Speaker 1: Tonight's story is something very special. A week on the
Speaker 1: island cottage. This is our longest journey yet. We'll spend
Speaker 1: an entire week on a small island, living simply in
Speaker 1: a cottage by the sea. Seven days of peace, solitude, nature,
Speaker 1: and deep rest. There is no prod, no trauma, no tension,
Speaker 1: just the gentle rhythm of day's passing tides, changing, weather shifting,
Speaker 1: and the profound piece that comes from being alone in
Speaker 1: a beautiful place with nothing you need to do. Get very,
Speaker 1: very comfortable. You have nowhere to be for the next
Speaker 1: three hours. Just rest. Breathe, Let go close your eyes.
Speaker 1: Take a slow, deep breath in, hold it gently and
Speaker 1: release it completely. Let's begin this long, peaceful journey together.
Speaker 1: You're standing on a wooden dock, a small tuffel bag
Speaker 1: at your feet, watching a boat disappear across the water.
Speaker 1: The boatman who brought you here is heading back to
Speaker 1: the mainland, and you won't see him again until next
Speaker 1: Sunday when he returns to collect you. Seven days, one
Speaker 1: week alone on this small island. The island is tiny,
Speaker 1: mainly half a mile across at its widest point, mostly
Speaker 1: rocky coastline and scobby vegetation with a few windsweet trees
Speaker 1: that have learned to grow sideways shaped by decades of
Speaker 1: prevailing winds. And there, about one hundred yards up from
Speaker 1: the dock sits the cottage. It's small and simple, whitewashed
Speaker 1: stone walls, a slate roof, two small windows facing the sea.
Speaker 1: A blue painted ball. Smoke rises from the chimney. The
Speaker 1: cartaker was here this morning, laying a fire for your arrival,
Speaker 1: making sure everything was ready. You pick up your back
Speaker 1: and walk up the rough path toward the cottage. The
Speaker 1: path is made of crushed shells and small stones, winding
Speaker 1: between patches of wild grass and low shrubs. The ear
Speaker 1: smells of salt and seaweed and wild herbs. Goals cry
Speaker 1: overhead wheeling and diving in the afternoon breeze. The cottage
Speaker 1: door is unlocked. You push it open and step inside.
Speaker 1: One room essentially a small kitchen area in one corner,
Speaker 1: with a gas stove, a sink, a few cupboards, a
Speaker 1: sitting area with two arm chairs and a small table
Speaker 1: near the fireplace. The sleeping alcove with a simple iron
Speaker 1: beat covered in pots. A door leads to a tiny
Speaker 1: bathroom just a toilet, a sink and a shower. But
Speaker 1: the windows, The windows make the space ful larger than
Speaker 1: it is. Through them, you can see the ocean stretching
Speaker 1: to the horizon, pinkless, blue gray water under an endless sky.
Speaker 1: You sit your bag on the bed and on back slowly.
Speaker 1: It didn't green right clothes, a few books, some basics.
Speaker 1: The caretaker liftsurpries in the kitchen, greg butter, eggs, cheese, vegetables, tea, coffee, pasta, rice,
Speaker 1: enough for a week of simple meals. When your things
Speaker 1: are put away, you make yourself a cup of tea
Speaker 1: and stand at the window looking out at the ocean.
Speaker 1: The water is chopping today, white cupped waves rolling in,
Speaker 1: breaking on the rocky shore. The sound is constant, a
Speaker 1: rhythmic roar and his that will be the soundtrack to
Speaker 1: your entire week. Here, the afternoon is wearing on toward evening.
Speaker 1: The sun is low, painting the water with cold light.
Speaker 1: We drink your tea slowly, just standing, just looking, just being.
Speaker 1: This is it. This is your week, seven days with
Speaker 1: no schedule, no obligations, no one to answer to, just
Speaker 1: you and the island and the sea and time. You
Speaker 1: feel something released in san guide you some tension you
Speaker 1: didn't even know you were carrying. Your shoulders drop, Your
Speaker 1: breathing deepens. You're here, You've arrived. You can finally completely rest.
Speaker 1: The fire in the fireplace is burning low. You add
Speaker 1: another log, coaxing it back to life. The wood catches
Speaker 1: and flames dance, casting warm, flickering light across the room. Outside,
Speaker 1: the day is fading into dusk. You're hungry now. You
Speaker 1: make yourself a simple dinner, scrambled eggs toast, but thematos
Speaker 1: sliced and salted. You eat sitting in one of the
Speaker 1: arm chairs by the fire, looking out the window at
Speaker 1: the darkening sky. After dinner, you wash your few dishes
Speaker 1: and put them away. The routine feels good, grounding, simple
Speaker 1: tasks done slowly and with gear. Night has fallen fully.
Speaker 1: Now through the window you can see stores beginning to appear,
Speaker 1: so many stors, more than you ever see at home.
Speaker 1: Out here, with no light pollution, the sky is alive
Speaker 1: with them. You're tired from traveling from the boat right
Speaker 1: from the day. You're ready for sleep. You're change in
Speaker 1: the pajamas and climbing the bed. The sheets are cool
Speaker 1: and crisp, that quilts heavy and warm. You can hear
Speaker 1: the ocean, constant and soothing. You can hear the wind
Speaker 1: rustling through the grass outside. You can hear the old
Speaker 1: cottage settling, wood creaking gently. You close your eyes. Your
Speaker 1: first night on the island, six more days ahead, a
Speaker 1: week of peace stretching before you, like a gift, and
Speaker 1: you sleep. You wake to light, sunlight streaming through the windows,
Speaker 1: warm and golden. You lie still for a moment, orienting
Speaker 1: yourself the cottage, the island, the sound of waves. You
Speaker 1: get up, slowly, no rush, and go through the window.
Speaker 1: The morning is beautiful, most clear sky, colm sea, the
Speaker 1: water a thousand shades of blue. The wind has dropped overnight.
Speaker 1: Everything is peaceful, still perfect. You trees in comfortable clothes
Speaker 1: and make yourself breakfast. Coffee, toast with butter and jam
Speaker 1: a banana. You eat standing at the window, watching the ocean,
Speaker 1: watching gulls ride the morning thermals. After breakfast, you decide
Speaker 1: to explore the island properly. You pull on walking shoes
Speaker 1: and the light jacket and head outside. The morning is
Speaker 1: cool but pleasant. The sun is warm on your face.
Speaker 1: You follow a rough path that circles the island's coastline,
Speaker 1: walking slowly, stopping often to look at things. The island
Speaker 1: is bigger than you thought. It takes nearly an hour
Speaker 1: to walk all the way around it, and that's without
Speaker 1: stopping to explore. There are smooth beaches of pebbles and shells.
Speaker 1: There are rocky outcrops where the waves crash dramatically. There
Speaker 1: are tight pools filled with small creatures, tiny fish, grabs, starfish,
Speaker 1: and emonies. You crutch beside one tight pool and watch
Speaker 1: its miniature ecosystem. The hermit crabs cuttles across the bottom.
Speaker 1: A small fish dorts between rocks. When nimmos wave their
Speaker 1: dentacles gently in the water. It's a whole world, complete
Speaker 1: and self contained. On the fore side of the island,
Speaker 1: you find the spot where flat rocks form natural steps
Speaker 1: down to the water. You sit on one of these
Speaker 1: rocks and simply watch the ocean. The water here is
Speaker 1: clear enough that you can see down several feet seaweed
Speaker 1: swaying schools of tiny silver fish the sandy bottom. You
Speaker 1: sit for a long time, maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour.
Speaker 1: Time feels different here, already, less urgent, less measure. Eventually
Speaker 1: you continue your walk, completing the circle back to the cottage.
Speaker 1: The sun is high now it must be nearly new.
Speaker 1: Your stomach tells you it's time for lunch. You make
Speaker 1: yourself a sandwich and eat it sitting on the small
Speaker 1: porch that fronts the cottage. From here you can see
Speaker 1: the top where you arrived yesterday, and beyond it the mountain,
Speaker 1: a hazy line on the horizon. It feels very far away,
Speaker 1: another world. After lunch, you feel drowsy. The sun is warm.
Speaker 1: The sound of the waves is hypnotic. You go inside
Speaker 1: and lie down on the bed, not really meaning to sleep,
Speaker 1: but not fighting it either. You drift off into a light,
Speaker 1: pleasant nab. When you wake, an hour has passed. You
Speaker 1: feel rested, peaceful, slightly disported in the best way. The
Speaker 1: afternoon is warm and still. You decide to read. You
Speaker 1: take one of your books and one of the arm chairs,
Speaker 1: position yourself by the window where the light is best.
Speaker 1: You read four hours. The book is good, engaging but
Speaker 1: not demanding, pulling you gently into its world while letting
Speaker 1: your surface whenever you want. Between chapters, you look up
Speaker 1: and out at the ocean, resting your eyes absorbing the view.
Speaker 1: The afternoon fades into evening, the light changes becoming softer,
Speaker 1: more golden. You sit down your book and start thinking
Speaker 1: about dinner. Tonight. You make pasta with a simple sauce, nim, tomatoes, garlic, herbs.
Speaker 1: You cook slowly, not because the recipe demands it, but
Speaker 1: because there's no reason to rush. The kitchen fills with
Speaker 1: the warm smell of cooking garlic and tomatoes. You eat
Speaker 1: your dinner at the small table, reading more of your
Speaker 1: book between bites. After dinner, you wash up, put everything away,
Speaker 1: clocks to the fire. The evening is peaceful. You sit
Speaker 1: by the fire and finish your tea, looking out at
Speaker 1: the darkening ocean. The lighthouse on the distant mainland begins
Speaker 1: its nightly rotations, the distant pulse of light sweeping across
Speaker 1: the water every few seconds. You're tired again, pleasantly tired.
Speaker 1: The days walking and fresh air, and the general peace
Speaker 1: of this place have left you ready for sleep. You
Speaker 1: go through your evening routine, brush your teeth, change into pajamas.
Speaker 1: The cottage is warm from the fire, but you can
Speaker 1: feel the coolness of the night air seeping in through
Speaker 1: the walls. In bed, you lies lessening to the ocean.
Speaker 1: The sound is slightly different tonight, the tide must be different,
Speaker 1: or the wind or something. But it's still soothing, still constant.
Speaker 1: Your second night on the island, five more days, you're
Speaker 1: already feeling the rhythm of this place, the slow, easy
Speaker 1: of days. More by sunrise and sunset, by meals and
Speaker 1: walks and wrist You sleep deeply, treamlessly, thoroughly. You wake
Speaker 1: to the sound of rain, not heavy rain, but steady,
Speaker 1: gentle rain, grumming on the roof, pattering against the windows.
Speaker 1: You get up and look outside. The sky is gray,
Speaker 1: low clouds hanging heavy over the island. The ocean is
Speaker 1: great to its surface, fog with rain drops. Everything is
Speaker 1: soft and muted and wet and wet. A rainy day
Speaker 1: on the island perfect. You make yourself a pot of tea,
Speaker 1: a full pot, knowing you'll brink several cups on a
Speaker 1: day like this. You add logs to the fire that's
Speaker 1: burnt down to embush overnight, coaxing it back to life.
Speaker 1: With your tea and the fire going, you settle into
Speaker 1: the arm chair with a could wrapped around your shoulders.
Speaker 1: You have your book, you have your tea, You have
Speaker 1: the sound of rain and the warmth of the fire.
Speaker 1: You need nothing else. You read, You look out the
Speaker 1: window at the rain. You drink tea, You add logs
Speaker 1: to the fire. Hours passing this peaceful way, around midday
Speaker 1: you get hungry. You make yourself soup kneeded vegetable soup
Speaker 1: heated on the stove, served with thick slices of buttered bread.
Speaker 1: You eat slowly, standing at the window, watching the rain.
Speaker 1: The rain continues all afternoon. It's the kind of brain
Speaker 1: that feels like it could go on forever, steady, unhurried, thorough,
Speaker 1: the kind of rain that makes everything slow down, that
Speaker 1: makes inside feel extra cozy, that makes you grateful for
Speaker 1: shelter and growth. You spend the afternoon reading and dozing
Speaker 1: by the fire. At some point you realize you haven't
Speaker 1: spoken a single word out loud all day, not since yesterday. Really,
Speaker 1: your voice is resting, along with everything else. The rain
Speaker 1: begins to ease toward the evening. By the time you're
Speaker 1: making dinner, a simple stir fry of vegetables and rice,
Speaker 1: it stopped completely. The clouds are breaking up, showing patches
Speaker 1: of clear sky. After dinner, you put on your jacket
Speaker 1: and go outside for a short walk. Everything is wet
Speaker 1: and fresh, the grass pockles with rain drops. The earsmells clean,
Speaker 1: washed new. The ocean has calmed, the rain having flattened
Speaker 1: its waves into gentle swells. You walk down to the
Speaker 1: shore and stand listening to the water. The sun has set,
Speaker 1: but there's still light in the sky, that long, lingering
Speaker 1: twilight of early summer. The clouds are peering quickly now,
Speaker 1: and you can see stores appearing in the caps. You
Speaker 1: return to the cottage as night falls. Fully. You're wet
Speaker 1: from the grass and the lingering moisture in the air,
Speaker 1: but pleasantly so. You change into dry clothes and make
Speaker 1: yourself a final cup of tea. The fire is burning
Speaker 1: low again. You add more locks, enough to last through
Speaker 1: the evening. You settle in with your tea and watch
Speaker 1: the flame stars. The day has been so quiet, so peaceful.
Speaker 1: Nothing happened really. You read, you ate, you watch the rain,
Speaker 1: you rest it. But somehow it was exactly right, exactly
Speaker 1: what you needed. You're learning already how to live in
Speaker 1: island time, how to let our bars without tracking them,
Speaker 1: how to find contentment in the simplest things. When you
Speaker 1: really forbid, you bank the fire for the night and
Speaker 1: make your way to the sleeping outcome. The cottage is
Speaker 1: cozy and wore. Outside. The night is clear, now, stars
Speaker 1: visible through the window. Your third night on the island,
Speaker 1: four more days ahead. You're not down, You're not wishing
Speaker 1: to stay longer. You're just here, present, grateful for each
Speaker 1: day as it comes. Sleep comes easily carried on the
Speaker 1: sound of gentle waves and the worms of the cottage.
Speaker 1: You wake early today, just after dawn. The light is
Speaker 1: pale and new, the day fresh and full of possibility.
Speaker 1: You treze and make coffee, then take it outside to
Speaker 1: watch the sunrise properly. You sit on the porch steps,
Speaker 1: your hands wrapped around the wall mug, and watch as
Speaker 1: the sun climbs about the eastern horizon. The sunrise is spectacular.
Speaker 1: The sky turns from gray to pink to cold to
Speaker 1: blue in a slow, majestic transformation. The ocean catches the
Speaker 1: collars and throws them back pink waves, cold foam, blue
Speaker 1: green depths. You sit through the entire sunrise, not moving badly,
Speaker 1: just witnessing. When the sun is fully up and the
Speaker 1: day properly begun, you go inside and make yourself breakfast.
Speaker 1: Today you feel like doing something more active. You decide
Speaker 1: to really explore the island, not just the coastline, but
Speaker 1: the interior. After breakfast, you put on sturdy shoes and
Speaker 1: full of water bottle. You take an apple and a
Speaker 1: handful of nuts in your pocket. You're going on an adventure,
Speaker 1: island style. The center of the island is hillier than
Speaker 1: you expected. Rough bats wing between low bushes and rocks,
Speaker 1: you climb upward, following what seems to be an old trail,
Speaker 1: perhaps made by the island's sheep. You've seen a few
Speaker 1: small sheep raising here and there, the descendants of animals
Speaker 1: brought here decades ago and now living wild. The climb
Speaker 1: takes about twenty minutes and brings you to the highest
Speaker 1: point of the island. From here, you can see the
Speaker 1: entire island spread below you, the cottage, the dock, the coastline,
Speaker 1: every beach and cough beyond it, all ocean in every
Speaker 1: direction to stretching to the horizon. The view is extraordinary.
Speaker 1: You feel like you're standing on top of the world,
Speaker 1: or at least on top of your own small world.
Speaker 1: You sit on a flat rock and eat your apple,
Speaker 1: looking out at the view. A few sheep preys on
Speaker 1: the hillside below. Gulf Circle overhead, the wind is stronger,
Speaker 1: appear steady and fresh. You sit for a long time,
Speaker 1: maybe an hour, just absorbing this place, the beauty of it,
Speaker 1: the simplicity of it, the way it exists, completely separate
Speaker 1: from everything else, its own world, its own reality. Eventually
Speaker 1: you make your way back down the hill by a
Speaker 1: different route. You find a small spring of fresh water
Speaker 1: bubbling out of the rocks, forming a tiny book before
Speaker 1: trickling away downhill. You taste the water. It's cold and
Speaker 1: clean and slightly mineral. You discover an old stone structure,
Speaker 1: just a few walls still standing, nearly collapsed, covered in
Speaker 1: moss and lichen. Perhaps it was another cottage once decades
Speaker 1: or centuries ago, or perhaps a shelter for shepherds. It's
Speaker 1: impossible to know. You set in what was once the
Speaker 1: doorway and imagine the people who might have sat here
Speaker 1: before you, looking out at the same ocean, breathing the
Speaker 1: same air. By the time you get back to the cottage,
Speaker 1: it's best name, and you're hungry and time in the
Speaker 1: best way. You make yourself lunch and eat it slowly,
Speaker 1: letting your body wrist. After the morning's exertion. The afternoon
Speaker 1: is warm and drossy. You take your book outside and
Speaker 1: read on the porch, the sun warm on your face.
Speaker 1: At some point you fall asleep right there, the book
Speaker 1: falling closed on your lap, your head deep back against
Speaker 1: the cottage wall. You wake an hour later, slightly sunburned
Speaker 1: and completely content. The rest of the afternoon passes quietly.
Speaker 1: You move between inside and outside, between reading and simply
Speaker 1: sitting and looking. You're learning how to do nothing, truly nothing,
Speaker 1: without feeling guilty or riskless. Evening comes. You make a
Speaker 1: simple dinner and eat it watching the sunset. The sky
Speaker 1: puts on another show, oranges and pinks and purples, clouds
Speaker 1: catching fire, the whole world seeming to glow. After sunset,
Speaker 1: you sit outside, wrapped in a blanket, watching the stars
Speaker 1: come out. With no artificial light to compete with, they
Speaker 1: appear by the hundreds, ten thousands. The Milky Way is
Speaker 1: a brilliant band across the sky. You see several shooting
Speaker 1: stars with flashes of light streaking across the darkness. You
Speaker 1: stay outside until you're shivery, until the cold drives you
Speaker 1: back inside to the warmth of the fire. Your fourth
Speaker 1: night on the island, three more days, you're past a
Speaker 1: halfway point of your week. Now, the days are blending
Speaker 1: together in the best way, each one distinct, yet all
Speaker 1: of them part of a peaceful hole imbit. You're aware
Speaker 1: of your body in a new way. Your muscles slightly
Speaker 1: sore from the day's climbing, your skin warm from the sun,
Speaker 1: your lungs full of clean air. You feel healthy, strong, alive.
Speaker 1: You sleep deeply, and you dream of sheep on hillsides
Speaker 1: and springs in rocks, and stars falling through in the sky.
Speaker 1: Today you wake without any desire to move. Your body
Speaker 1: is start from yesterday's exploration, and it's asking for rest.
Speaker 1: So you're rich. You make break first and eat it
Speaker 1: in bed, propped up on pillows, looking out the window
Speaker 1: at the morning ocean. Then you lie back down on
Speaker 1: those for another hour, drifting in and out of sleep,
Speaker 1: perfectly content. When you finally get up properly, it's nearly
Speaker 1: mid day, you make tea and sit by the window,
Speaker 1: watching the ocean, watching clouds move across the sky, watching
Speaker 1: absolutely nothing happen, and being perfectly happy about it. You're
Speaker 1: learning that rest isn't just about sleeping. It's about doing lease,
Speaker 1: moving slower, letting time pass without filling it with activities
Speaker 1: that day unfold slowly, peacefully. You read a little, You
Speaker 1: sit a lot. You make simple meals and eat them slowly.
Speaker 1: You watch the light change as the sun moves across
Speaker 1: the sky. In the afternoon, you sit outside on the
Speaker 1: porch and simply listen. You listen to the ocean, how
Speaker 1: the sound changes with each wave, as some crash lud
Speaker 1: and others whisper shoft. You listen to the wind, how
Speaker 1: it gusts and lulls, how it makes different sounds in
Speaker 1: different grasses. You listen to the gulls, the distant sheet,
Speaker 1: to your own breeding. This is meditation, though you're not
Speaker 1: calling it that. This is just being present, fully present
Speaker 1: with what is. The afternoon is long and peaceful. At
Speaker 1: some point, he realize you're not thinking about home, about work,
Speaker 1: about any of the things that usually fill your mind.
Speaker 1: Those things feel very far away, almost unreal. What's real
Speaker 1: is this? The warmth of the sun, the sound of
Speaker 1: the waves, the taste of tea, the softness of the wind.
Speaker 1: This is what's real. Evening comes gently. You make dinner
Speaker 1: procaster akin, you're not being created with food, and that's okay.
Speaker 1: You eat, and then you sit by the fire and
Speaker 1: read until your eyes are tired. The fire crackles and
Speaker 1: pops outside. The night is quiet inside, the cottage is
Speaker 1: warm and cozy. You're completely content. Not happy in an
Speaker 1: excited way, but content in a deep, quiet way, satisfied
Speaker 1: at peace. Your third night on the islands, two more days.
Speaker 1: You're not ready for this to eat, but you're not
Speaker 1: cleaning to it either. You just hear now, grateful for
Speaker 1: this day and trusting that tomorrow will bring what it brings.
Speaker 1: Sleep comes like a gift, easy and natural and deep.
Speaker 1: Day six, Friday gathering. You wake with energy today after
Speaker 1: yesterday's deep breast. Your body is ready to move again.
Speaker 1: The day is beautiful, clear and bright, with a fresh breeze.
Speaker 1: After breakfast, we decide to spend the day gathering things
Speaker 1: from the island, small treasures to take home as memories.
Speaker 1: If you take a canvass bag and walk to the beaches,
Speaker 1: you collect shields, not indiscriminately, but choosing each one carefully,
Speaker 1: Shells that are whole and beautiful, each one special in
Speaker 1: its own way. Scallog shields, mussel shiels, spiral shells, flat stones,
Speaker 1: worm smooth By the sea, you find sea glass, pieces
Speaker 1: of old bottles tumbled by the ocean until they're frosted
Speaker 1: and smooth blue glass, green glass, clear glass, brown glass.
Speaker 1: Each piece is a small gem. You find interesting pieces
Speaker 1: of drift wood, branches bleached white by sun, and salt
Speaker 1: shaped by water into sculptural forms. You choose a few
Speaker 1: small pieces that will fit in your bag. As you
Speaker 1: gather your mindful you take only what calls to you,
Speaker 1: only what feels right. You live far more than you take.
Speaker 1: The island gives generously, but you accept respect fully. At
Speaker 1: one pitch you find a perfect seven dollar mining's intact
Speaker 1: white star pattern. It's a rare find, and you hold
Speaker 1: it carefully, almost reverently. By midday, your bag has a
Speaker 1: small collection of treasures. You return to the cottage and
Speaker 1: spread them out on the table, arranging them, admiring them.
Speaker 1: Each one is a piece of the island, a tangible
Speaker 1: memory you can hold in your hand once four years
Speaker 1: from now. In the afternoon, you do something you haven't
Speaker 1: done all week. You write. You find paper and a
Speaker 1: pen in the cottage and you sit at the table
Speaker 1: and write about your time here. Not a diary exactly,
Speaker 1: but impressions, moments, feelings. You write about the sunrise on
Speaker 1: your first morning, about the rainy day spent by the fire,
Speaker 1: About climbing the hill and seeing the whole island spread
Speaker 1: below you, About learning to rest truly rest. Write for
Speaker 1: an hour or more, the words flowing easily. When you're done,
Speaker 1: you fill the pages and tuck them into your back,
Speaker 1: A different kind of treasure, not from the island, but
Speaker 1: from your time on the island. The evening is golden
Speaker 1: and beautiful. You make a special dinner tonight, a celebration
Speaker 1: of your last full evening here. You use the last
Speaker 1: of the fresh vegetables to make a proper meal, taking
Speaker 1: time and care with it. You set the table properly,
Speaker 1: light the candle, pull yourself a glass of water in
Speaker 1: a proper glass. You eat, slowly, savoring everything, making the
Speaker 1: meal last. After dinner, you clean the kitchen thoroughly, packing
Speaker 1: away the things you want need tomorrow, starting the process
Speaker 1: of the green to leave, even though you don't live
Speaker 1: until afternoon tomorrow. Then you go outside for a final
Speaker 1: evening walk around the island. You walk slowly, saying goodbye
Speaker 1: to places. The beach where you found the san dollar,
Speaker 1: the rocks where you sat and watch the tide. Books,
Speaker 1: the hill, you climbed the old stone ruins. You walk
Speaker 1: the full circle of the island, and as you walk,
Speaker 1: you feel grateful, so grateful for this week, for this island,
Speaker 1: for this gift of time and space and peace. Back
Speaker 1: at the cottage, you sit on the porch and watch
Speaker 1: the stars come out for the last time. The milky
Speaker 1: Way appears brilliant and beautiful. You see shooting stars again,
Speaker 1: three of them, quick flashes of night and wonder. You
Speaker 1: stay outside until you're cold, soaking in every last moment,
Speaker 1: your sits night on the island, your last night. Tomorrow
Speaker 1: you leave in bed. You feel a mixture of emotions,
Speaker 1: sadness that this is ending, gratitude for what it's been,
Speaker 1: reading is to carry what you've roomed back into your
Speaker 1: regular life. You've changed this week, not dramatically, but in
Speaker 1: small important ways. You're quieter inside, more peaceful, more able
Speaker 1: to rest, to be still, to simply exist without constantly doing.
Speaker 1: The island has given you this, And tomorrow you'll leave
Speaker 1: the islet, but you'll carry the island inside you. You sleep,
Speaker 1: You'll last sleep here, wrapped in the sound of waves,
Speaker 1: held by the small cottage, dreaming of shiels and stores,
Speaker 1: and endless blue ocean. You wake early on your last morning,
Speaker 1: wanting to see the sunrise one more time. You driss
Speaker 1: quickly and go outside, take in your blanket, and sit
Speaker 1: on the porch steps to watch. The sunrise is beautiful,
Speaker 1: as it has been every morning, but this morning you
Speaker 1: watch it with particular attention, trying to memorize it, to
Speaker 1: burn it into your mind so you can call it
Speaker 1: back later when you need it. After sunrise, you may
Speaker 1: breakfast and eat it slowly. Then you begin the task
Speaker 1: of packing up preparing to leave. You strip the bed
Speaker 1: and fill the linens. You wash your few dishes and
Speaker 1: put them away. You sweep the floor. You make sure
Speaker 1: the cottage is left as clean and tidy as it
Speaker 1: was when you arrived. You pack your bag, carefully rubbing
Speaker 1: your shells and sea glass and driftwood so they won't break.
Speaker 1: You do a final check. Nothing forgotten, nothing left behind
Speaker 1: except the piece you brought here. The boat isn't coming
Speaker 1: until early afternoon, so you have a few more hours.
Speaker 1: You spend them sitting outside, just being, just soaking. In
Speaker 1: the last moments, you think about a week, seven days
Speaker 1: that felt like both a moment and a lifetime. Seven
Speaker 1: days in which you barely did anything. It experienced so much.
Speaker 1: Seven days of learning how to rest, how to be present,
Speaker 1: how to find peace in simplicity. You think about going home,
Speaker 1: returning to your regular life. A lot of you doesn't
Speaker 1: want to, a lot of you wants to stay here forever,
Speaker 1: living this simple island life. But you know that's not realistic.
Speaker 1: This place is special, partly because it's temporary, because it's
Speaker 1: separate from regular life. You can't live on the island forever,
Speaker 1: but you can carry the island with you. You can
Speaker 1: remember the lessons that priest is essential, that simplicity is beautiful,
Speaker 1: That piece is always available if you create space for it.
Speaker 1: You see the boat while it's still far away, a
Speaker 1: small white shape on the blue water, growing gradually larger
Speaker 1: as it approaches, the boat man conning to collect you.
Speaker 1: You stand and pick up your bag. One last look
Speaker 1: at the cottage, one last look at the island. Thank you, you.
Speaker 1: Weisper to the island, to the cottage, to the week
Speaker 1: you've had. The boat pulls up to the dock. The
Speaker 1: boatman waves and smiles. How was your week? He asks? Perfect?
Speaker 1: You say, and you mean it completely. You climb a
Speaker 1: board and the boat falls away from the top. You
Speaker 1: stand at the rail, watching the island recede. The cottage
Speaker 1: grows smaller, a white dot on the green and gray land,
Speaker 1: than just a shape, than just a memory. You turn
Speaker 1: and face forward toward the mainland, door, home, door, whatever
Speaker 1: comes next. But you're different now, whether more peaceful, more whole.
Speaker 1: The island has given you a gift, and you carry
Speaker 1: it with you as the boat waves across the blue
Speaker 1: water toward the mainland. You carry the memory of seven
Speaker 1: perfect days, the sound of waves, the side of stores,
Speaker 1: the field of shells in your hand, the piece of firelight,
Speaker 1: the gift of rest. You carry it all, and you
Speaker 1: know with absolute certainty that you will return, maybe not
Speaker 1: next month or even next year, but someday, when you
Speaker 1: need it again, when you need to remember how to rest,
Speaker 1: how to be stilled, how to just exist in peace,
Speaker 1: the island will be there, waiting, ready to offer its
Speaker 1: gifts again. But from now you have what you need.
Speaker 1: You have the memory, you have the lessons learned, You
Speaker 1: have the piece you've found, and that is enough. The
Speaker 1: boat carries you home across the blue water under the
Speaker 1: indless sky, and you are content. Your home now back
Speaker 1: in your own space. The island is miles away, days away,
Speaker 1: another world away, but you carry it with you. You've
Speaker 1: unpacked your back. Your shelves and sea glass and rooftwood
Speaker 1: are arranged on a shelf where you can see them,
Speaker 1: where they can remind you. You've made your shelf dinner
Speaker 1: in your own kitchen. You've settled into your own comfortable chair.
Speaker 1: Outside your window, evening is falling, not over ocean, but
Speaker 1: over your neighborhood, different from the island, but beautiful in
Speaker 1: its own way. You're tired from traveling from the boat,
Speaker 1: right from returning to the busier world, but it's a
Speaker 1: good diet, the satisfied dialt. You know that tomorrow you'll
Speaker 1: begin easying back into your regular routines, will will resume,
Speaker 1: obligations will return, The busyness of life will fill your
Speaker 1: days again. But something has changed. You've changed. You know,
Speaker 1: know in a way it didn't before, that peace is
Speaker 1: always available, that rest is possible, that you can create
Speaker 1: space for stillness even in the midst of business. You
Speaker 1: know that you can carry the island with you, not
Speaker 1: the physical place, but the feeling of it, the peace
Speaker 1: of it, the simplicity of it. When life gets too loud,
Speaker 1: too fast, too much, you can cuse your eyes and
Speaker 1: remember the sound of waves, the side of stors, the
Speaker 1: feel of sun warmed, the rocks under your hands. You
Speaker 1: can return to the island in your mind, even when
Speaker 1: your country turn there in water. This is the real
Speaker 1: gift the island gave you, not a week of vacation,
Speaker 1: but the blueprint for peace, the reminder that simplicity and
Speaker 1: stillness and wrist are not luxuries but necessities. You sit
Speaker 1: in your chair and close your eyes. You listen and
Speaker 1: beneath the sounds of your neighborhood, coarse voices, the distant
Speaker 1: bulk of a dog, you can almost hear it, the ocean,
Speaker 1: the eternal rhythm of waves rolling in and breaking on
Speaker 1: the shore, bush and crash, bush and crash, over and over,
Speaker 1: endless and eternal and deeply, profoundly peaceful. You breathe in
Speaker 1: time with the waves. You remember, in and out, in
Speaker 1: and out, and you rest. You rest the way you
Speaker 1: learn to rest on the island completely, peacefully, deeply, and
Speaker 1: you know that whenever you need it, you can return
Speaker 1: to this place inside yourself, this place of peace and stillness,
Speaker 1: at rest. The island is there, always there waiting for you,
Speaker 1: in your memory, in your heart, in your breath, in
Speaker 1: and out like waves, sad eternal, peaceful home. Thank you
Speaker 1: for spending this entire week on the island with me,
Speaker 1: the journey of rest and peace and profound stillness. I
Speaker 1: hope you found what you needed here. I hope you
Speaker 1: discovered your own island of peace within yourself. I hope
Speaker 1: you rest now, deeply and completely, carrying the sound of
Speaker 1: waves the sight of stars with you into your dreams.
Speaker 1: This is the end of our longest journey together, but
Speaker 1: the piece we found doesn't have to end. You can
Speaker 1: return to the island anytime you need it. It's always
Speaker 1: there waiting for you. Rest now, dear friend, Rest completely,
Speaker 1: Rest like you're rested on the island. Listen to the waves,
Speaker 1: breathe with the ocean, and sleep deep, peaceful, restorative sleep,
Speaker 1: sweet dreams until we meet again.