Speaker 1: The paper lanterns. There is a village in a valley
Speaker 1: where the mountains rise on all sides like the walls
Speaker 1: of a great, gentle bowl. The village is small, just
Speaker 1: a handful of houses clustered around a square, and in
Speaker 1: the center of the square there is a well. The
Speaker 1: well is old, older than any of the houses, older
Speaker 1: than the cobblestones that pave the square, older perhaps than
Speaker 1: the mountains themselves. Its stones are worn smooth by the
Speaker 1: ropes of a thousand buckets, and its water is cold
Speaker 1: and clear and tastes of the deep earth. But this
Speaker 1: village has a tradition that sets it apart from every
Speaker 1: other village in the world. On the first night of
Speaker 1: every month, regardless of the season, regardless of the weather,
Speaker 1: the people of the village make paper lanterns. They do
Speaker 1: this in their kitchens and their sitting rooms, at their
Speaker 1: wooden tables, by the light of oil lamps and candles.
Speaker 1: They use thin paper, rice paper, mostly the kind that
Speaker 1: is so fine you can see your fingers through it,
Speaker 1: and they fold it and paste it and shape it
Speaker 1: into small, round lanterns, each one no bigger than a grapefruit.
Speaker 1: The lanterns are simple, Some are white, some are pale yellow,
Speaker 1: a few are soft pink or the faintest shade of blue.
Speaker 1: Each one has a small candle inside a stub of
Speaker 1: bees wax that smells of honey when it burns, and
Speaker 1: each one has a wish written on it in ink
Speaker 1: on the inside of the paper, so that when the
Speaker 1: candle is lit, the words glow from within, visible to
Speaker 1: anyone who looks closely enough to read them. The wishes
Speaker 1: are not grand. No one in this village wishes for riches,
Speaker 1: or fame or power. They wish for things like a
Speaker 1: good harvest, a safe journey, a letter from a friend.
Speaker 1: They wish for the health of a parent, the happiness
Speaker 1: of a child, the return of a loved one who
Speaker 1: has been gone too long. They wish for rain and
Speaker 1: dry seas, and sunshine and wet ones. They wish for
Speaker 1: the small, essential things that make a life bearable and beautiful.
Speaker 1: On this particular night, the air is still and warm.
Speaker 1: Summer has settled over the valley like a thick, soft blanket,
Speaker 1: and the days have been long and golden. But now,
Speaker 1: as evening falls, a coolness creeps in from the mountains,
Speaker 1: and the people of the village gather in the square
Speaker 1: with their lanterns. There are perhaps forty of them, men
Speaker 1: and women and children, old and young. They stand in
Speaker 1: a loose circle around the well, each one holding a
Speaker 1: lantern by a thin string tied to a small wooden handle.
Speaker 1: The lanterns sway gently in the breeze that comes down
Speaker 1: from the peaks, and the candles inside them flicker, casting
Speaker 1: moving patterns of light on the cobblestones. A woman steps forward.
Speaker 1: She is old, the oldest person in the village, and
Speaker 1: her face is a map of every year she lived.
Speaker 1: Her eyes are bright and dark, like two polished stones,
Speaker 1: and her hands, though wrinkled, are steady as she holds
Speaker 1: her lantern. She does not speak. She does not need to.
Speaker 1: Everyone knows what happens next. One by one, the people
Speaker 1: release their lanterns. They do not throw them. They simply
Speaker 1: open their hands and let go, and the lanterns rise.
Speaker 1: They rise slowly, at first, wobbling slightly as they find
Speaker 1: their balance in the air. Then they steady, and the
Speaker 1: warm air inside them lifts them higher and higher still,
Speaker 1: until they are above the rooftops, above the trees, above
Speaker 1: the rim of the valley itself. From below, it looks
Speaker 1: like a constellation of earth bound stars has decided to
Speaker 1: visit the sky. The lanterns drift upward in a slow,
Speaker 1: graceful procession, each one carrying its wish toward the heavens.
Speaker 1: The paper glows from within, soft and golden, and the
Speaker 1: words written inside each lantern shine like secrets being shared
Speaker 1: with the universe. You are watching this from a bench
Speaker 1: at the edge of the square. You have been given
Speaker 1: a lantern of your own, though you do not remember
Speaker 1: writing a wish on it. But when you look at it,
Speaker 1: you see that someone has written something for you, and
Speaker 1: handwriting that is familiar, but that you cannot quite place.
Speaker 1: It says, simply rest, just that one word Rest. You
Speaker 1: hold the lantern by its string. The paper is warm
Speaker 1: against your fingers, The candle inside burns steadily, and the
Speaker 1: word glows from within, golden and patient. You look up
Speaker 1: at the sky, at the other lanterns already rising into
Speaker 1: the dark, and you feel something loosen in your chest.
Speaker 1: It is the feeling of letting go, of releasing something
Speaker 1: you have been holding for so long that you forgot
Speaker 1: it was there. You open your hand, the lantern rise,
Speaker 1: It lifts away from your fingers, gently, as if it
Speaker 1: has been waiting for this moment, as if it knew
Speaker 1: you would eventually let go. It joins the others, and
Speaker 1: together they drift upward, a river of light flowing into
Speaker 1: the dark sky. The people of the village watch in silence.
Speaker 1: There is no cheering, no applause. There is only the
Speaker 1: quiet sound of the wind in the mountains, and the
Speaker 1: occasional murmur of a child asking a question that is
Speaker 1: answered in a whisper. The lanterns grow smaller as they rise,
Speaker 1: their lights softening, their shapes becoming less distinct, until they
Speaker 1: are indistinguishable from the stars. But you know they are
Speaker 1: still there. You can feel them, each one carrying its
Speaker 1: wish upward, each one burning with a small, steady flame
Speaker 1: of hope. The woman who released the first lantern turns
Speaker 1: and walks back to her house. Others follow, one by one,
Speaker 1: until the square is empty except for you and the
Speaker 1: well and the stars. You sit for a long time.
Speaker 1: The cobblestones are cool beneath your feet. The well is silent,
Speaker 1: The mountains are dark shapes against the darker sky, and
Speaker 1: the lanterns, your lantern among them, are still rising, still glowing,
Speaker 1: still carrying their wishes into the vast, quiet night. A
Speaker 1: breeze moves through the valley. It smells of pine and
Speaker 1: wild flowers, and the distant snow that never fully melts
Speaker 1: from the hides. It peaks, It touches your face like
Speaker 1: a foul hand, and you close your eyes. The word
Speaker 1: on your lantern echoes in your mind. Rest, Rest, Rest,
Speaker 1: And so you do not because you are told to,
Speaker 1: not because you must, but because the word has finally
Speaker 1: reached the part of you that needed to hear it.
Speaker 1: You rest in the way that the village rests, in
Speaker 1: the way that the mountains rest, in the way that
Speaker 1: the well rests after a thousand years of giving water.
Speaker 1: You rest because it is your nature, because it is
Speaker 1: what you were made for, Because the world has asked
Speaker 1: nothing of you in this moment except to be still
Speaker 1: and let the night hold you. The lanterns are gone,
Speaker 1: now merged with the stars, their paper burned to ash,
Speaker 1: their wishes released into the infinite. But the warmth of
Speaker 1: them lingers, a faint glow in the sky, and a
Speaker 1: deeper glow in your chest, where the word rest has
Speaker 1: taken root and begun to grow. The village sleeps, the
Speaker 1: mountains keep their watch. The well holds its cool clear
Speaker 1: water in its stone throat, saving it for morning, when
Speaker 1: the people will return with their buckets and their thirst.
Speaker 1: But for now, everything is quiet, Everything is still, everything
Speaker 1: as exactly as it should be. And you, sitting on
Speaker 1: this bench, in this square, in this small village, in
Speaker 1: this wide valley, you are quiet too. You are still.
Speaker 1: You are held by the night and the stars, and
Speaker 1: the memory of forty lanterns rising into the dark, each
Speaker 1: one carrying a wish, each one burning with hope, each
Speaker 1: one saying the same thing that your lantern said. Rest,
Speaker 1: Let go be still. Sleep, And you do. And the
Speaker 1: night is deep and kind, and the stars are patient,
Speaker 1: and the mountains stand their ancient watch, and you drift
Speaker 1: slowly and gently into the quietest, most peaceful sleep you
Speaker 1: have known in a long, long time,