Dream Sutra: The Pillow Made Of Echoes

Settle in.

Find a position that feels easy for you.

Let your hands rest down.

Unclench your jaw.

Soften your shoulders.

Let the breath come in and leave on its own.

Nothing to hold.

Nothing to chase.

Tonight's dream sutra begins.

A watchman walked the city at night.

Stone streets stretched out before him.

The windows shut tight.

Doors locked.

No lanterns burning.

No footsteps but his own.

He thought he was the last soul awake.

His boots echoed against the walls.

And each echo only deepened the feeling.

That loneliness was all he had for company.

At the turn of a narrow lane he saw a small bundle by a doorway.

Nothing special to look at.

Twine,

A bit of cloth,

The faintest shimmer where the moon touched it.

But something about it called to him.

Kneeled and lifted the bundle into his arms.

Soft as a worn shirt.

He carried it to a low step.

That Saturday.

Let his eyes close.

And without forcing anything,

The bundle became a pillow.

He felt drawn to rest his head upon it.

The night began to change.

At first,

He heard laughter.

Soft,

Distant,

Spilling like water over stone.

Then,

A mother's lullaby.

Gentle,

Silk rocking her child to sleep.

Then the steady hush of nearby hearts.

Beating here and there.

Beating as if with him.

The watchman realized.

He had never truly been alone.

The city wasn't empty.

Tears welled quiet,

Grateful.

He let the sounds gather like stars.

A window latch gently set.

A kettle sighing somewhere.

A bus two streets over,

Drowsy as a whale.

If loneliness visits you too,

Give it a place to rest its head.

Listen,

Not to the stories it tells.

But to the life moving all around you.

You belong to the breath that belongs to everything.

Lie back with the watchman on that low step.

Let your breath match the city's rhythm.

Three soft breaths together.

Inhale as if the whole block is filling.

May the city keep watch while you rest.