Speaker 1: Welcome to the meditation nest. Here, bedtime stories become gentle
Speaker 1: meditations designed to help your thoughts unwind as you slow
Speaker 1: the tempo of your life and embrace the night ahead.
Speaker 1: I invite you to slow your breath, soften your thoughts,
Speaker 1: and find peace as you listen. This is your time
Speaker 1: to rest, reflect, and dream. Greetings. This bedtime tale is
Speaker 1: called Beyond the Window. It's a quiet reflection about an
Speaker 1: overthinking mind learning to let go, to trade brightness for softness,
Speaker 1: noise for calm. In it, we meet some one whose
Speaker 1: days are filled with screens, meetings, and mental motion, yet
Speaker 1: who finds peace waiting just outside the window, in the
Speaker 1: quiet rhythm of water, wind and night. As you listen,
Speaker 1: allow each word to move slowly, like ripples across still water.
Speaker 1: There's nothing to solve, nothing to analyze. Let the story
Speaker 1: carry you into stillness. Lie back, get comfy, and we begin.
Speaker 1: All day, my mind hummed like a fluorescent light, those long,
Speaker 1: narrow tubes flickering overhead in my office, an endless brightness
Speaker 1: that hums even when no one else notices. That's how
Speaker 1: my thoughts feel after too many meetings, too many i ams,
Speaker 1: too many decisions, stacked into a tower I can't quite
Speaker 1: put down. From dawn until almost dusk, the hours have
Speaker 1: been filled with motion, slides, advancing notifications, blinking voices, bending
Speaker 1: around dead lines. I speak, I nod, I write, I reply,
Speaker 1: each action like a tiny pebble dropped into still water,
Speaker 1: until the surface of my mind trembles with ripples. The
Speaker 1: day finally ends, but the motion doesn't even here. Home again,
Speaker 1: in the small house at the edge of the lake,
Speaker 1: the echo of the day keeps circling. It follows me
Speaker 1: from room to room, the nearly finished thought, the half
Speaker 1: written email, the after image of work still glowing behind
Speaker 1: mine eyes. I set my laptop on the table to charge,
Speaker 1: though I don't intend to open it again. Almost immediately,
Speaker 1: a tiny blue light blinks to life, a reminder that
Speaker 1: nothing truly stops when it's tethered to accord. I watch
Speaker 1: the pulse of that light. It feels like watching my
Speaker 1: own pulse, ever active, never fully still. Outside the window,
Speaker 1: through panes that have long since cooled from afternoon sun,
Speaker 1: the lake is beginning its nightly transformation. The water darkens
Speaker 1: from silver to slate, the horizon softens above it. All
Speaker 1: the moon rises, quiet and deliberate, unconcerned with any busyness.
Speaker 1: I tell myself, I'm just going to check one message,
Speaker 1: only one. But even as I reach for the device,
Speaker 1: the gesture feels heavy. It's the same heaviness that settles
Speaker 1: into my shoulders by midweek, the invisible weight of constant response.
Speaker 1: I pause, The screen remains black. The thought settles in,
Speaker 1: what if I don't check it at all? It's such
Speaker 1: a small question, but it startles me, like sudden silence
Speaker 1: after hours of noise. I breathe, testing the air for
Speaker 1: the first time all day. It feels unscripted. I wander
Speaker 1: over to the window. The glass is cool against my fingertips.
Speaker 1: Beyond it, the lake mirrors the night sky, still but
Speaker 1: not static. Every ripple carries a reflection of starlight, moving gently,
Speaker 1: purposefully outward, until the light dissolved. This is the kind
Speaker 1: of calm I remember, but rarely touch. I try to
Speaker 1: let my breath follow what I see, slow rise, slow release,
Speaker 1: a rhythm older than worry. Thoughts continue, of course they
Speaker 1: always do, but the tone of them changes. The edges blur.
Speaker 1: The inner voice that usually raises grows quiet enough that
Speaker 1: for once I can hear something else. Beneath it, the
Speaker 1: quiet sound of water brushing the shore. It occurs to
Speaker 1: me that silence isn't the absence of sound, It's the
Speaker 1: space where one sound finishes before another begins. The lake
Speaker 1: knows this. It lessens between ripples. I remain by the
Speaker 1: window for a long time without realizing it. The clock
Speaker 1: on the wall ticks, but I no longer pay attention.
Speaker 1: Time too, seems to have loosened. My mind notices, then
Speaker 1: drifts back to stillness, back to breath, back to right now.
Speaker 1: For a while, I stay at the window, watching the
Speaker 1: lake shift from softer gray to a deeper blue. The
Speaker 1: air has thickened with that midsummer scent, cool water and
Speaker 1: distant pine, A faint trace of wild mint crushed near
Speaker 1: the shore behind me. The house hums its ordinary tune,
Speaker 1: the refrigerator's uneven sigh, the faint vibration of a modem,
Speaker 1: the muted tick of the wall clock tracing its tidy circles,
Speaker 1: background noise, constant as my thoughts. I've grown so used
Speaker 1: to it that true silence feels almost unnatural, like a
Speaker 1: hallway without walls. Then suddenly the lights blink once twice,
Speaker 1: and then the world lets go of the hum, the
Speaker 1: power goes out all at once. It's a strange silence,
Speaker 1: not heavy, but complete, the kind that widens the air
Speaker 1: reveals its own depth, the kind my mind isn't prepared for.
Speaker 1: At first. I stand there, waiting, expecting the low buzz
Speaker 1: to return, the reassurance of small machines waking again. But
Speaker 1: nothing happens. No glow from the screen, no signal light
Speaker 1: pulsing on the modem. The clock stops. It's ticking mid sentence.
Speaker 1: Somewhere down the road. A transformer must have tripped where
Speaker 1: maybe the whole town has paused for breath. Whatever the reason,
Speaker 1: there's no fixing to do, no steps to take. The
Speaker 1: night has decided for me. I reach for my phone
Speaker 1: by habit, then let it rest on the table. The
Speaker 1: gesture feels almost ceremonial, setting down of something invisible. Without
Speaker 1: the background hum, my body begins to hear itself again,
Speaker 1: the subtle shuffling of my own breath, the faint crackle
Speaker 1: of cooling metal near the stove, the gentle rhythm of
Speaker 1: water brushing the dock outside. I walk through the house
Speaker 1: just to observe rooms. I usually cross by a glare
Speaker 1: of lamplight now breathe in soft gradients of moon and shadow.
Speaker 1: Each space feels larger, slower, as though the air itself
Speaker 1: has exhaled. In the kitchen, the reflection of the lake
Speaker 1: stretches through the window, deep blue and still. I lean
Speaker 1: against the counter, let the darkness settle around me, like
Speaker 1: a blanket that has at last been pulled to my shoulders.
Speaker 1: I can almost hear my mind protesting at first, the
Speaker 1: familiar tug to fill the space with something, a headline,
Speaker 1: a message, a chord of music. But the signal never returns,
Speaker 1: and the pull fades. What's left is the pulse of
Speaker 1: the lake beyond the glass and the quiet pulse inside me,
Speaker 1: two rhythms almost matching for the first time in months.
Speaker 1: There is nothing I can multitask, nothing I can optimize.
Speaker 1: Everything unfinished belongs to tomorrow. Tonight belongs to stillness. I
Speaker 1: open a window above the sink. The night air moves in, slowly,
Speaker 1: cool and mineral rich. Somewhere out near the reeds, a
Speaker 1: frog starts a slow, deliberate song, each croak separated by
Speaker 1: generous patches of silence, as if the creature knows rest
Speaker 1: between notes is as vital as the sound itself. I
Speaker 1: imagine the world outside, field, trees, lake, all powered by
Speaker 1: this same patient rhythm, no deadlines, no reply all threads,
Speaker 1: no screens collecting dust, bright hours, only the vast ongoing
Speaker 1: conversation between water and wind. Standing there, I realize how
Speaker 1: much of my exhaustion comes not from effort, but from resistance,
Speaker 1: the constant leaning forward into what isn't yet. This pause,
Speaker 1: enforced by darkness, feels like the opposite of failure. It
Speaker 1: feels like mercy. The phrase rises in my mind like breath.
Speaker 1: You can stop now. It isn't a command, it's permission,
Speaker 1: a simple truth that the body, startled but grateful, begins
Speaker 1: to believe. For a long time, I remain near the
Speaker 1: open window, letting the night rearrange my senses. When I
Speaker 1: finally moved to the bedroom, it's not out of duty,
Speaker 1: but instinct, the pull of gravity toward rest. The sheets
Speaker 1: are cool, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the
Speaker 1: wash through the glass. Moonlight pools across the floor like
Speaker 1: calm water finding its level. The power hasn't yet returned.
Speaker 1: Everything hums with a deeper, older silence, the kind that
Speaker 1: feels like it was waiting for me all along. I
Speaker 1: lie back, and in the dark my thoughts rise, one
Speaker 1: by one, each appears, drifts fades, perhaps the last bright
Speaker 1: remnants of the day, burning out like tiny stars before dawn.
Speaker 1: The house breathes, the lake breathes, and slowly so do I.
Speaker 1: The house is completely still now, no hum of electricity,
Speaker 1: no digital heartbeat pulsing from the corner of the room,
Speaker 1: only the soft breath of night moving through half open windows,
Speaker 1: and the faint rhythm of the lake against its shore.
Speaker 1: Sleep is nearer, I know, but something in me wants
Speaker 1: to linger, to meet the quiet that has finally arrived.
Speaker 1: I slip my feet into old slippers and find my
Speaker 1: way to the back door by the silver of moonlight
Speaker 1: that rests along the hallway floor. When I open the door,
Speaker 1: the air greets me like an old friend, cool, steady,
Speaker 1: faintly sweet, with the scent of grass that has sighed
Speaker 1: all day beneath the sun. The boards of the porch
Speaker 1: are cool beneath my hands. As I step outside and
Speaker 1: sit beyond the railing, the field stretches toward the water.
Speaker 1: Tall blades sway in slow procession, catching the moon where
Speaker 1: it touches them, turning gray for a breath, then dark again.
Speaker 1: Somewhere among them, crickets begin their chorus, not hurried, not loud,
Speaker 1: but rhythmic, layered, full of gentle conversation. Each sound knows
Speaker 1: its place, Each pause is part of the song. For
Speaker 1: the first few moments, I only listen. Behind the steady
Speaker 1: pulse of the crickets, I can make out the soft
Speaker 1: plunk of the water against the dock, the far cry
Speaker 1: of a night bird settling onto a tree, the sigh
Speaker 1: of wind stepping lightly through the grass. Every sound is measured,
Speaker 1: none asks for attention. Together they create a texture of
Speaker 1: tranquility that feels alive. I let my mind move among
Speaker 1: those sounds, the way light moves across the lake, touching, releasing,
Speaker 1: never staying anywhere for long. Thoughts come, but they can't linger.
Speaker 1: They too join the pattern, small ripples, disappearing into the
Speaker 1: wider calm. I realize that I had forgotten this kind
Speaker 1: of peace even existed. It was never gone. I had
Speaker 1: simply been louder than it. The more I listen, the
Speaker 1: quieter I become. There is a small wooden table beside
Speaker 1: the chair where I sit in daylight. It holds a mug,
Speaker 1: a half finished book, sometimes mail I meant to sort.
Speaker 1: Tonight it holds only moonlight that seems like enough breathing in.
Speaker 1: I notice how the air itself feels slower now, the
Speaker 1: rhythm of the world leaning toward rest. Somewhere within me,
Speaker 1: something knots small, subtle but certain, The endless inventory of
Speaker 1: tasks that once filled my thoughts seems not erased, but distant, softened.
Speaker 1: At the edges the lake and the field are keeping watch.
Speaker 1: I don't have to. The crickets carry on. They will
Speaker 1: sing whether I listen or not. But I listen anyway.
Speaker 1: I imagine each note moving through the night air and
Speaker 1: settling somewhere gentle in the water, in the reeds. Inside
Speaker 1: of me, A quiet kind of gratitude begins to bloom,
Speaker 1: almost too delicate to name, gratitude for simple things, the
Speaker 1: softness of this air, the pulse of the crickets, the
Speaker 1: ease of knowing nothing more is required to night. It
Speaker 1: occurs to me that peace isn't a prize for finishing
Speaker 1: the day well. It is what remains when you've set
Speaker 1: the day down. I lean back in the chair, let
Speaker 1: my eyes rest on the stripe of silver winding across
Speaker 1: the lake. It moves with the smallest breeze, steady as breathing. This,
Speaker 1: I think, is what it means to have enough to
Speaker 1: notice what is already quietly offering itself. In a while
Speaker 1: I will return inside to the cool sheets and the
Speaker 1: window left open to the lake's hush. Sleep will come easily.
Speaker 1: Then I can feel it waiting at the edges, patient
Speaker 1: as the stars. But for now I stay here, present
Speaker 1: in the small, complete world of sound and night air.
Speaker 1: The porch creaks beneath me, the field whispers, the lake listens,
Speaker 1: and inside that shared stillness, my mind finally grows peaceful,
Speaker 1: not empty, but calm. I exhale and think, this is
Speaker 1: what I was looking for all along. The night doesn't answer,
Speaker 1: it doesn't need to. Its quiet is response enough the end.
Speaker 1: Before you drift fully into sleep, take a quiet breath
Speaker 1: and notice how your body may have softened. Let your
Speaker 1: mind rest the way the lake does, reflective, open, at
Speaker 1: peace with its own stillness. You don't have to hold
Speaker 1: the day together anymore. The world will keep turning, the
Speaker 1: crickets will keep chirping, the lake will keep breathing beneath
Speaker 1: the stars. All you need to do is rest right here,
Speaker 1: exactly as you are. May the quiet of this night
Speaker 1: remind you of the calm that's always waiting just beyond
Speaker 1: the noise. Good night. As this episode comes to a
Speaker 1: gentle close and the world outside grows quiet, May you
Speaker 1: find comfort within your own meditation nest. Let your mind
Speaker 1: settle softly. May tranquility wrap around you, inviting deep rest
Speaker 1: and serene dreams until dawn. If you'd like to help
Speaker 1: keep the meditation nest glow, please consider buying me a
Speaker 1: cup of coffee by visiting ko dash Fi dot com
Speaker 1: slash Beth podcast. Every small kindness helps the light travel
Speaker 1: a little further. You can also access a freeweekly blog
Speaker 1: on substack dot com. Check the show notes for links.
Speaker 1: Until we meet again, rest in the quiet, knowing that
Speaker 1: you are safely held by the night.