.
I'm Helen,
And to begin our time together,
I suggest we take a few moments to get comfortable and arrive.
Notice the natural rhythm of your breath.
There's no need to change it.
Just feel the air as you inhale.
Notice your body respond as you exhale.
And with each breath,
Imagine your thoughts settling like sand,
Slowly drifting to the bottom of a clear still pond.
For the next while,
We will travel together through a garden of Zen stories.
Zen is a tradition that values simplicity,
Direct experience,
And the wisdom that lies beyond our busy,
Chattering minds.
These stories are like gentle companions to accompany you into a state of deep rest.
We will listen to tales of monks and masters,
Of ordinary people,
And unexpected moments of clarity.
There is no need to analyze or remember these tales.
Simply relax into listening,
And let the sounds of the words wash over you.
Then allow yourself to be carried into the quiet space between wakefulness and sleep.
Chapter 1.
The Moon Cannot Be Stolen Our first story comes from ancient Japan.
It's a traditional tale of a master,
An intruder,
And the light of the moon.
It was once a Zen master who lived a life of profound poverty and peace.
His small hut sat at the edge of a village.
His only possessions were his robe,
His bowl,
And a few things necessary for his daily life.
At night,
He would meditate in the stillness of his small home,
Often lit only by the soft silver glow of the moon.
One night,
As he sat in meditation,
He sensed a presence.
Someone had entered the hut.
The master watched as the shadows silently rummaged through his meager belongings.
Of course,
There was nothing to find.
The master felt a wave of compassion for the one who had come looking for something and found nothing.
He did not feel anger or fear,
Only a deep wish to help this troubled one.
Noticing the beautiful moonlight streaming through the window,
An idea came to him.
As the empty-handed shadow turned to leave,
The master spoke.
Wait,
He said gently.
The figure froze.
The master stood and walked over to him.
You have travelled a long way to visit me,
He said with a kind smile.
I cannot let you return empty-handed.
Please,
Take this.
And he took the robe off his own back and offered it to the intruder.
The figure stood stunned.
He looked at the robe,
At the peaceful face of the master,
And slowly took the robe from him.
The master stood naked,
Smiling at the night sky,
Full with a radiant moon.
What a pity,
He murmured.
I wish I could have given you this beautiful moon.
The intruder went on his way,
But the encounter stayed with him.
He had met a man who owned nothing,
Yet had given him the shirt off his back,
And lamented that he could not give him the moon.
It was a lesson he would never forget,
And so the seed of kindness was planted in his heart.
The teaching of this story is simple and profound.
We spend so much of our lives trying to acquire and protect things,
Possessions,
Status,
Even relationships,
As if they are ours to keep.
But all things can be taken away.
The only true inner wealth is what we already are,
Our capacity for peace,
For compassion,
For generosity.
That is the moon that cannot be stolen.
As you rest here,
Feel your own connection to that inner wealth.
You sense the part of you that is already whole,
That needs nothing.
Ask yourself,
What is my own inner moon,
The treasure that cannot be taken from me?
Now rest with this question for the next minute.
Welcome back.
Let's move gently on to chapter two,
The Monk and the Koi Pond.
Our next story is inspired by the peace of a quiet garden.
In a small Zen monastery,
Nestled in a green valley,
There is a beautiful garden.
And at the heart of the garden is a large,
Tranquil pond,
Home to a number of colorful koi fish.
The fish are beloved by the monks,
Who often watch them glide serenely through the water.
Now one young monk,
New to the monastery,
Has been given the task of caring for the koi.
And each day,
When he brings them their food and watches them eat,
He notices something that troubles him.
Whenever he approaches the pond,
The fish dart away,
Hiding beneath the lily pads.
It's only after he's been standing for a long time,
They will slowly venture out.
And the young monk so dearly wants to connect with the fish.
He wants to be friends with them.
He often reaches into the water to try and touch them.
He follows them along the edge of the pond.
But the more he tries,
The more they flee,
And so his frustration grows.
This young monk notices the other monks sitting peacefully by the water,
With the fish sometimes swimming right up to them.
Why won't they come to me,
He wonders.
One day,
His master finds him sitting by the pond,
His brow furrowed with worry.
And so the young monk shares his problem.
Master,
He says,
I try so hard to befriend the koi,
And they only run from me.
What am I doing wrong?
The master smiles gently.
He walks to the edge of the pond and stands perfectly still.
Simply looking out over the water.
He doesn't call to the fish.
He doesn't reach for them.
He just stands there,
Breathing.
After a few moments,
One curious koi ventures out from under the lily pads.
And then another.
And soon several fish are swimming calmly in the clear water before him.
The master now turns to the young monk and explains.
You see,
You are trying to do something.
You're trying to make them come to you.
You're wanting,
You're reaching.
It creates a disturbance in the water,
And they feel that.
When I stand here,
I simply stand.
I don't try to get anything from them.
I'm simply present.
The water is still,
And they feel safe.
To hold the koi,
You need to first let go of wanting to hold them.
The young monk looks at the fish and,
At the same time,
At his own outstretched hand.
He understands.
His effort is the very thing creating the distance.
The story holds a beautiful teaching for us.
Especially when we prepare for sleep.
Sleep,
Like the koi,
Cannot be grasped or forced.
The more we try to make ourselves sleep,
The more elusive it becomes.
And the struggle itself can keep us awake.
But when we stop trying,
When we simply lie still,
Being present with the breath,
No expectations,
Then rest can come to us naturally.
So just as you are here right now,
Let go of any effort,
Physical,
Mental,
Or otherwise.
Perhaps let go of the need to fall asleep.
Instead,
Simply be here,
Like the master by the pond.
Feel the weight of your body.
Listen to the silence.
And slowly and gently repeat,
Quietly to yourself,
I choose to simply allow.
I choose to simply allow.
I choose to simply allow.
Simply allow.
And now let us turn to Chapter 3,
Entitled,
A Cup of Tea.
This is a classic Zen story,
One of the most famous ones about a professor and a master.
A long time ago,
A university professor traveled a great distance to visit the renowned Zen master.
He had heard of the master's wisdom and wished to learn about Zen.
He arrived at the simple temple and the master invited him in for tea.
They sat facing each other on the floor in a quiet room.
The master placed a fine ceramic cup in front of the professor and began to pour tea.
He poured,
And then he poured a little more,
And some more.
The teacup filled,
And filled,
And then it began to spill over the room,
Onto the saucer,
And soon onto the floor.
The professor watched,
And finally contained himself no longer.
Stop,
He says.
The cup is full,
No more will go in.
The master stopped pouring.
He looked at the professor with calm,
Kind eyes.
And then he said,
Like this cup,
You are full of your own opinions,
Your own speculations,
Your own ideas about what Zen is,
And what you have come to learn.
How can I show you Zen,
Unless you first empty your cup?
The professor sat in silence,
And in that moment he received his first and most important lesson.
This story is a gentle reminder of the mind we bring to each moment.
Our thoughts are often like that cup,
Filled to the brim with plans,
Worries,
Memories,
Judgments.
There is no room for anything new to enter.
As you are here now,
You are invited to empty your cup.
Let go of the day's events.
Let go of plans for tomorrow.
Let go of every thought that tries to fill you.
Relax into a state of profound emptiness.
A sacred space where the new day can be poured in.
As you breathe,
Imagine your mind is like that cup.
With each exhale,
Feel a little bit of thought,
A little bit of stress,
A little bit of the day pouring out.
Become empty.
Become open.
And ask yourself,
What am I still holding onto that I can gently pour out right now?
Now,
Allow it to gently spill away and away and away.
And now,
Chapter four,
The Four Monks.
This is a story about four monks who traveled together through the countryside and learned a valuable lesson through meditation.
It was getting late and four young monks were traveling through the country.
Decided it was best to stop and rest for the night.
The sun had set and the air was growing cold.
So they found a sheltered spot and built a small fire to keep warm.
As was their custom,
The four monks relaxed into meditation before going to sleep.
They closed their eyes and began to follow their breath.
The evening deepened.
The wind began to pick up,
Rustling the leaves in the trees.
And their small fire,
Their only source of warmth,
Began to flicker and dim.
The flames grew smaller and smaller.
The one monk,
Feeling the cold creep in,
Opened his eyes and saw the dying fire,
So without thinking he blurted out,
Oh no,
The fire is about to go out.
Another monk,
Startled from his meditation,
Whispered sharply,
Shhh,
You're supposed to be meditating in silence.
You've spoken.
The third monk,
Annoyed by the disruption,
Looked at the other monks and said,
Will you two be quiet?
Why must you always talk?
The last monk,
Sitting quietly all this time,
Smugly said,
Hmm,
Look at you all.
I'm the only one here still meditating.
The four monks looked at each other.
In their concern for the fire,
For the rules,
For their own egos,
They had all completely missed the point of their practice.
Even the fourth monk,
In his pride,
Had broken the silence.
This humorous story points to the busyness of our inner world.
Each monk represents a part of the mind,
A part worried about comfort,
A part obsessed with rules,
A part quick to anger and judge,
And the part that feels superior.
They were all caught in a story,
And none of them were simply present.
Can you observe your own four monks?
The voice of worry,
The critical voice,
The irritated voice,
And the voice that wants to be right.
Remember that these are just voices,
Just thoughts.
See if you can watch them from a distance,
Without getting involved.
So don't argue with them,
Don't join them.
Let them talk amongst themselves,
Like the four monks by the fire,
While you rest peacefully,
Simply observing.
Returning to the breath,
We now also turn to Chapter 5,
The Silent Bell.
For our final story,
We will imagine a young seeker and an old bellkeeper.
In a village high in the mountains,
There was an ancient temple,
Famous for its enormous bronze bell.
The bell was rung at dawn and dusk,
And its deep resonant tone could be heard for miles,
Filling the entire valley with a sound that seemed to settle the mind and calm the heart.
The young man came to the village specifically to hear this famous bell.
He had heard stories of its profound sound and believed it would bring him peace.
He arrived late in the afternoon and went straight to the temple.
He waited and waited,
But the bellkeeper,
A quiet elderly man,
Did not ring it.
Dusk came and went,
And the bell remained silent.
Feeling frustrated,
The young man approached the keeper.
I came all this way to hear the great bell,
He said.
Why have you not rung it?
It is past dusk.
The old keeper looked at him calm.
You cannot hear the bell,
He said,
If you are full of the need to hear it.
The young man was confused,
And returned to his inn disappointed.
The next morning he went back to the temple,
Having decided to simply sit in the courtyard and wait without expectation.
So he watched the mist rise from the valley,
He listened to the birds,
He felt the cool morning air on his skin,
And he forgot about the bell,
He forgot about his search for peace.
He was simply sitting,
Present with the morning.
And then,
Without warning,
The keeper struck the bell.
A single,
Deep,
Powerful note erupted into the morning air.
It was not just a sound,
It was a vibration,
And the young man felt it in his very bones.
It resonated through the courtyard,
Through the valley,
And through the entirety of his being.
And in that moment,
He understood.
The sound was so profound,
Because it had emerged from perfect silence.
The silence and the sound were not two separate things.
They are one.
He opened his eyes and saw the old keeper smiling at him.
The keeper simply nodded and walked away.
The story holds a key to deep rest.
We often seek peace as if it were a bell to be rung,
A thing to be acquired.
But peace isn't found in the sound,
It is the silence from which all sounds arise,
And into which they return.
Our thoughts are like the bell,
Coming and going.
Our true nature,
The place we are returning to now,
Is the vast,
Silent space,
Holding it all.
As you prepare for sleep,
Simply be with the silence that is already here,
The space between breaths,
The stillness at the centre of your being.
Rest in this silence now.
Let every sound,
Every distant car,
Every creak of the house,
Every passing thought,
Arise and fall away,
Like ripples on a vast,
Deep ocean.
Be not the ripple.
Be like the ocean floor.
As our time together comes to a close,
Let the teachings of these stories settle within you.
You have travelled with a generous monk who gave away his robe,
A patient master who understood the koi,
A wise teacher who knew the cup was full,
Four monks who forgot their silence,
And a bellkeeper whose peace is the space between sounds.
And now,
Simply rest in the quiet space that is now here with you.
May you rest peacefully and may the moonlight always shine within you.
