Suchness: Zen Stories & Buddhist Teachings for Sleep

Hello there, and welcome to chanel Calm Zen Monk. Tonight, we will rest with suchness — the simple experience of things being just as they are.

Not as a philosophy.
Not as something to understand deeply.
But as the quiet fact that this moment has already arrived, without needing our help.

Suchness is what remains when we stop adjusting the world in our minds.
It is the feeling of a cup simply being a cup.
A sound simply being a sound.
A tired day simply having been tired.

Before we begin, feel free to share
what time it is
and where you’re listening from.

There is nothing to remember tonight.
There is no need to stay awake.

You can listen closely, or loosely.
You can drift in and out.
It’s okay if parts are missed.
It’s okay if sleep comes early, or late, or not at all.

This time is not asking anything of you.

We will spend the night together with ordinary moments —
small human lives,
simple tasks,
quiet encounters —
all pointing back, again and again, to the same gentle truth:

that life does not need to be corrected before it can be lived.

There is no effort required here.
No posture to hold.
No state to reach.

You may notice thoughts coming and going.
You may notice nothing in particular.
Both are welcome.

The night continues quietly, the way a river continues even when no one is watching it.
We have been speaking of suchness, of things being exactly as they are before we add anything extra.
Not as an idea to hold, but as a way life already moves.

There is a story that comes to us now, carried without hurry.

Long ago, in a mountain town where the roofs were low and the paths were worn smooth by years of feet, there lived a potter named Ren.
Ren was not famous.
His bowls were not carried to palaces or praised in poems.
They were used in kitchens, in small temples, in the hands of people who ate quietly.

Ren worked each day with the same clay.
It came from the same riverbank, gathered with the same basket.
He shaped it on the wheel behind his house, where the wind sometimes lifted the edge of the door and the sound of birds came in without being invited.

People noticed that Ren’s bowls were uneven.
The rims were not perfectly round.
The glaze pooled a little thicker on one side.
Some said this was because Ren was careless.
Others said it was because he was old and his hands were no longer steady.

Ren heard these things, as we all hear what others say.
He did not argue.
He did not explain.

One afternoon, a traveler named Sōma arrived in the town.
Sōma had walked for many days and was tired in a way that went deeper than his legs.
He had been studying teachings, gathering words, collecting ideas like stones in his pockets.
Each one seemed important at the time.
Each one made him heavier.

Sōma stopped at a small stall where Ren’s bowls were laid out on a wooden board.
He picked one up, turned it in his hands, frowned slightly.

“This bowl is flawed,” Sōma said.

Ren looked at the bowl, then at Sōma.
“Yes,” he said.

Sōma was surprised by how easily the word was spoken.

“Why not correct it?” Sōma asked.
“Why not make it better?”

Ren set another bowl beside the first.
“This one holds rice,” he said.
“And this one holds soup.”

Sōma waited, thinking something more would follow.
Nothing did.

He bought a bowl anyway, mostly out of curiosity, and asked if he could sit for a while.
Ren nodded and returned to his wheel.

As the afternoon passed, Sōma watched Ren work.
There was no rush.
No visible striving for improvement.
The clay was shaped, adjusted, sometimes gently pressed back when it leaned too far.
Sometimes it leaned, and Ren let it lean.

Sōma noticed something unsettling.
Ren seemed fully present with each bowl, yet not attached to how it turned out.
There was care, but not tension.
Attention, but not judgment.

Finally, Sōma spoke again.
“Do you not wish your bowls to be perfect?”

Ren smiled, but not in a way that suggested he had found an answer.
“They are complete,” he said.

That word stayed with Sōma.
Complete.

That evening, Sōma ate from the bowl he had bought.
The rim pressed unevenly against his lip.
At first, he noticed it with irritation.
Then, without deciding to, he stopped noticing it at all.

The soup was warm.
The night air was cool.
The bowl did not need to change for the soup to nourish him.

We can pause with this image for a moment.
Not to analyze it too sharply.
Just to let it rest beside us.

So often, we move through our lives like Sōma at the stall, turning things over, searching for what should be corrected.
We look at ourselves this way.
At others.
At moments that have already passed.

Suchness is not indifference.
It is not saying that nothing matters.
It is the quiet recognition that what is here is already here, fully.
Before we improve it.
Before we resist it.

Ren did not deny the uneven rim.
He did not pretend the glaze was something it was not.
He simply did not argue with what had appeared.

We might notice how unfamiliar that feels.

Many of us were taught that acceptance means giving up.
That to accept is to stop caring.
But Ren cared deeply.
His hands were steady because they were not fighting the clay.

There is another story that drifts in naturally here, as stories often do when the night is long enough.

In a small coastal village lived a woman named Amala.
She mended fishing nets for a living.
Her fingers were quick, her eyesight still good despite her years.

Amala had lost her husband to the sea long before.
People spoke softly around her, assuming her life must feel incomplete.
Amala listened, the way one listens to weather reports.

Each morning, she walked to the shore and sat where the nets were piled.
She worked as the waves came and went, not counting them.

One day, a young fisherman named Lirin asked her, “Does it not hurt, being here every day?”

Amala tied a knot, tightened it, and answered, “Sometimes.”

Then she tied another.

“But you keep coming,” Lirin said.

“Yes,” Amala replied.

There was no bravery in her voice.
No tragedy either.
Just honesty.

Amala did not make the sea into an enemy.
She did not turn her loss into a story she repeated to herself for shape and meaning.
She felt what arose.
And she continued to mend nets.

Suchness does not erase pain.
It does not polish it into wisdom.
It allows pain to be what it is, without requiring it to be something else.

When we resist what is already here, we add a second layer of struggle.
When we insist that this moment should have arrived differently, we carry a quiet argument into everything we do.

At night, these arguments often grow louder.
They replay.
They rearrange themselves.
They pretend to be important.

It is okay if they are present.
It is also okay if they soften.

We might notice that listening itself does not require agreement or disagreement.
The sound arrives.
The meaning arrives or does not.
Sleep arrives or does not.

There was once a monk named Tenzu who lived in a forest temple known for its silence.
Visitors expected profound teachings.
They expected answers.

Tenzu was often found sweeping the same path, even when no leaves had fallen.

A visitor named Haru asked him, “Why do you sweep what is already clean?”

Tenzu paused, leaned on his broom, and said, “Because this is sweeping.”

That was all.

Haru waited for something more refined, more useful.
None came.

Suchness is not hidden behind clever words.
It is this.
And this.
And this again.

Sweeping is sweeping.
A bowl is a bowl.
Grief is grief.
Listening is listening.

When we stop insisting that the moment justify itself, it becomes very simple.
Not easy, perhaps.
But simple.

As the night deepens, understanding does not need to accumulate.
It does not need to stack up neatly.
It can thin out.
It can fade at the edges.

We have walked through villages and workshops, through kitchens and shorelines.
Not to arrive somewhere else, but to notice where we already are.

Suchness is not something to remember.
It is something that remains even when remembering stops.

The stories do not ask us to change.
They do not demand insight.
They sit beside us, like Ren’s bowl, like Amala’s nets, like Tenzu’s broom.

If sleep comes, it comes.
If it does not, this moment is still complete.

The night is wide enough for both.

The night holds what it holds, without checking whether we are still listening.
That is part of its kindness.

Suchness does not ask for witnesses.
It does not lean toward us or away.
It simply continues.

There is another life that comes into view now, quietly, as if it had been waiting its turn.

In a dry inland valley, far from temples and towns, there lived a man named Ishan.
Ishan repaired sandals.
Travelers brought him worn leather and broken straps, and he returned something usable.

His workshop was a low room with a single window.
Light entered in a narrow band, shifting slowly across the floor each day.
Ishan worked within that band when it reached his table, and when it moved on, he stopped.

People sometimes asked him why he did not add another window.
Why he did not work longer hours.
Why he seemed content with so little.

Ishan listened, nodded, and continued threading his needle.

One year, a drought settled into the valley.
The ground cracked.
Travelers became fewer.
Sandals lasted longer because fewer people were walking anywhere at all.

Ishan’s work slowed.
His days grew quiet in a way that made others uneasy.

A neighbor named Meera came by one afternoon, carrying a small bundle of food.
“You should be worried,” she said gently.
“There may be no work soon.”

Ishan accepted the food.
“Yes,” he said.

Meera waited for resistance, or reassurance, or a plan.
None appeared.

“But you are not afraid?” she asked.

Ishan considered this.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Sometimes not.”

He did not try to even it out.
He did not aim for courage or calm.
He named what was there, and that was enough.

When the drought passed, work returned in its own time.
When it had not yet returned, Ishan still sat at his table when the light reached it.

Suchness does not mean trusting that things will work out.
It means not insisting that they already have.

We often confuse acceptance with prediction.
We accept only what we believe will end well.
But suchness accepts the moment without negotiating its future.

Ishan did not know whether his work would continue.
He did not pretend to.
He did not need certainty to sit in the light.

There is something deeply tiring about arguing with what has already arrived.
At night, this tiredness becomes more noticeable.
The mind circles familiar concerns, hoping repetition will turn them into solutions.

It is all right if these thoughts come.
They, too, are part of what is here.

In another place, near a river that flooded every spring, there lived a teacher named Kaede.
Kaede taught children to read and write.
Her classroom was small, her resources modest.

Each year, the river rose and entered the schoolhouse.
Books were damaged.
Floors warped.
Lessons were interrupted.

Parents complained.
Officials promised repairs that did not last.

One morning, as water crept across the floor again, a student named Nilo asked, “Why does this keep happening?”

Kaede looked at the water, then at the children sitting with their feet lifted onto chairs.
“Because this is where the river goes,” she said.

She gathered the class and moved the lesson outside, under a tree on higher ground.
The children listened, distracted at first, then settling.

Kaede did not make the flooding into a symbol.
She did not turn it into a lesson about resilience.
She taught reading, under a tree, because that was where the class was.

Later, when asked why she had not protested more loudly, Kaede answered, “I did what was needed when it was needed.”

Suchness does not eliminate action.
It clears it of unnecessary struggle.

We act more cleanly when we are not also fighting reality.

When we resist what is present, even small things become heavy.
When we meet what is present, even difficult things can be handled one step at a time.

There is no requirement to like what is happening.
Suchness does not demand approval.
It asks only that we stop pretending something else is occurring.

The night itself is a teacher of this.
It does not try to become morning sooner.
It does not apologize for its darkness.

Somewhere between waking and sleeping, we may notice moments where thought loosens its grip.
Not because we forced it to, but because it grew tired.

This, too, is suchness.

There was once a traveler named Benoit who spent years seeking instruction.
He visited monasteries, listened to talks, collected sayings.

One evening, he stayed at a roadside inn run by an elderly man named Oran.
The inn was plain.
The food was simple.

As Benoit ate, he spoke about his search, his confusion, his desire to understand.

Oran listened while wiping the same counter he wiped every night.

Finally, Benoit asked, “What do you believe is the true teaching?”

Oran set down his cloth.
“That the soup is cooling,” he said.
“You should eat it.”

Benoit laughed at first, then felt a flicker of irritation.
He had heard answers like this before.
They never satisfied him.

But he ate.
And as he did, he noticed the warmth of the bowl, the taste of herbs, the quiet of the room.

Nothing profound happened.
And yet, nothing was missing.

Suchness does not provide conclusions.
It removes the need for them.

We often think understanding will arrive as a clear sentence, a moment of clarity we can keep.
But suchness arrives as the absence of argument.

It is what remains when we stop insisting that life explain itself.

As the night continues, it may feel as though the teaching repeats itself.
That is not a mistake.

Repetition is not redundancy here.
It is how something simple becomes familiar enough to trust.

Different lives, different places, the same quiet movement.

A potter’s wheel.
A mended net.
A narrow band of light.
Water on a classroom floor.
Soup cooling on a table.

None of these are metaphors we need to decode.
They are moments being themselves.

We can let them pass through us without holding on.
Or we can drift with them into sleep.

Both belong to this moment.

Suchness does not end when we stop listening.
It does not pause when we close our eyes.

It remains, steady and unremarkable, carrying the night forward whether we notice or not.

The night does not ask us to keep track of what has already been said.
It moves forward without collecting itself.

Suchness is like that.
It does not build a case.
It does not need continuity.

Another life appears now, not as an example, but simply because this is where the story passes.

In a hillside village where the mornings were often wrapped in fog, there lived a woodcutter named Jiro.
Each day, Jiro walked the same path into the forest, carrying an axe that had been sharpened so many times its handle had been replaced twice.

Jiro cut only what he needed.
One tree at a time.
Sometimes not even a whole tree, but fallen branches that still held weight.

The villagers thought Jiro was slow.
They thought he could cut more, sell more, live better.

Jiro listened to these opinions as he listened to the wind.
They arrived.
They passed.

One morning, a young apprentice named Calen asked to follow him.
Calen wanted to learn the craft, but more than that, he wanted to learn the right way to live.

They walked together in silence for a long time.

When Jiro stopped to cut, Calen asked, “How do you know which tree to take?”

Jiro placed his hand on the bark of a nearby pine.
“I don’t,” he said.

Calen waited, expecting a method to be revealed.

“I see what is here,” Jiro continued.
“If a tree has already fallen, I take that.
If not, I choose one that can be spared.
Then I stop.”

“But what if you choose wrong?” Calen asked.

Jiro smiled, not at Calen, but at the forest.
“Then I have chosen wrong,” he said.

There was no shame in it.
No drama.

Calen felt uneasy.
He wanted certainty.
He wanted assurance that mistakes could be avoided.

But Jiro did not offer that.

Suchness does not guarantee correctness.
It allows us to meet what happens without pretending we can stand outside of it.

Mistakes are part of what is.
So is learning.
So is the quiet continuation afterward.

Calen stayed with Jiro for a season.
He learned how to sharpen the blade.
How to listen for the sound of splitting wood.
How to stop before exhaustion turned into carelessness.

What he did not learn was how to be certain.

And strangely, this became a relief.

We spend so much effort trying to secure ourselves against the future.
Against regret.
Against error.

Suchness loosens that effort.
Not by offering safety, but by revealing that life has never been fully secured.

At night, when the day’s plans no longer require maintenance, this truth can feel close.
Sometimes comforting.
Sometimes unsettling.

Both are allowed.

In a city by the sea, there lived a woman named Elowen who repaired clocks.
Her shop was narrow, filled with ticking sounds that layered over one another like rain.

Elowen did not rush her work.
She listened to each mechanism as if it were speaking a language she did not fully understand.

Customers often asked when their clocks would be ready.

“When they keep time again,” Elowen said.

Some were satisfied with this.
Some were not.

One afternoon, a merchant named Varek brought in a clock that had belonged to his father.
“It has stopped,” he said.
“It must be fixed exactly as it was.”

Elowen examined the clock carefully.
Some parts were worn beyond repair.
She explained this gently.

“It will never be exactly the same,” she said.

Varek frowned.
“Then it will be wrong.”

Elowen shook her head.
“It will be different,” she said.
“And still a clock.”

Varek left without deciding.

The clock sat on Elowen’s bench for days.
She cleaned it.
She replaced what could be replaced.
She left what could not.

When Varek returned, she showed him the clock.
It ticked again, but its sound was slightly changed.

Varek listened.
His shoulders softened.

“It is not what it was,” he said.

“No,” Elowen replied.

After a moment, he nodded.
“It is what it is,” he said, surprising himself.

Suchness does not freeze things in their ideal form.
It allows change without turning it into loss.

The clock did not fail because it aged.
It aged because it existed.

We age because we exist.
Moments pass because they are moments.

Fighting this does not stop it.
Meeting it may soften the way it feels.

As the night deepens, the edges of thought may blur.
Stories may overlap.
Names may drift.

This is not a problem.

Understanding does not need to stay sharp.
Suchness is not held by clarity.

There was once a farmer named Mateo who lived on land that was neither fertile nor barren.
Some years were good.
Some were not.

Mateo did not speak much about fortune.
He planted when the season arrived.
He harvested what grew.

When neighbors complained about the weather, Mateo listened.

When they celebrated, he joined them.

One year, a storm destroyed most of his crops.
People came to offer sympathy.

Mateo thanked them and began clearing the field.

“Are you not angry?” someone asked.

Mateo paused.
“About the storm?” he said.
“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was a storm,” he said.

There was no resignation in his voice.
No hidden philosophy.

Suchness does not flatten emotional life.
Mateo felt disappointment.
He felt fatigue.
He felt concern for the coming winter.

What he did not feel was betrayal.

He did not take the storm personally.

So much of our suffering comes from the belief that life has made a mistake.
That something has gone wrong in a way that should not have happened.

Suchness does not say nothing goes wrong.
It says what happened has happened.

From there, we move.

In the quiet hours, this perspective can feel like a wide space opening.
Not empty.
Just unburdened.

Another story comes now, softer still.

In a small monastery on a plain, there lived a novice named Ansel.
Ansel struggled with restlessness.
He wanted to understand quickly.
He wanted to arrive.

One night, unable to sleep, he found the cook, a woman named Soraya, preparing rice for the morning.

“Why are you awake?” Ansel asked.

Soraya shrugged.
“The rice will be needed,” she said.

Ansel watched her rinse the grains slowly.

“I feel I am missing something,” he said.
“Others seem settled.
I am not.”

Soraya poured off the water and repeated the motion.

“This rice is dry,” she said.
“It will be wet.
Then it will be cooked.
Then it will be eaten.”

She looked at Ansel.

“It does not worry about being rice,” she said.

Ansel did not know what to say.
He stood there, listening to the sound of water.

That night, he slept briefly.
Not well.
But enough.

Suchness does not resolve our questions.
It changes how tightly we hold them.

As we listen now, it may be that the stories feel less distinct.
They may blend into one another, like sounds heard through a wall.

This is natural.

The mind, when allowed to rest, stops sorting so aggressively.

Suchness does not require our full attention.
It remains even when attention wanders.

Even when sleep arrives.

We do not need to follow every word.
We do not need to keep every name.

The night carries the teaching forward on its own.

The night does not insist that we stay with it.
It allows drifting.
It allows returning.
It allows forgetting what came just moments ago.

Suchness is patient in this way.

Another life opens quietly, without announcing itself.

In a riverside town where barges moved slowly with the current, there lived a ferryman named Tomas.
Tomas had crossed the river for so many years that the oar fit his hands as naturally as his own fingers.

People trusted him.
They stepped into his boat without hesitation.
They spoke of weather, of trade, of family matters, and Tomas listened.

Sometimes the river was calm.
Sometimes it pulled hard against the boat.
Tomas did not praise the calm or curse the current.
He adjusted his stroke.

One evening, a passenger named Yara sat silently through most of the crossing.
Near the far bank, she said, “Do you ever wish the river were different?”

Tomas smiled, not because the question amused him, but because it was familiar.

“If it were different,” he said, “it would be another river.”

Yara considered this.
“But some days it is dangerous.”

“Yes,” Tomas said.

“And you still cross.”

“Yes.”

There was no pride in his voice.
No sense of duty elevated into something noble.

“This is my work,” he said simply.

Suchness does not remove risk.
It removes the fantasy that life should be risk-free.

Tomas knew the river could take him.
He also knew that not crossing would not make the river disappear.

He met what was there with the skill he had, and when he did not have enough skill, he met that too.

We often imagine acceptance as passivity.
But suchness is active, intimate.
It meets each moment on its own terms.

As the night stretches on, we may feel a softening around effort.
The need to follow closely may ease.

This is not failure.
It is part of how listening changes when it no longer has a goal.

In a mountain monastery, far from the river, there lived an elder nun named Leiko.
Leiko was known for her quiet presence.
People sought her out, hoping for insight.

They often left disappointed.

Leiko did not give long answers.
She did not summarize teachings.

One visitor, a woman named Farah, arrived after traveling many weeks.
She had lost her home to fire.
She had lost her certainty about everything else shortly after.

Farah sat with Leiko in the garden as dusk approached.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Farah said.

Leiko nodded.

“I thought I understood my life,” Farah continued.
“And now it feels like it was taken from me.”

Leiko reached down and picked up a fallen leaf.
She held it gently.

“This leaf,” she said, “was once part of the tree.”

Farah waited.

“It fell,” Leiko continued.
“Now it is not.”

Farah felt a flicker of irritation.
She had not traveled this far for simple observations.

Leiko placed the leaf on the ground.

“It does not need to become the tree again,” she said.

Farah sat with this longer than she wanted to.

Suchness does not rebuild what has passed.
It allows what remains to be enough.

We often grieve not only what we lost, but what we believed it meant.
Suchness loosens that second layer.

The leaf does not argue with the ground.
It rests where it is.

Farah stayed at the monastery for several days.
She did not feel healed.
She did not feel resolved.

But she noticed something subtle.
Moments came and went without demanding explanation.

She ate when food was offered.
She slept when sleep arrived.

Her life had not returned.
Yet life continued.

As the night continues for us, this same movement may be present.
Thoughts come.
They pass.

Some feel unfinished.
Some repeat.

We do not need to resolve them now.

There was a craftsman named Osei who carved wooden spoons in a market town.
Each spoon was slightly different.
Some curved more deeply.
Some were lighter in the hand.

Customers sometimes asked him which was the best.

Osei would place the spoons on the table and say, “Choose the one that fits.”

“What if none fit?” someone asked once.

“Then your hand is not ready,” Osei replied, without judgment.

Suchness does not force fit.
It waits for meeting.

We often try to press ourselves into moments that are not shaped for us, or press moments into shapes they cannot hold.
This creates strain.

Suchness allows mismatch without calling it failure.

As the night deepens, the edges of attention may soften further.
Words may blur into tone.
Meaning may drift in and out.

This is not something to correct.

Listening can become like sitting beside a stream.
Sometimes we follow the water.
Sometimes we simply hear it.

There was once a messenger named Pavel who carried letters between distant towns.
He was known for his reliability.

One winter, a storm delayed him.
Roads became impassable.
Messages arrived late.

When Pavel finally reached his destination, he apologized.

The recipient, a woman named Celeste, read the letter and smiled.

“It arrived when it arrived,” she said.

“But it was meant to come sooner,” Pavel insisted.

Celeste folded the letter carefully.
“And now it is meant to be read now,” she said.

Suchness releases time from blame.

We often punish ourselves for what did not happen according to plan.
We replay moments, imagining alternate versions.

Suchness does not deny that plans matter.
It simply refuses to live in the version that did not occur.

As the night holds us, this refusal can feel like relief.

Another life passes by quietly.

In a village surrounded by fields, there lived a midwife named Hana.
She had assisted at hundreds of births.

Some were easy.
Some were difficult.
Some ended in sorrow.

Hana did not speak much about her work.
She arrived when called.
She stayed until she was no longer needed.

A young woman named Iris once asked her, “How do you bear seeing so much?”

Hana considered the question.

“I see what is here,” she said.
“I do not see what should have been.”

This did not make her cold.
It allowed her to remain present.

Suchness does not harden the heart.
It prevents it from breaking under expectations.

At this hour, when the night is well underway, there is less need to follow each thread.
The teaching does not depend on accumulation.

It has already been said, in many voices, in many places.

Life appears.
We meet it.
It changes.
We meet that too.

We do not need to keep score.

If sleep comes now, it comes into a space that does not resist it.
If wakefulness remains, it remains without demand.

Suchness holds both without preference.

The night continues, wide and unhurried, carrying all of this gently onward.

The night keeps offering itself without asking what we have understood so far.
It does not review.
It does not correct.

Suchness moves like this, quietly carrying everything forward without checking whether we are ready.

Another life comes into view, not because it explains anything, but because it belongs to this same movement.

In a town at the edge of a desert, where evenings cooled quickly and mornings arrived without warning, there lived a baker named Salim.
Salim baked bread before dawn each day.
He worked while the town slept, kneading dough by feel rather than measurement.

Some mornings the bread rose well.
Some mornings it did not.
The oven behaved differently depending on the weather, the wood, the mood of the air.

Customers commented on this.
“This loaf is lighter than yesterday.”
“This one is darker.”

Salim nodded.
“Yes,” he said.

One apprentice, a young man named Reto, grew frustrated.
He wanted consistency.
He wanted rules that would guarantee the same outcome.

“Why don’t you write everything down?” Reto asked one morning.
“Then it will always be right.”

Salim watched the loaves through the oven opening.
“Always right for which morning?” he asked.

Reto did not know how to answer.

Salim did not refuse improvement.
He learned from each batch.
But he did not demand that the bread repeat itself.

Suchness does not reject learning.
It rejects the idea that life must behave like a formula.

When we stop insisting that every day confirm the one before it, we begin to meet each day more honestly.

At night, this honesty can feel like permission to rest.
Nothing needs to be stabilized for sleep to arrive.

In a valley where wind moved constantly through tall grass, there lived a shepherd named Noemi.
Noemi spent her days walking slowly behind her flock, listening more than watching.

The sheep wandered.
They paused.
They sometimes moved in directions that seemed inefficient.

Travelers asked Noemi why she did not drive them more forcefully.

“They know where grass grows,” she said.

One traveler, a woman named Katalin, followed Noemi for a while.
She was used to leading teams, giving orders, correcting mistakes.

“Do they never get lost?” Katalin asked.

Noemi stopped walking.
She looked out over the land.

“Sometimes,” she said.
“Then we walk until we are not.”

There was no anxiety in her voice.
No urgency.

Suchness does not promise that we will never be lost.
It promises that being lost is also part of being here.

So much effort is spent trying to avoid wrong turns.
But life does not move in straight lines.

At this hour of the night, many of us feel the weight of paths not taken, decisions revisited endlessly.

Suchness does not undo these paths.
It removes the need to stand beside them forever.

In a small workshop lit by oil lamps, there lived a metalworker named Ilia.
Ilia shaped simple tools: hooks, hinges, nails.

He heated metal until it glowed, then struck it while it was ready.
If he struck too soon, it resisted.
Too late, and it cracked.

A visitor named Janelle once watched him work.

“How do you know when it is time?” she asked.

Ilia lifted the metal from the fire.
“It tells me,” he said.

Janelle waited for more explanation.

“It changes color,” Ilia added.
“And if I miss it, I miss it.”

There was no regret in his tone.
He returned the metal to the fire and waited again.

Suchness listens instead of forcing.

We often act as though timing is something we can dominate.
But much of life unfolds on its own schedule.

Missing the moment does not mean the work is over.
It means we wait until it is ready again.

The night understands this.
It does not rush dawn.
It does not apologize for how long it lasts.

Another story arrives, gently, as if carried on the same current.

In a riverside village downstream from Tomas’s crossing, though he never met him, there lived a laundress named Mirela.
She washed clothes in the river each day, kneeling on smooth stones worn by years of use.

Some days the water was clear.
Some days it was clouded by rain upstream.

Mirela adjusted.
She rinsed longer when needed.
She did not complain to the river.

A young boy named Theo once asked her, “Why don’t you wait for better water?”

Mirela wrung out a cloth and smiled.
“This is the water that is here,” she said.

Theo frowned.
“But it makes the work harder.”

“Yes,” Mirela said.

She did not mean this as a lesson.
It was simply true.

Suchness does not deny difficulty.
It refuses to add resentment to it.

We may notice that many of these lives are ordinary.
They do not aim upward.
They do not conclude with insight.

This is not an accident.

Suchness is not revealed through exceptional moments.
It is visible in how ordinary moments are met.

As the night continues, the mind may search for something new, something sharper.
It may wonder when the teaching will arrive.

It already has.
And it is still arriving.

In a hilltop village where bells marked the hours, there lived a watchman named Lucan.
His task was simple: ring the bell at dawn, at midday, at dusk.

Lucan did not decide when time passed.
He responded when it did.

Some nights he felt tired.
Some nights he missed the sound of voices.

Still, when the moment came, he rang the bell.

A visitor named Esme asked him, “Do you ever wish the bell would ring itself?”

Lucan considered this.
“If it did,” he said, “I would not be needed.”

“And would that be bad?” Esme asked.

Lucan shook his head.
“It would be different,” he said.
“And this is what is here.”

Suchness allows us to belong to what is happening without needing it to last forever.

Roles change.
Tasks end.
Bodies age.

None of this is a mistake.

In a coastal town where fog rolled in thick and silent, there lived a painter named Aveline.
She painted the same view each day: the harbor, the boats, the line where water met sky.

Visitors remarked that the paintings were never identical.

Aveline agreed.
“They cannot be,” she said.

“The harbor is the same,” someone argued.

Aveline smiled.
“The seeing is not,” she said.

She did not chase improvement.
She did not discard what came before.

Each painting was complete when she set it down.

Suchness does not accumulate into mastery.
It appears freshly each time.

We may notice now that the stories are slowing.
Or perhaps our listening is.

This is fine.

The night does not require engagement.
It allows presence without effort.

Another life, quieter still.

In a monastery kitchen, far from the halls where teachings were spoken, there worked a man named Borin.
Borin washed dishes.

He washed them after meals, after ceremonies, after days that felt long and days that felt short.

Someone once asked him if he wished for a more respected role.

Borin held up a bowl, still wet.

“This is what needs doing,” he said.

He did not compare his work to others’.
He did not imagine a better position.

Suchness does not measure worth.
It responds to what is needed now.

At night, when our usual measures fall away, this can feel like a soft landing.

We do not need to justify ourselves to the dark.

There was once a woman named Selene who lived alone in a small house at the edge of a forest.
She gathered herbs, tended a garden, spoke to few people.

Some thought her lonely.
Some thought her wise.

Selene thought neither.

When asked if she was happy, she answered, “I am here.”

This was not evasive.
It was sufficient.

Suchness does not define happiness.
It leaves it unforced.

As the night deepens further, thoughts may become less distinct.
Stories may feel like echoes.

This is not something to fix.

Listening can loosen its grip and still remain.

The teaching does not need us to hold it.
It continues without us.

If sleep comes, it comes into this same field of what is.
If wakefulness lingers, it lingers without being a problem.

Suchness holds the night gently, without preference, and carries everything—stories, thoughts, silence—forward just as they are.

The night does not hurry us toward anything.
It stretches, spacious and unconcerned, as if it has all the time it needs.
Suchness feels like this—unimpressed by our schedules, untouched by our urgency.

Another life moves gently into view.

In a narrow mountain pass where travelers often paused to rest, there lived an innkeeper named Darion.
Darion’s inn had only four rooms.
Some nights they were all filled.
Some nights none were.

Darion lit the lamps each evening whether guests arrived or not.
He swept the floor.
He warmed soup.

A traveler named Laleh once arrived late, cold and impatient.
Seeing the quiet inn, she asked, “Why do you prepare so much for so few?”

Darion set a bowl in front of her.
“Because this is evening,” he said.

Laleh frowned.
“But there may be no one else.”

Darion nodded.
“Yes,” he said.

There was no disappointment in his voice.
No pride.

Suchness does not depend on outcome.
It responds to what time it is.

We often live as if meaning arrives only when conditions are met.
But Darion lit the lamps because it was night, not because guests demanded it.

At this hour, when the world outside is mostly still, this way of living may feel closer.
Doing what belongs to the moment, without asking it to justify itself.

In a vineyard near the edge of a river plain, there worked a woman named Ysabel.
She pruned vines in winter, tended them in spring, harvested in autumn.

Some years the grapes were sweet.
Some years they were not.

Visitors asked her how she felt about the bad years.

“They are part of the vineyard,” she said.

“But do they not discourage you?”

“They arrive,” Ysabel said.
“And then they pass.”

She did not romanticize the work.
She felt tired.
She felt frustration.

But she did not take the harvest personally.

Suchness allows effort without identity becoming entangled in results.

As the night deepens, many of us feel the day’s efforts loosening their grip.
Success and failure grow less sharp.

This softening is not carelessness.
It is a return to proportion.

In a small library that smelled of dust and wood, there lived a caretaker named Eron.
Eron cataloged books no one borrowed anymore.

Some volumes were damaged.
Some had missing pages.

A scholar named Vesta once asked him why he kept them on the shelves.

“They are still books,” Eron said.

“But no one reads them,” Vesta insisted.

Eron shrugged.
“They rest,” he said.

Suchness does not demand usefulness as proof of value.

We often feel uneasy when we are not actively contributing, improving, achieving.
But Eron allowed the books to be what they were—present, quiet, complete in their own way.

At night, we too may feel less useful.
Less productive.

Suchness does not object.

In a port city where ships arrived from many places, there lived a dockworker named Mikhail.
He unloaded cargo day after day: crates of grain, barrels of oil, bundles of cloth.

Some shipments were delayed.
Some arrived damaged.

Others argued about responsibility.
Mikhail lifted what was in front of him.

A supervisor once asked why he never complained.

Mikhail wiped his hands on his shirt.
“The crate is heavy,” he said.
“Complaining does not lighten it.”

This was not indifference.
It was clarity.

Suchness does not suppress reaction.
It simply does not confuse reaction with necessity.

The crate still needed lifting.
The night still needed passing.

In a village surrounded by marshland, there lived a boat builder named Anouk.
Anouk built small boats that leaked a little, no matter how carefully they were made.

People pointed this out.

“Yes,” Anouk said.

“Can you fix it?”

“Only by making a different boat,” Anouk replied.

Most accepted this.
Some did not.

Anouk did not argue.

Suchness acknowledges limits without bitterness.

Nothing we make is perfect.
Nothing we are is sealed against change.

As the night moves on, these truths may feel less like lessons and more like background hum.
They do not need emphasis.

Another life arrives quietly.

In a quiet quarter of a city, there lived a calligrapher named Rina.
She practiced the same characters each day.

Some strokes flowed easily.
Some resisted her hand.

When ink spilled or paper tore, Rina did not start over immediately.
She paused.
She looked.

“This is also the page,” she said once to a student named Kyo.

Kyo felt uneasy.
He wanted clean results.

“But it’s ruined,” he said.

Rina smiled.
“Only if it was meant to be something else,” she said.

Suchness includes mistakes without redefining them as failures.

We often carry the weight of pages we believe are ruined.
Moments we would rewrite if given the chance.

Suchness does not erase them.
It stops insisting that they disqualify us from what comes next.

In a desert outpost where stars filled the sky each night, there lived a guard named Faisal.
His task was to watch, not to intervene.

Some nights were quiet.
Some nights were not.

Faisal learned to distinguish between what required action and what required patience.

A young recruit named Nara once asked how he learned this.

“By watching,” Faisal said.

“And if you watch too long?”

“Then I watch that too,” Faisal replied.

Suchness does not rush us into certainty.

Sometimes waiting is the action.

At this hour, when many things are indistinct, waiting may feel natural.

In a hillside orchard, there lived a woman named Linnea who tended fruit trees.
She knew that some fruit would fall before ripening.

She gathered what could be gathered.
She left what had fallen.

A passerby named Otis asked why she did not try to save everything.

“Because the ground receives too,” Linnea said.

Suchness does not hoard.
It allows loss without making it tragic.

We lose moments every day.
Thoughts fade.
Sensations pass.

Nothing needs to be done about this.

Another life passes softly.

In a fishing village, there lived a net maker named Bastian.
He repaired tears each afternoon.

Sometimes the same tear appeared again.

Bastian repaired it again.

Someone once asked if this did not feel pointless.

“It feels like today,” he said.

Suchness does not demand novelty.

Repetition can be care.

As the night continues, we may feel that the stories are circling the same space from different angles.
This is not accidental.

Suchness is not a destination reached once.
It is met again and again in different forms.

In a remote monastery, there lived a gardener named Yuki.
Yuki trimmed hedges that grew back quickly.

Visitors asked why he did not cut them lower.

“They grow,” Yuki said.

That was all.

Suchness does not argue with growth.

Things return.
Thoughts return.
Feelings return.

Meeting them again is not failure.

At this point in the night, words may begin to dissolve into rhythm.
Meaning may feel less important than tone.

This is natural.

The teaching does not depend on being held in mind.

It moves like the night itself—present, steady, unconcerned with whether we are awake enough to notice.

If sleep comes now, it arrives into a space already prepared for it.
If wakefulness stays, it stays without tension.

Suchness holds both, quietly, without needing to say anything more.

The night feels wide now, as if it has forgotten where it began.
It does not mind this.
Suchness does not keep a map.

Another life comes forward, quietly, without needing to be important.

In a lowland village where mist settled every morning, there lived a miller named Corin.
Corin ground grain for the surrounding farms.
The mill wheel turned when water flowed.
When the stream slowed, the wheel slowed too.

Some farmers complained.
They wanted their grain ground faster, more reliably.

Corin listened and pointed to the stream.
“This is how it comes,” he said.

One farmer, a man named Havel, grew impatient.
“Why not store water?” he asked.
“Why not force the wheel to turn?”

Corin shook his head.
“Then it would not be a mill,” he said.
“It would be something else.”

Havel did not like this answer.
But over time, he noticed that the grain ground slowly was no worse than grain ground quickly.
The bread tasted the same.

Suchness does not improve what already works.
It lets things move at their own pace.

At night, when the hours stretch without demand, this pace feels more natural.
Nothing needs to be rushed into completion.

In a narrow street of a walled city, there lived a seamstress named Olwen.
She repaired clothing rather than making new garments.
Her shop was filled with worn fabric, faded colors, mended seams.

People asked why she did not focus on new work.
“There is more money in it,” they said.

Olwen ran her fingers along a repaired sleeve.
“This coat knows its shape,” she said.

A young customer named Maris brought in a jacket that had belonged to her mother.
“It cannot be fixed,” Maris said.
“It has been altered too many times.”

Olwen examined it carefully.
Then she began to stitch.

When Maris returned, the jacket fit differently.
Not as it once had.
But it fit.

“It feels strange,” Maris said.

“Yes,” Olwen replied.
“It is honest.”

Suchness does not restore the past.
It allows the present to be usable.

We often want our lives to feel as they once did.
But suchness asks only whether they fit now.

In a quiet hill village, there lived a bell ringer named Taro.
He rang the bell at dawn and at dusk.

Some days he felt alert.
Some days he felt dull.

He rang the bell anyway.

A child named Elsi once asked, “What if you don’t feel like it?”

Taro smiled.
“Then the bell still rings,” he said.

Suchness does not depend on our mood.
It moves through us even when we are tired.

At this hour of the night, tiredness may feel close.
This is not something to overcome.

There was once a woman named Sabine who kept bees on the edge of a forest.
She tended the hives gently, wearing the same veil year after year.

Some seasons the bees thrived.
Some seasons they did not.

Neighbors asked if she was discouraged.

Sabine listened to the hum of the hive before answering.
“They are being bees,” she said.

Suchness does not require success to validate effort.

We show up.
We tend.
What follows is not fully ours.

In a coastal town where tides marked the hours, there lived a rope maker named Ivo.
He twisted fibers together day after day, walking backward as the rope lengthened.

When the rope snapped, he tied it again.

A passerby named Renata once watched him work.

“Doesn’t it bother you when it breaks?” she asked.

Ivo nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
“And then I fix it.”

There was no frustration layered on top of the work.

Suchness allows feeling without dwelling.

We often believe we must eliminate discomfort before moving on.
But Ivo did not wait for satisfaction.
He continued.

Another life drifts in.

In a monastery laundry, there lived a novice named Pavelin.
Pavelin washed robes in cold water, his hands often red by evening.

He wondered if this work mattered.

One evening, an elder named Sachi passed by and noticed his hesitation.

“Why do you pause?” Sachi asked.

Pavelin gestured to the pile of clean robes.
“They will be dirty again,” he said.

Sachi nodded.
“Yes,” she said.

That was all.

Suchness does not argue with repetition.
It lives inside it.

As the night deepens, repetition itself may feel soothing.
The mind stops demanding progress.

In a town known for its stonework, there lived a mason named Ulric.
Ulric shaped blocks for buildings he would never see completed.

Someone asked him how he felt about this.

“I shape this stone,” he said.
“That is enough.”

Suchness does not require us to witness outcomes.

We plant seeds we will not harvest.
We shape moments that pass immediately.

None of this is wasted.

In a small orchard behind a monastery, there lived a woman named Fumiko who gathered fallen fruit each evening.
She did not collect what was still on the tree.

A visitor named Daan asked why.

“Because it is not ready,” Fumiko said.

“But it may fall tomorrow,” Daan said.

“Yes,” she replied.

Suchness does not rush ripening.

Some things arrive only when they do.

At night, this can feel like permission to stop reaching.

In a city alley, there lived a lamp lighter named Rowan.
Each evening, Rowan lit the street lamps one by one.

Some nights the lamps flickered.
Some nights they burned steadily.

When one failed, Rowan noted it and moved on.

A resident named Mirek asked why he did not fix it immediately.

“Because it is dark now,” Rowan said.
“I light what can be lit.”

Suchness prioritizes what is possible.

We often feel burdened by what cannot be fixed right away.
Suchness narrows attention to what is here.

Another life appears quietly.

In a quiet monastery hall, there lived a chant leader named Nisha.
Her voice was steady, unremarkable.

Sometimes the chant flowed smoothly.
Sometimes voices faltered.

Nisha did not correct anyone.

A new monk named Oren asked why.

“The sound is already happening,” she said.

Suchness does not interrupt what is unfolding.

At this hour, listening itself may feel like that—sound happening, without needing adjustment.

In a mountain village where snow lingered long into spring, there lived a wood stove keeper named Halvor.
He kept fires burning in communal buildings.

Some fires burned bright.
Some smoldered.

When asked how he managed, Halvor said, “I add wood when it cools.”

No more.
No less.

Suchness responds without excess.

We often overreact to cooling, to fading, to slowing.
But small adjustments are often enough.

In a river town downstream from Corin’s mill, though they never met, there lived a fish cleaner named Iskra.
She cleaned fish each morning.

The work was messy.
It smelled.

Iskra did not complain.
She worked until the fish were clean, then washed her hands.

A newcomer named Jules asked how she endured it.

“I finish,” Iskra said.

Suchness does not dramatize.

The work ends when it ends.

As the night continues, it may feel that the stories no longer build toward anything.
This is true.

They rest where they are.

Suchness does not climax.
It settles.

Another life arrives, almost whispering.

In a hillside shrine, there lived a caretaker named Kenzo.
Kenzo swept fallen leaves each morning.

By afternoon, more leaves had fallen.

Kenzo swept again the next day.

A traveler named Ada asked if this felt endless.

Kenzo smiled gently.
“Only if I expect it to end,” he said.

Suchness releases expectations of completion.

Some things are ongoing by nature.

At night, this can feel like relief.
We do not have to finish the day.

In a fishing port, there lived a sail mender named Brisa.
She patched sails torn by wind.

Each tear was different.

When asked which tear was the worst, Brisa shook her head.
“They are all just tears,” she said.

Suchness does not rank difficulty.

What is in front of us is enough.

As the night grows quieter still, attention may thin.
Words may blur into warmth.

This is welcome.

The teaching does not need clarity now.
It does not need to be held.

Life continues as it is—mills turning when water flows, lamps lit when evening comes, leaves falling whether or not someone sweeps them.

If sleep has already come, these words pass by without resistance.
If sleep has not yet arrived, there is no need to call it.

Suchness holds the night open, allowing everything—wakefulness, drowsiness, listening, forgetting—to belong exactly as they are.

The night no longer feels like something we are moving through.
It feels more like something that is holding us, wide and unopposed.
Suchness settles into this feeling naturally, without explanation.

Another life passes into view, gently, without asking to be remembered.

In a quiet border town where roads met and separated again, there lived a gatekeeper named Alaric.
His work was simple.
He opened the gate at dawn.
He closed it at night.

Travelers came and went.
Some greeted him.
Some did not notice him at all.

Alaric did not measure his days by who passed through.
He watched the light change on the road.
He listened for the sound that told him evening had arrived.

One traveler, a woman named Senka, paused as the gate opened one morning.
“Do you ever wish to leave?” she asked.

Alaric considered the question honestly.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“And sometimes I am already where I am.”

There was no conflict in this.
Both could be true.

Suchness does not demand that we resolve every wanting.
It allows desire to exist without needing to be satisfied immediately.

At night, longings may surface softly, without sharp edges.
They do not need answers now.

In a river delta where water split into many channels, there lived a reed cutter named Malou.
Malou harvested reeds for thatching roofs.

Some reeds bent easily.
Some snapped unexpectedly.

Malou adjusted her grip, her pace, her expectations.

A helper named Irek asked, “Why don’t you choose only the straight ones?”

Malou smiled.
“The roof needs many shapes,” she said.

Suchness includes what does not conform.

We often imagine our lives should follow a clear line.
But roofs hold because many uneven pieces support one another.

In a mountain town where fog arrived without warning, there lived a lantern maker named Teun.
He crafted simple lanterns, nothing ornate.

Some burned brightly.
Some dimmed quickly.

Teun did not guarantee longevity.

“They shine while they shine,” he said.

A customer named Pilar asked, “And when they go out?”

Teun shrugged.
“Then there is night,” he said.

Suchness does not argue with darkness.

We fear dimming, fading, ending.
But night has always been part of the rhythm.

As the night around us deepens, it may feel less necessary to keep the light on.

In a monastery storeroom, there lived a woman named Mirei who counted supplies.
Rice.
Oil.
Cloth.

She kept records carefully.

When asked why she was so precise, she answered, “Because tomorrow will come.”

“And if it doesn’t?” someone asked.

Mirei smiled gently.
“Then the counting ends,” she said.

Suchness prepares without anxiety.

We plan not because we can control what comes, but because this is what today asks of us.

In a forest clearing where charcoal was burned slowly under earth, there lived a burner named Eamon.
His work took days of patient watching.

If he rushed it, the charcoal would fail.

Visitors found this dull.

“Nothing seems to happen,” one said.

Eamon nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
“And it is happening.”

Suchness unfolds quietly.

Much of life changes without spectacle.
At night, this quiet change may feel closer.

In a hillside village, there lived a bell repairer named Roshan.
He traveled from town to town, tuning bells that had drifted out of harmony.

Some bells could be corrected.
Some could not.

Roshan did what he could and moved on.

A mayor named Elida asked him why he did not insist on perfection.

Roshan listened to the bell ring once more.
“It rings,” he said.
“That is enough.”

Suchness values function over ideal.

We often chase perfection long after usefulness has already arrived.

In a fishing hamlet, there lived a woman named Kaia who sorted the catch each morning.
Large fish.
Small fish.
Those to be sold.
Those to be kept.

She worked quickly, without commentary.

A newcomer named Bram asked how she decided.

“I see,” she said.

There was no further rule.

Suchness trusts direct contact.

We complicate what can be met simply.

As the night continues, our listening may grow looser.
We may stop tracking each story carefully.

This is not losing the thread.
This is resting in it.

Another life appears quietly.

In a narrow valley where echoes lingered, there lived a shepherd’s helper named Vito.
He followed behind the flock, closing gates left open.

He was not seen much.

Someone once asked him if he wanted a more important role.

Vito shrugged.
“Things wander,” he said.
“I close what needs closing.”

Suchness does not seek recognition.

Much of what keeps life moving goes unnoticed.

At night, when no one is watching, this feels natural.

In a village bakery beside Salim’s town, though they never met, there lived a flour sifter named Elske.
She removed stones from sacks of grain.

The work was repetitive.

El ske did not hurry.

When asked why she took such care, she answered, “Stones break teeth.”

That was all.

Suchness attends to small things because they are there.

We often overlook the small until they cause pain.

In a harbor city, there lived a tide reader named Onur.
He marked the water level each day.

Some days it rose higher than expected.
Some days lower.

Onur recorded without judgment.

A student named Livia asked, “What do you do when it surprises you?”

Onur replied, “I write what it is.”

Suchness records reality before interpreting it.

At night, thoughts may soften into simple noticing.

In a quiet temple corridor, there lived a floor polisher named Amrit.
He polished stone floors worn smooth by generations.

The shine never lasted.

Amrit polished again.

A visitor asked if this felt endless.

Amrit smiled faintly.
“Only the floor is endless,” he said.

Suchness does not demand permanence.

We maintain what passes.

In a field beyond the town walls, there lived a scarecrow maker named Jona.
He repaired scarecrows damaged by weather.

Birds still came.

Jona did not resent them.

“They are birds,” he said.

Suchness does not expect compliance from life.

Things behave according to their nature.

At night, when control relaxes, this truth feels closer.

Another life drifts in.

In a hillside shrine, there lived a bell polisher named Seiko.
She polished the same bell each morning.

She did not ring it.

When asked why, she said, “Others ring it.
I care for it.”

Suchness allows shared responsibility.

We do not need to do everything.

In a low valley, there lived a rain gauge keeper named Tomasin.
He measured rainfall daily.

Some days there was none.

He wrote zero.

A child asked why he bothered.

“Because zero is also a number,” Tomasin said.

Suchness includes absence.

Nothing happening is still something happening.

At this hour, silence itself may feel full.

In a city courtyard, there lived a broom maker named Heloise.
She made brooms that wore out quickly.

Customers complained.

Heloise answered, “They sweep.”

Suchness does not promise durability.

It meets immediate need.

As the night grows quieter, these lives may feel less distinct.
They blend into one steady presence.

Work done without argument.
Moments met without embellishment.

Suchness does not stand apart from life.
It is how life feels when we stop demanding more from it.

If sleep is already here, these words pass like distant sounds.
If wakefulness remains, it rests without pressure.

The night continues to hold everything gently—stories, silences, half-heard meanings—without needing to complete anything at all.

The night no longer asks us to follow closely.
It allows us to be carried, the way water carries what it touches without deciding where it should go.

Suchness feels like this carrying.
Nothing added.
Nothing taken away.

Another life moves quietly into the dark.

In a high plateau where wind brushed the land without pause, there lived a stone sorter named Kellan.
Kellan worked at a quarry, selecting stones for different uses.
Some would become walls.
Some would become paths.
Some would be left where they were.

Kellan did not hurry his choices.
He lifted each stone, felt its weight, its balance.

A newcomer named Rhosyn asked how he decided so calmly.

“The stone tells me what it can be,” Kellan said.

“And if it tells you nothing?” Rhosyn asked.

“Then it stays,” Kellan replied.

Suchness does not force purpose.
It allows things to remain as they are when no use appears.

At night, when usefulness loosens its grip, we too may feel allowed to stay.

In a small desert settlement where wells were precious, there lived a water keeper named Samira.
She measured the level each morning and evening.

Some days the level dropped unexpectedly.
Some days it held steady.

Villagers asked if she worried.

“I notice,” Samira said.
“And then I do what can be done.”

She did not pretend the water belonged to her.
She did not panic when it fell.

Suchness observes before reacting.

So much of our distress comes from reacting before we see clearly what is here.

In a mountain monastery library, there lived a caretaker named Olin.
Olin repaired book bindings with thread and glue.

Some books were too fragile to save completely.

Olin returned those to the shelf carefully anyway.

“They may fall apart,” someone warned.

“Yes,” Olin said.

There was no sadness in it.

Suchness does not deny fragility.
It treats it gently.

At night, fragility feels closer.
We may sense how easily things could come apart.

Suchness does not argue with this.
It holds softly.

In a vineyard terrace above the sea, there lived a grape sorter named Mirek.
He separated grapes by hand, one cluster at a time.

Some were bruised.
Some were sweet.
Some were neither.

A visitor named Solène asked why he did not work faster.

“The grapes do not hurry,” Mirek said.

Suchness respects the pace of what it meets.

We often rush ourselves because time feels scarce.
But the night does not rush us.

In a forest hamlet where mushrooms grew unpredictably, there lived a forager named Tamsin.
She gathered only what she recognized.

Some days she returned with a full basket.
Some days nearly empty.

A companion named Ilya asked if this disappointed her.

Tamsin smiled.
“The forest answered,” she said.

Suchness listens for the answer that is given, not the one desired.

At night, questions may remain unanswered.
This is not failure.

In a coastal lighthouse far from busy ports, there lived a keeper named Rowanette.
She trimmed the wick each evening.

Some nights the light was clear.
Some nights it flickered.

She adjusted when needed.
She did not curse the wind.

Suchness adapts without resentment.

We do not need conditions to be ideal in order to continue.

In a hillside village where goats wandered freely, there lived a herdsman named Petar.
He did not count the goats obsessively.

He recognized their shapes, their movement.

When one wandered off, he noticed.

When it returned, he noticed that too.

A visitor named Eluned asked how he avoided worry.

“I know the hill,” Petar said.

Suchness trusts familiarity built over time.

At night, familiar thoughts may return.
We know their shapes.

We do not need to chase them away.

In a monastery courtyard, there lived a fountain cleaner named Sabela.
She removed leaves each morning.

By afternoon, more had fallen.

She returned the next day.

A novice named Daru asked if this felt pointless.

“The water still flows,” Sabela said.

Suchness does not require finality.

Many things we do are maintenance, not completion.

At night, when nothing needs finishing, this can feel like rest.

In a snowbound village, there lived a firewood stacker named Oskar.
He arranged logs carefully, knowing some would burn sooner than others.

He did not try to predict which would be needed first.

He stacked evenly.

Suchness prepares without micromanaging the future.

We often try to solve tomorrow tonight.
Suchness allows tonight to be tonight.

In a harbor market, there lived a fish scaler named Nerissa.
She worked with steady hands.

Some fish slipped from her grip.
She picked them up again.

A child named Tomasz laughed.

Nerissa laughed too.

Suchness allows small mishaps without embarrassment.

Perfection is not required for dignity.

In a mountain tunnel under construction, there lived a lamp holder named Ciro.
His task was to hold a lamp while others worked.

He did not dig.
He did not plan.

He held the light steady.

Someone once asked if this felt insignificant.

“It lets them see,” Ciro said.

Suchness recognizes quiet contributions.

At night, many unseen supports are at work—gravity, warmth, silence.

We rest inside them.

In a quiet suburb of a larger town, there lived a post sorter named Halima.
She arranged letters by route.

Some letters were addressed poorly.

She did her best.

“What if they never arrive?” someone asked.

“They arrive where they arrive,” Halima said.

Suchness does not guarantee outcomes.

It attends to the process.

In a marshland village, there lived a reed flute maker named Borislav.
He carved flutes that sometimes sounded uneven.

He tested each one.

If it sang, he kept it.
If not, he set it aside.

A buyer named Linus asked why he did not force them to sound the same.

Borislav smiled.
“Then they would not be reeds,” he said.

Suchness honors the nature of materials.

We often try to standardize what is naturally varied.

At night, variation feels less threatening.

In a monastery garden, there lived a compost turner named Amaya.
She turned old food scraps into soil.

The work was slow.

A visitor asked how long it took.

“It takes,” Amaya said.

Suchness does not rush transformation.

Some changes occur only with time.

In a city clock tower, there lived a weight adjuster named Piero.
He adjusted the counterweights weekly.

The clock drifted anyway.

Piero adjusted again.

Suchness accepts ongoing correction.

We often expect one fix to last forever.

Life prefers gentle, repeated care.

In a hilltop pasture, there lived a fence mender named Zofia.
She repaired breaks caused by weather and animals.

The same posts broke again.

Zofia returned.

A passerby asked if this frustrated her.

“It’s wood,” she said.

Suchness does not take things personally.

When we stop personalizing events, they grow lighter.

In a riverside shrine, there lived a bell listener named Nandan.
He did not ring the bell.
He listened for when others rang it.

He noted how the sound changed with rain, with air.

When asked why he listened so carefully, he said, “It is already sounding.”

Suchness listens rather than initiates.

At night, sounds come without invitation.

We can let them pass.

In a rural schoolhouse, there lived a chalk cleaner named Freja.
She wiped boards clean after lessons.

Marks returned the next day.

Freja wiped them again.

A teacher asked if she minded erasing others’ work.

“It has been used,” Freja said.

Suchness recognizes when something has served its purpose.

At night, the day’s marks can be erased without regret.

In a mountain spring village, there lived a pipe watcher named Enzo.
He checked water lines for leaks.

Some leaks were small.

He fixed them.

Some were not.

He marked them for later.

Suchness prioritizes without overwhelm.

Not everything must be addressed at once.

As the night continues, these lives may feel less like stories and more like a steady presence.
Work done.
Moments met.
Nothing insisted upon.

We do not need to remember who did what.
We do not need to keep count.

Suchness does not ask us to hold onto it.
It remains even when attention loosens.

If sleep arrives now, it arrives without ceremony.
If wakefulness stays, it stays without pressure.

The night continues to hold everything—effort and rest, sound and silence, listening and forgetting—in the same open way, exactly as it is.

The night has settled into itself now, as if it has forgotten any intention of moving forward.
It simply is.
Suchness feels closest at moments like this, when nothing is being asked of us.

Another life appears, almost unnoticed.

In a wide plain where the horizon seemed always just out of reach, there lived a map maker named Ravel.
Ravel drew maps for travelers who crossed the plain, marking wells, hills, and old paths.

He knew his maps were never fully accurate.
Wells dried up.
Paths shifted with wind and rain.

Still, he drew them carefully.

A traveler named Sorin once pointed to a blank area on the parchment.
“What is here?” he asked.

Ravel looked at the empty space.
“I have not been there,” he said.

Sorin frowned.
“Then the map is incomplete.”

Ravel smiled gently.
“Yes,” he said.

There was no embarrassment in this.
The map did not pretend to be more than it was.

Suchness allows incompleteness without apology.

We often feel pressure to account for everything, to know every corner of our lives.
But much remains unmapped, and life continues anyway.

At night, when plans loosen, this unmapped space may feel less threatening.

In a stone courtyard behind a temple, there lived a woman named Irena who reset fallen stones after storms.
She did not rebuild walls.
She did not redesign the space.

She simply returned stones to where they had been.

A visitor named Paolo asked, “Why not improve it while you’re here?”

Irena placed another stone and stood up.
“Because this is what is needed now,” she said.

Suchness responds to what has actually happened, not to imagined opportunities.

Improvement can wait.
The present cannot.

In a riverside orchard, there lived a fruit washer named Malin.
She rinsed apples before they were sold.

Some apples were spotted.
Some bore marks from birds.

Malin washed them anyway.

A helper named Etienne asked, “Why wash the imperfect ones?”

Malin held up an apple.
“It is still an apple,” she said.

Suchness does not exclude what falls short of ideals.

We often discard parts of ourselves that do not match an image.
Suchness keeps them in view.

In a quiet hill monastery, there lived a stair sweeper named Kosei.
He swept the same steps each morning.

Leaves fell again by afternoon.

Kosei did not feel behind.

A novice named Bram asked if it was frustrating.

Kosei paused, leaned on his broom.
“Only if I imagine the stairs should stay clean,” he said.

Suchness releases expectations that fight repetition.

Many things in life require returning again and again.
This is not failure.

In a town beside a slow river, there lived a boat patcher named Liora.
She sealed small cracks in wooden hulls.

Some cracks reopened.

Liora patched them again.

A boat owner named Henk asked why she did not reinforce everything at once.

“Then the wood would not move,” Liora said.

Suchness allows flexibility.

Trying to fix everything permanently can make things brittle.

At night, when our own edges soften, we may sense this truth in our bodies.

In a market square, there lived a grain measurer named Otmar.
He used the same scale every day.

Some customers argued over weight.

Otmar checked the scale again.

“If it is right, it is right,” he said.
“If it is wrong, I fix it.”

He did not argue beyond that.

Suchness does not escalate.

It meets the situation and moves on.

In a hillside hamlet, there lived a window washer named Saburo.
He cleaned windows that faced fields, forests, or walls.

Some views were beautiful.
Some were plain.

Saburo cleaned them all the same.

A resident named Helene asked which he preferred.

“The glass,” Saburo said.

Suchness focuses on what is being done, not on comparison.

At night, when comparison fades, this can feel like rest.

In a forest monastery, there lived a wood splitter named Arjun.
He split logs in steady rhythm.

Some logs resisted.
Some split easily.

Arjun adjusted his stance.

A visitor named Mirette asked how he learned patience.

“I split what splits,” Arjun said.
“And I leave the rest for later.”

Suchness recognizes when effort meets resistance.

Not everything yields at the same time.

In a coastal village, there lived a salt gatherer named Yannis.
He raked salt from shallow pans.

Some days the sun cooperated.
Some days clouds lingered.

Yannis waited when needed.

A helper named Klara asked if waiting felt like wasting time.

“The salt does not hurry,” Yannis said.

Suchness waits without resentment.

Waiting can be part of the work.

In a small schoolroom, there lived a desk arranger named Fenna.
She straightened desks after children left.

By morning, they would be moved again.

Fenna did not sigh.

“This is how rooms are,” she said once.

Suchness accepts disorder as temporary, not personal.

At night, when the world is less orderly, this acceptance feels natural.

In a hillside chapel, there lived a candle trimmer named Lucio.
He trimmed wicks so flames would burn evenly.

Some candles burned down faster anyway.

Lucio noted it and moved on.

A worshipper named Rana asked if this bothered him.

“It is wax,” Lucio said.

Suchness does not argue with material reality.

We suffer when we expect things to behave differently than they can.

In a fishing port, there lived a crate mender named Ivana.
She repaired boxes used for transporting fish.

The boxes smelled.

Ivana washed her hands often.

A passerby named Joel asked how she endured it.

“It passes,” Ivana said.

Suchness does not dramatize unpleasantness.

It acknowledges and continues.

In a quiet mountain village, there lived a snow marker named Tove.
She placed poles along paths before winter.

Some poles were buried by snow.

Tove placed them anyway.

A traveler named Mika asked why she bothered if they disappeared.

“They are there,” Tove said.
“Even if unseen.”

Suchness allows unseen support.

Much of what helps us is not visible.

In a riverside town, there lived a ferry rope inspector named Dario.
He checked knots each morning.

Some were tight.
Some loosened overnight.

Dario retied them.

A colleague named Renée asked if this repetition bored him.

“It keeps the boat where it is,” Dario said.

Suchness values quiet stability.

At night, stability often comes from things we do not notice.

In a monastery cellar, there lived a jar labeler named Hoshi.
She labeled jars of pickled vegetables.

Some labels faded over time.

Hoshi rewrote them.

A novice named Ulf asked why.

“So we know what is inside,” Hoshi said.

Suchness clarifies without overthinking.

We do not need to know everything, only what is relevant now.

In a windswept valley, there lived a windbreak repairer named Caspar.
He fixed fences damaged by gusts.

The wind returned.

Caspar returned too.

A neighbor asked if this felt futile.

“The fence still stands,” Caspar said.

Suchness measures success modestly.

We do not need permanence to justify effort.

In a stone village square, there lived a bench fixer named Mirekova.
She tightened loose boards.

People sat.
Boards loosened again.

Mirekova tightened them again.

A child asked why she kept doing it.

“So sitting is easier,” she said.

Suchness reduces friction where it can.

At night, when we seek ease, this intention feels kind.

In a hillside apiary, there lived a smoke bellower named Idris.
He calmed bees during harvest.

Sometimes bees still stung.

Idris tended the sting and continued.

Suchness does not promise comfort.

It promises presence.

In a quiet town hall, there lived a clock listener named Anja.
She listened for irregular ticks.

When she heard one, she noted it.

A clerk asked why she did not fix it immediately.

“First I listen,” Anja said.

Suchness listens before acting.

At night, listening may be all that happens.

In a monastery kitchen, there lived a rice measurer named Belen.
She measured portions carefully.

Some bowls spilled.

Belen wiped the table and continued.

Suchness does not hold grudges against accidents.

In a river meadow, there lived a bridge plank checker named Stellan.
He tested each plank before dawn.

Some creaked.

He marked them.

Travelers crossed anyway.

Suchness allows use while improvement is pending.

We do not need everything resolved before moving forward.

In a forest shrine, there lived a bell rope untangler named Noor.
She untangled ropes twisted by wind.

They twisted again.

Noor returned.

A visitor asked if this annoyed her.

“It is rope,” she said.

Suchness keeps things simple.

As the night deepens further, the stories may feel like soft echoes.
They no longer ask to be followed, only to pass by.

Lives meeting what is in front of them.
No conclusions drawn.
No lessons announced.

Suchness does not arrive with ceremony.
It has been here the whole time.

If sleep has already come, these words drift past like distant sounds.
If wakefulness remains, it rests in the same open space.

The night continues, untroubled, holding everything exactly as it is.

The night feels settled now, like a lake after the wind has passed.
Nothing needs to be smoothed.
Nothing needs to be held together.

Suchness rests easily in this stillness.

Another life drifts into view, quietly, without insisting on attention.

In a valley where fog lingered long after sunrise, there lived a path clearer named Brenna.
Each morning, Brenna walked the same trail, moving fallen branches aside, brushing stones from the way.

By afternoon, wind and animals would scatter new debris.
The path never stayed clear for long.

A traveler named Koji once asked, “Why do you keep doing this if it never lasts?”

Brenna paused, leaning on her staff.
“Because this morning has a path,” she said.

She did not speak of tomorrow.
She did not argue with impermanence.

Suchness does not ask for lasting results.
It meets what is present.

At night, when the day no longer demands continuity, this way of being may feel familiar.

In a riverbend village, there lived a boat painter named Elric.
He painted the bottoms of boats to protect them from water.

The paint wore away with time.
Elric returned and painted again.

A boat owner named Sana asked if this repetition ever felt tiring.

Elric dipped his brush and smiled.
“It feels like boats,” he said.

Suchness allows repetition to be ordinary, not burdensome.

We often grow tired not from doing something again, but from wishing we did not have to.

In a hilltop monastery, there lived a towel folder named Maiko.
She folded towels after the evening wash.

Some towels were frayed.
Some held stains that never came out.

Maiko folded them all the same.

A novice named Dorel asked why she did not discard the worn ones.

“They still dry hands,” Maiko said.

Suchness does not discard what remains useful.

We are often quicker to discard parts of ourselves than life ever asks us to be.

In a desert caravan stop, there lived a water cup rinser named Faridah.
She rinsed cups used by passing travelers.

Some cups chipped.
Some cracked.

Faridah set the broken ones aside without commentary.

A traveler named Luc asked how she decided which to keep.

“They tell me,” she said.

Suchness listens without argument.

In a mountain village where bells echoed off stone, there lived a bell rope splicer named Omero.
He repaired ropes worn thin by years of ringing.

When a rope finally failed, he replaced it.

When it held, he left it.

A priest named Celina asked if he ever felt responsible for the sound of the bell.

“The bell rings,” Omero said.
“I keep the rope from breaking.”

Suchness knows its place.

We do not need to be the cause of everything we support.

In a marshland town, there lived a boot dryer named Iselin.
She dried boots soaked by mud and rain.

Some never fully dried.
She set them aside and took the next pair.

A fisherman named Roque asked if this bothered her.

“The mud leaves when it leaves,” Iselin said.

Suchness does not rush drying.

Some things take as long as they take.

At night, when nothing is drying for use tomorrow, this patience feels gentle.

In a hillside vineyard, there lived a fence watcher named Thibaud.
He walked the perimeter each evening, checking for breaks.

Sometimes he found none.
Sometimes many.

Thibaud repaired what he could and marked what he could not.

A neighbor named Sora asked why he did not worry more.

“The grapes are growing,” Thibaud said.
“That is enough for today.”

Suchness limits concern to what can be met.

We often worry beyond what the moment can hold.

In a quiet port, there lived a rope coiler named Yvette.
She coiled ropes after ships docked.

Some coils tangled later.

Yvette recoiled them.

A sailor named Marco asked if this felt repetitive.

“It feels finished,” she said, setting down the last coil.

Suchness finds completion in the moment, not in permanence.

In a mountain hamlet, there lived a window latch tester named Renzo.
Each night, Renzo checked that shutters were secure.

Most nights, nothing was wrong.

A resident named Luma asked why he checked so carefully.

“Because tonight exists,” Renzo said.

Suchness attends to the present without dramatizing danger.

At night, the simple act of being here is enough.

In a forest edge village, there lived a leaf collector named Anoukette.
She gathered leaves fallen into irrigation channels.

More leaves fell later.

Anoukette returned the next day.

A passerby named Piotr asked if this felt endless.

“It feels like autumn,” she said.

Suchness names the season, not the problem.

We often mistake cycles for failures.

In a monastery refectory, there lived a cup arranger named Halden.
He arranged cups before meals.

Sometimes cups were moved unexpectedly.

Halden rearranged them.

A monk named Elya asked if this unsettled him.

“Only if I expect them to stay,” Halden said.

Suchness releases expectation.

Expectation is often the source of our tension.

In a seaside town, there lived a fish crate washer named Noora.
She washed crates at dusk.

The smell lingered.

Noora went home anyway.

A neighbor named Cezar asked how she tolerated it.

“It fades,” she said.

Suchness does not require immediate relief.

Discomfort often leaves on its own.

In a mountain crossing, there lived a trail marker painter named Jasen.
He repainted faded signs.

Snow covered them soon after.

Jasen painted again in spring.

A traveler named Mireya asked if this discouraged him.

“Travelers still look,” Jasen said.

Suchness serves even when results are temporary.

In a riverside monastery, there lived a water step counter named Sukhdev.
He counted steps to the river for maintenance records.

The number changed with erosion.

Sukhdev updated it.

A visitor asked why this mattered.

“So we know where we are,” he said.

Suchness locates us without drama.

At night, we may not need to know where we are going.

In a hillside orchard, there lived a ladder steadier named Etta.
She held ladders while others picked fruit.

She did not climb.

Someone asked if she wished to gather fruit too.

“The ladder is steady,” Etta said.
“That is enough.”

Suchness finds value in support.

Much of what allows life to continue is quiet and unseen.

In a village square, there lived a bench wiper named Sorrel.
She wiped benches after rain.

Birds returned.

Sorrel wiped again.

A child named Ishan asked why she kept doing it.

“So someone can sit,” she said.

Suchness reduces small discomforts.

At night, comfort comes from many small acts we never notice.

In a mountain lodge, there lived a blanket shaker named Niels.
He shook dust from blankets each morning.

Dust returned.

Niels shook them again.

A guest named Paola asked if this felt pointless.

“It feels clean now,” Niels said.

Suchness stays with now.

In a valley town, there lived a bell schedule keeper named Yarael.
She noted when bells rang early or late.

She did not correct them.

She recorded.

A clerk asked why she bothered.

“So we know what happened,” Yarael said.

Suchness records without judgment.

At night, memories may arise without needing interpretation.

In a forest outpost, there lived a supply checker named Cillian.
He checked supplies weekly.

Some were low.

He noted it.

Some were full.

He noted that too.

A colleague named Mare asked how he stayed calm.

“I see what is here,” Cillian said.

Suchness begins with seeing.

In a hillside village, there lived a stair rail polisher named Yvonne.
She polished rails worn smooth by hands.

They dulled again.

Yvonne returned.

A passerby asked if she wished they stayed shiny.

“They are for holding,” she said.

Suchness values function over appearance.

At night, appearances matter less.

In a river delta town, there lived a tide line painter named Basilio.
He marked high-water lines on stone.

New lines replaced old.

Basilio painted them anyway.

A student asked why.

“So we remember,” he said.

Suchness remembers without clinging.

In a quiet cloister, there lived a sandal arranger named Keiko.
She aligned sandals outside the hall.

They were moved.

She aligned them again.

A monk asked if this annoyed her.

“It is walking,” Keiko said.

Suchness accepts movement.

As the night grows deeper, these lives feel less separate.
They blend into a single, steady rhythm—meeting what is here, doing what belongs to this moment, and letting the rest go.

No lesson needs to be drawn.
No understanding needs to be completed.

Suchness has been present all along, not as an idea, but as this simple, unargued way of being.

If sleep is already here, these words pass by like distant sounds.
If wakefulness remains, it rests easily, without needing to become anything else.

The night continues, wide and gentle, holding everything exactly as it is.

The night does not feel like it is moving anymore.
It feels as though it has opened, and we are simply inside it.
Suchness lives comfortably here, without edges.

Another life appears, not stepping forward, but already standing quietly in place.

In a small town near a bend in the road, there lived a sign straightener named Olek.
Olek walked the streets each morning, adjusting signs that had tilted overnight.
Wind, wagons, and passing hands all left their mark.

Some signs leaned only slightly.
Some nearly fell.

Olek straightened what he could and left the rest for later.

A shopkeeper named Livia once asked, “Why not replace them all with stronger posts?”

Olek pressed a sign back into the earth and stood up.
“Then they would still lean,” he said.
“Just later.”

Suchness does not mistake sturdiness for permanence.

At night, when even solid things soften in shadow, this truth feels close.

In a river village where fog rolled in silently, there lived a dock plank tester named Ivolette.
She walked the length of the dock each evening, pressing down with her foot, listening.

Some planks gave slightly.
She marked them.

Others held firm.
She moved on.

A fisherman named Cormac asked if she worried about the weak ones.

“I notice them,” Ivolette said.
“That is enough for now.”

Suchness notices without escalating.

We often worry not because something is wrong, but because we feel we must solve everything immediately.

At night, the space between noticing and solving widens.

In a hillside town, there lived a curtain mender named Raisa.
She repaired curtains faded by sun and wind.

Some tears were small.
Some could not be fully hidden.

Raisa stitched anyway.

A client named Henrik frowned at a visible seam.
“It still shows,” he said.

“Yes,” Raisa replied.
“And it still hangs.”

Suchness allows evidence of repair.

We often want our mending to disappear.
Suchness lets it be seen.

In a forest clearing, there lived a wood ash collector named Tomasina.
She gathered ash from hearths to be used in gardens.

Some ash was fine.
Some coarse.

Tomasina mixed it all together.

A neighbor named Bela asked if this mattered.

“It feeds the soil,” Tomasina said.

Suchness blends what life leaves behind.

At night, the day’s residue settles quietly, becoming something else.

In a mountain chapel, there lived a pew cushion fluffer named Matthis.
He straightened cushions after services.

Some lost their shape over time.

Matthis fluffed them anyway.

A visitor named Inez asked if he noticed the difference.

“Only when someone sits,” Matthis said.

Suchness attends to use, not perfection.

We are often more comfortable than we realize because of unseen care.

In a harbor warehouse, there lived a crate label checker named Sorayae.
She checked labels before shipments left.

Some were smudged.
She rewrote them.

Some were clear.
She passed them along.

A supervisor named Janek asked how she stayed focused.

“The crate wants to know where it goes,” Sorayae said.

Suchness respects direction without forcing speed.

At night, direction loosens.
Nothing needs to go anywhere.

In a rural schoolhouse, there lived a chalk sorter named Willem.
He separated broken chalk from whole sticks.

Some pieces were still usable.

Willem kept them.

A teacher named Arla asked why he bothered.

“They still write,” Willem said.

Suchness does not discard what still serves.

We often underestimate what remains usable in ourselves.

In a riverside monastery, there lived a step counter named Naoko.
She counted steps worn down by water and feet.

The number changed each year.

Naoko updated the record.

A visitor named Radu asked why she tracked something so ordinary.

“So we notice when it changes,” Naoko said.

Suchness notices change without mourning it.

At night, noticing replaces fixing.

In a mountain town, there lived a roof shingle replacer named Ovid.
He replaced shingles loosened by storms.

Sometimes only one was missing.
Sometimes many.

Ovid did not predict storms.
He responded afterward.

A homeowner named Leila asked if this made him anxious.

“Storms pass,” Ovid said.
“Then I work.”

Suchness meets aftermath, not anticipation.

We often suffer storms twice—once in advance, once when they arrive.

In a field beyond the town, there lived a scarecrow adjuster named Helga.
She repositioned scarecrows tilted by wind.

Birds still perched on them.

Helga adjusted them anyway.

A farmer named Iker asked if this felt useless.

“They stand,” Helga said.

Suchness does not require control to act.

At night, control fades.
Standing is enough.

In a monastery pantry, there lived a jar lid checker named Fedor.
He tapped lids to ensure they were sealed.

Some were loose.

He tightened them.

Some were fine.

He moved on.

A novice named Sanja asked how he remembered which he had checked.

“I check what is here,” Fedor said.

Suchness stays local.

We do not need to hold the whole picture.

In a quiet coastal town, there lived a pier light cleaner named Adisa.
She wiped salt from glass covers each evening.

The salt returned with the tide.

Adisa wiped again the next day.

A sailor named Borys asked if this ever ended.

“It ends each time,” Adisa said.

Suchness finds completion in cycles.

At night, cycles feel gentler.

In a high valley, there lived a snow stepper named Leontine.
She tamped snow on paths after each snowfall.

Footprints reappeared quickly.

Leontine tamped again.

A traveler named Narek asked if this annoyed her.

“It is snow,” she said.

Suchness does not personalize conditions.

In a monastery hall, there lived a lamp oil measurer named Kavi.
He measured oil carefully each evening.

Some lamps burned faster.

Kavi adjusted.

A monk named Joren asked how he judged the right amount.

“The lamp tells me tomorrow,” Kavi said.

Suchness learns over time.

At night, learning pauses.

In a city courtyard, there lived a bench repair assistant named Mireya.
She held boards steady while others hammered.

She did not hammer.

Someone asked if she wished to.

“The board is steady,” Mireya said.

Suchness knows when to hold rather than act.

At night, holding feels natural.

In a riverside town, there lived a tide bell silencer named Tomasel.
He quieted bells that rang too loudly in storms.

When the wind calmed, he restored them.

A resident named Elio asked why he bothered.

“So we can sleep,” Tomasel said.

Suchness tends to rest.

At night, rest becomes central.

In a hillside monastery, there lived a stair lamp igniter named Pema.
She lit lamps along steps at dusk.

Some flickered.

She adjusted the wick.

Some went out.

She relit them.

A novice named Arjen asked if this tired her.

“It is evening,” Pema said.

Suchness responds to time, not effort.

In a fishing town, there lived a net weight checker named Kalina.
She checked stones tied to nets.

Some loosened.

She retied them.

A fisher named Otavio asked how she knew which needed attention.

“They move,” Kalina said.

Suchness watches movement.

At night, movement slows.

In a mountain hamlet, there lived a window crack sealer named Iosef.
He sealed small gaps before winter.

Some reopened in spring.

Iosef resealed them.

A neighbor named Rhea asked if this felt endless.

“It is seasons,” Iosef said.

Suchness names the cycle.

In a quiet town square, there lived a fountain stone scrubber named Alina.
She scrubbed algae from stone.

It returned.

She scrubbed again.

A child named Milo asked why.

“So it is safe to walk,” Alina said.

Suchness prevents harm quietly.

At night, safety often comes from unseen care.

In a monastery storeroom, there lived a ladder rack arranger named Beno.
He returned ladders to their place.

Sometimes someone forgot.

Beno returned them again.

A monk named Sef asked if this bothered him.

“It is where ladders go,” Beno said.

Suchness aligns without resentment.

As the night deepens further, the stories feel less like stories and more like a steady breathing of life itself—small actions meeting what is here, nothing more demanded.

We do not need to remember who did what.
We do not need to trace the meaning.

Suchness does not accumulate.
It simply continues.

If sleep has arrived, these words dissolve into it.
If wakefulness remains, it rests without tension.

The night stays open, holding everything—effort and ease, repetition and pause, sound and quiet—exactly as it is.

The night feels very near now, as if it has come to sit beside us rather than stretch out ahead.
There is no sense of distance left to travel.
Suchness rests here easily, without posture or plan.

Another life appears softly, almost as if it had already been here all along.

In a small harbor town where gulls cried at dawn, there lived a rope fray trimmer named Calyx.
Calyx trimmed loose fibers from dock ropes so hands would not be cut.

The ropes were old.
They frayed again quickly.

Calyx trimmed them again.

A dockhand named Eero once asked why he bothered with such small details.

“Hands are here,” Calyx said.

Suchness attends to what is immediately present.

We often overlook small discomforts because they seem unimportant.
Yet relief often comes from attention to what is right in front of us.

In a hillside village where rain carved narrow channels into dirt roads, there lived a channel smoother named Isandro.
After each storm, Isandro walked the roads, pressing soil back into place.

The channels returned with the next rain.

Isandro returned too.

A traveler named Oona asked if this felt discouraging.

“It feels like after rain,” Isandro said.

Suchness names conditions without complaint.

At night, conditions soften.
There is no road to smooth.

In a monastery cloister, there lived a lantern wick soaker named Hanael.
He soaked wicks before evening prayers so the lamps would burn evenly.

Sometimes the lamps still sputtered.

Hanael adjusted them quietly.

A novice named Tal asked how he knew when enough was enough.

“When it burns,” Hanael said.

Suchness checks results gently.

We do not need guarantees, only responsiveness.

In a river valley where floods sometimes rearranged the banks, there lived a stone stacker named Mireu.
He restacked boundary stones after waters receded.

The stones never landed exactly where they had been.

Mireu placed them anyway.

A farmer named Anselma asked if he worried about precision.

“The river already decided,” Mireu said.

Suchness accepts what has moved.

We often try to restore things to where they were.
Suchness accepts where they are.

In a coastal hamlet, there lived a salt barrel scraper named Leora.
She scraped hardened salt from barrel rims.

The salt returned with the next load.

Leora scraped again.

A merchant named Filip asked if this repetition felt tiring.

“It feels like barrels,” Leora said.

Suchness lets work be what it is.

In a quiet village hall, there lived a chair leg leveler named Osmar.
He placed small shims under uneven legs.

The shims sometimes slipped.

Osmar replaced them.

A council member named Rika asked why he didn’t just replace the chairs.

“They sit,” Osmar said.

Suchness meets function, not ideals.

At night, sitting still is enough.

In a forest edge settlement, there lived a bark peeler named Yelena.
She peeled bark from fallen logs for kindling.

Some bark came away cleanly.
Some resisted.

Yelena worked patiently.

A helper named Dario asked how she stayed calm.

“The bark is ready when it is,” she said.

Suchness does not rush readiness.

At night, nothing needs to be ready.

In a monastery kitchen, there lived a grain rinse watcher named Piro.
He watched rice rinse until the water ran clear.

Sometimes it took longer.

Piro waited.

A cook named Selma asked if he ever grew impatient.

“When it is clear, it is clear,” Piro said.

Suchness waits without commentary.

In a mountain pass shelter, there lived a blanket edge stitcher named Irina.
She reinforced edges of blankets worn thin by travelers.

The blankets were never new again.

Irina stitched anyway.

A traveler named Josip asked if this helped.

“They last the night,” Irina said.

Suchness tends to the moment, not forever.

At night, lasting the night is enough.

In a fishing inlet, there lived a net cork tester named Amadou.
He checked whether corks still floated.

Some sank slowly.

Amadou replaced those.

A fisherman named Grete asked how he knew which mattered.

“They tell me,” Amadou said.

Suchness listens to what things do, not what we wish they did.

In a hillside monastery, there lived a door hinge oiler named Renata.
She oiled hinges so doors would open quietly at dawn.

Some still creaked.

Renata oiled them again later.

A monk named Osei asked why silence mattered.

“So others can wake gently,” Renata said.

Suchness protects quiet.

At night, quiet is precious.

In a riverside town, there lived a step moss scraper named Luan.
He scraped moss from stone steps after rain.

The moss returned.

Luan returned too.

A passerby named Mirella asked if this frustrated him.

“It is wet,” Luan said.

Suchness names conditions, not emotions.

In a mountain valley, there lived a bridge rope tensioner named Ilka.
She checked suspension ropes weekly.

Some slackened.

She tightened them.

A visitor named Tomas asked if she worried about failure.

“I check,” Ilka said.

Suchness replaces worry with attention.

At night, attention softens into rest.

In a village bakery, there lived a tray straightener named Basil.
He straightened trays bent by heat.

Some bent again.

Basil straightened them again.

A baker named Noura asked if he cared about appearance.

“They slide,” Basil said.

Suchness prioritizes function.

In a monastery storeroom, there lived a jar crack spotter named Selim.
He held jars to the light, watching for hairline fractures.

Some cracked later anyway.

Selim replaced them when they did.

A novice named Lotte asked how he accepted this.

“They break,” Selim said.

Suchness allows breakage without blame.

At night, things breaking feels less urgent.

In a mountain village, there lived a snow weight shaker named Arvid.
He shook snow from roof edges before it grew heavy.

More snow fell.

Arvid shook again.

A neighbor named Eliška asked if this kept him busy.

“It keeps the roof light,” Arvid said.

Suchness reduces strain quietly.

In a coastal town, there lived a tide mark washer named Nuria.
She washed tide marks from steps at low water.

The tide returned.

Nuria washed again later.

A child named Leo asked why.

“So steps don’t stay slippery,” she said.

Suchness prevents harm without ceremony.

In a forest monastery, there lived a bell cloth washer named Kenjiro.
He washed cloths used to silence bells during storms.

They grew damp again.

Kenjiro hung them to dry.

A monk named Petra asked if storms bothered him.

“They pass,” Kenjiro said.

Suchness acknowledges passing.

At night, storms are only memory.

In a river meadow, there lived a fence post plumb checker named Alenka.
She checked that posts stood straight.

Some leaned.

She corrected them.

A farmer named Dusan asked if this mattered much.

“It keeps the line clear,” Alenka said.

Suchness clarifies boundaries gently.

In a monastery hallway, there lived a runner rug smoother named Elior.
He smoothed rugs that bunched from foot traffic.

They bunched again.

Elior smoothed them again.

A visitor named Marwa asked if this felt endless.

“It feels safe,” Elior said.

Suchness removes small obstacles.

In a hillside town, there lived a chimney soot tapper named Franca.
She tapped loose soot before it hardened.

Some remained.

Franca tapped again later.

A homeowner named Koen asked if she worried about perfection.

“The fire breathes,” Franca said.

Suchness allows breath.

At night, breathing deepens naturally.

In a fishing village, there lived a knot retightener named Saeed.
He checked knots on boats each evening.

Some loosened overnight.

Saeed retightened them in the morning.

A sailor named Anouk asked if he ever tired of this.

“The sea moves,” Saeed said.

Suchness respects movement.

As the night continues, these lives feel less like individual moments and more like a single, quiet motion—attention meeting what is here, again and again, without resistance.

Nothing is concluded.
Nothing is missing.

Suchness does not need to arrive.
It has been present in every small action, every moment met without argument.

If sleep is already here, these words pass like distant echoes.
If wakefulness remains, it rests softly, without striving.

The night stays wide and gentle, holding everything just as it is, without asking anything more.

The night has thinned into something almost transparent.
Not empty, just light enough to pass through without effort.
Suchness moves easily here, without weight.

Another life appears, quietly, without asking to be noticed.

In a hillside town where stone steps wound between houses, there lived a step edge rounder named Valen.
Valen used a small file to soften sharp edges worn dangerous by time.
He worked slowly, tracing stone with his fingers before he filed.

Some edges dulled quickly.
Others took years.

A resident named Mirekson once asked why he bothered with places no one seemed to trip.

Valen smiled.
“They will,” he said.
“Someday.”

Suchness cares for what may arise, without fear.

We often prepare not because disaster is certain, but because care belongs to the moment.

In a riverside settlement where boats rested overnight, there lived a bilge sponge wringer named Thaliare.
She wrung water from sponges each evening so boats would not wake heavy with damp.

Some nights the sponges were soaked.
Some nights nearly dry.

Thaliare wrung them all the same.

A boat owner named Karsin asked if she judged the nights by how much water there was.

“No,” she said.
“By whether it’s gone.”

Suchness finishes what is present.

At night, finishing can be very small.

In a forest monastery, there lived a pine needle raker named Olvir.
He raked needles from walking paths so feet would not slip.

By morning, more needles had fallen.

Olvir returned after breakfast.

A novice named Tamsel asked if this repetition bothered him.

“It’s forest,” Olvir said.

Suchness names the environment, not the inconvenience.

We suffer less when we stop expecting forests to behave like floors.

In a desert-edge village, there lived a sunshade adjuster named Nayara.
She shifted cloth awnings as the sun moved.

Some days the cloth tore in the wind.

Nayara mended it later.

A merchant named Virek asked if the sun ever tired her.

“It moves,” Nayara said.
“So do I.”

Suchness moves with what moves.

At night, nothing needs adjusting.

In a quiet portside chapel, there lived a pew dust tapper named Edrin.
He tapped dust from cushions before evening services.

Dust returned overnight.

Edrin tapped again the next day.

A caretaker named Solvi asked why he did not cover the pews.

“They are sat on,” Edrin said.

Suchness accepts use as the cause of wear.

We often wish to preserve what exists by preventing it from being used.
Suchness allows life to touch what it needs.

In a mountain village, there lived a water trough scraper named Linor.
He scraped algae from troughs so animals could drink.

The algae returned with warmth.

Linor scraped again.

A shepherd named Casiel asked if this felt endless.

“It feels like summer,” Linor said.

Suchness recognizes season rather than burden.

In a monastery cellar, there lived a cork stopper tester named Maelis.
She pressed corks into bottles, checking for give.

Some loosened after days.

Maelis replaced them when she noticed.

A brewer named Jorin asked if this worried her.

“They breathe,” Maelis said.

Suchness allows exchange.

Nothing living stays sealed.

In a coastal wind town, there lived a shutter latch listener named Breon.
He walked the streets at dusk, listening for rattles.

Some shutters rattled.
He tightened them.

Some stayed silent.

Breon moved on.

A resident named Aliska asked how he knew where to go.

“They tell me,” he said.

Suchness listens for what calls attention.

At night, sounds soften.
Listening becomes easier.

In a hillside orchard, there lived a fruit bruise trimmer named Celorin.
He trimmed bruises from fruit before it was cooked.

Some fruit lost much.
Some little.

Celorin trimmed carefully.

A cook named Helmi asked if this wasted food.

“It changes the use,” Celorin said.

Suchness does not discard; it transforms.

At night, transformation rests.

In a river crossing village, there lived a stepping stone washer named Norex.
He washed mud from stones after floods.

The river muddied them again.

Norex returned when the water dropped.

A traveler named Pesha asked if this ever stopped.

“When the river stops,” Norex said.

Suchness does not expect stillness from water.

In a monastery corridor, there lived a draft stopper adjuster named Ilyon.
He placed cloth along doors in winter.

Some cloth slipped.

Ilyon replaced it.

A monk named Sariel asked if this mattered much.

“It keeps the floor warm,” Ilyon said.

Suchness tends to comfort quietly.

At night, warmth is a form of kindness.

In a market town, there lived a scale balance watcher named Ketrin.
She watched for wobble as customers weighed goods.

When a scale tipped, she corrected it.

A trader named Bolen asked how she noticed so quickly.

“The table tells me,” Ketrin said.

Suchness reads small signals.

We often miss them when we are in a hurry.

In a highland hamlet, there lived a wool shake-out named Perra.
She shook dust from wool before it was spun.

The dust always returned.

Perra shook it again.

A spinner named Ulmo asked if this annoyed her.

“It’s wool,” Perra said.

Suchness names what is, not what should be.

In a monastery bell loft, there lived a clapper alignment checker named Zirel.
She checked that clappers struck evenly.

Some bells rang off-center.

Zirel adjusted them.

A visitor named Danor asked if the sound mattered.

“It reaches,” Zirel said.

Suchness prioritizes reaching over perfection.

At night, sound travels farther.

In a hillside settlement, there lived a rain barrel skimmer named Ovara.
She skimmed leaves from barrels after storms.

More leaves fell.

Ovara skimmed again.

A neighbor named Canto asked if she minded.

“It keeps the water clear,” she said.

Suchness keeps what is needed usable.

In a river monastery, there lived a step algae watcher named Yorin.
He watched steps near water grow slick.

When they did, he brushed them.

A monk named Sevi asked how he decided when to act.

“When it shines,” Yorin said.

Suchness responds to direct signs.

At night, many signs fade.
Action waits.

In a coastal village, there lived a sail seam marker named Kaelis.
She marked weak seams before they tore.

Some still tore.

Kaelis repaired them after.

A sailor named Neris asked why she bothered marking first.

“So I see,” she said.

Suchness sees before fixing.

In a mountain town, there lived a chimney draft listener named Polara.
She listened for downdrafts on cold nights.

When she heard them, she adjusted vents.

A homeowner named Jaxen asked if she worried when she heard nothing.

“Quiet is fine,” Polara said.

Suchness does not invent problems.

At night, quiet is not suspicious.

In a forest clearing, there lived a moss path relocator named Tovik.
He shifted stepping stones when moss grew thick.

Moss returned elsewhere.

Tovik shifted again.

A hiker named Emrys asked if this was chasing moss.

“No,” Tovik said.
“It’s walking.”

Suchness adapts to movement.

In a monastery pantry, there lived a grain weevil spotter named Selvara.
She checked sacks for small holes.

When she found them, she moved grain.

A cook named Rinel asked if this made her anxious.

“It makes me look,” Selvara said.

Suchness replaces anxiety with attention.

At night, attention softens into awareness.

In a lakeside town, there lived a pier rope salt rinser named Adricel.
He rinsed salt from ropes at dawn.

Salt returned with the tide.

Adricel rinsed again later.

A dock child named Vana asked if the sea made this pointless.

“The sea uses ropes,” Adricel said.

Suchness works within reality.

In a hillside monastery, there lived a floor crack filler named Meorin.
He filled small cracks with resin.

New cracks formed elsewhere.

Meorin filled those when he saw them.

A monk named Cire asked if this ever finished.

“When the floor ends,” Meorin said.

Suchness does not wait for endings.

In a river delta town, there lived a water bird scarer named Havelin.
She waved cloth to guide birds away from drying nets.

Birds returned later.

Havelin waved again.

A fisher named Leto asked if this annoyed her.

“They are birds,” Havelin said.

Suchness does not argue with nature.

At night, birds sleep.

In a mountain pass, there lived a fog bell tester named Arques.
He rang the bell softly to hear how fog carried sound.

Some nights it echoed.
Some nights it fell flat.

Arques listened.

A traveler named Sena asked what he learned.

“How far sound goes,” Arques said.

Suchness listens for reach.

In a monastery hall, there lived a cushion seam feeler named Ismere.
She ran her hand along seams before gatherings.

If a seam snagged, she repaired it.

A visitor named Loran asked why she checked by touch.

“Eyes miss things,” Ismere said.

Suchness uses what is available.

At night, touch replaces sight.

In a hillside town, there lived a water spout redirector named Virela.
She redirected runoff so paths did not flood.

Rain came anyway.

Virela adjusted again.

A resident named Dorek asked if this solved anything.

“It changes where water goes,” Virela said.

Suchness shifts flow, not outcome.

In a monastery courtyard, there lived a bird droppings rinsing named Palen.
He rinsed stone benches each morning.

Birds returned.

Palen rinsed again.

A monk named Ashin asked if this felt tiresome.

“It feels clean,” Palen said.

Suchness values present state.

In a fishing village, there lived a buoy paint toucher named Elsen.
She touched up paint so buoys stayed visible.

Paint faded.

Elsen touched it up again.

A sailor named Krio asked why she didn’t repaint fully.

“They float,” Elsen said.

Suchness focuses on function.

As the night settles even further, the stories no longer feel separate.
They become one gentle rhythm—attention, response, release.

Nothing is being built.
Nothing is being concluded.

Suchness does not need to be remembered.
It continues whether or not we are listening.

If sleep has already come, these words pass without resistance.
If wakefulness remains, it rests in the same open field.

The night stays wide, untroubled, holding everything—care and repetition, noticing and letting be—exactly as it is.

The night feels almost weightless now, as if it has set down everything it was carrying.
Nothing is being asked of us.
Suchness rests here naturally, without needing a name.

Another life moves quietly into this open space.

In a small inland town where rain pooled easily, there lived a gutter leaf scooper named Marin.
After storms, Marin walked the streets with a small scoop, lifting leaves and debris so water could flow again.

The gutters clogged again with the next wind.

Marin returned.

A homeowner named Els asked if this felt repetitive.

“It feels like rain passed,” Marin said.

Suchness responds after what has happened, not before.

At night, we are always after the day.
There is nothing left to prepare for.

In a monastery guesthouse, there lived a pillow plumper named Kyra.
She plumped pillows after visitors left.

Some pillows never regained their shape.

Kyra arranged them anyway.

A guest named Pavel asked if comfort mattered so much.

“Sleep arrives easier,” Kyra said.

Suchness tends toward ease.

At night, ease is already close.

In a coastal village where ropes scraped against stone, there lived a rope sleeve fitter named Jonel.
He slid protective sleeves over rough sections so ropes would last longer.

The sleeves wore out.

Jonel replaced them.

A sailor named Mira asked if this delayed the inevitable.

“Yes,” Jonel said.
“And that helps.”

Suchness does not deny endings.
It softens their arrival.

In a hillside monastery, there lived a stone threshold sweeper named Antero.
He swept dust from thresholds each morning.

Footsteps returned the dust.

Antero swept again.

A novice named Lien asked if this mattered.

“It welcomes feet,” Antero said.

Suchness welcomes what arrives.

In a quiet farming hamlet, there lived a fence latch oiler named Renke.
He oiled latches so gates would open smoothly.

Some still stuck.

Renke oiled them again later.

A farmer named Otil asked why he bothered.

“So they don’t resist,” Renke said.

Suchness reduces resistance where it can.

At night, resistance fades naturally.

In a river port, there lived a plank gap filler named Sorinelle.
She filled small gaps between planks with resin to keep water out.

New gaps appeared over time.

Sorinelle filled them when she noticed.

A dock worker named Ilan asked if this ever ended.

“When the dock ends,” she said.

Suchness does not rush completion.

In a mountain village, there lived a roof snow tapper named Helios.
He tapped loose snow from eaves before it grew heavy.

Snow returned.

Helios tapped again.

A child named Nessa asked if he was tired.

“It keeps roofs light,” Helios said.

Suchness prevents strain quietly.

In a monastery hallway, there lived a runner edge stitcher named Yaraim.
She reinforced fraying rug edges.

The rugs wore again.

Yaraim stitched again later.

A monk named Cato asked if this frustrated her.

“They’re walked on,” she said.

Suchness accepts use.

In a lakeside town, there lived a pier algae brush named Domna.
She brushed green film from pier boards.

The algae returned.

Domna brushed again.

A fisherman named Raul asked why she kept at it.

“So feet don’t slip,” Domna said.

Suchness protects without fuss.

In a forest settlement, there lived a log pile turner named Kaelen.
He turned logs so they would dry evenly.

Rain fell anyway.

Kaelen turned them again later.

A woodcutter named Elio asked if this mattered.

“It helps,” Kaelen said.

Suchness values small help.

In a monastery kitchen, there lived a pot handle checker named Mireth.
She checked handles for looseness before meals.

Some wobbled.

She tightened them.

A cook named Fen asked if she worried about missing one.

“I check what I touch,” Mireth said.

Suchness stays with what is here.

At night, what is here is enough.

In a river valley town, there lived a footbridge board listener named Anoukis.
She walked across bridges listening for hollow sounds.

When she heard one, she marked it.

A passerby named Kellan asked if she fixed them immediately.

“Someone else fixes,” Anoukis said.
“I listen.”

Suchness values roles.

We do not need to do everything ourselves.

In a coastal monastery, there lived a sailcloth folder named Benara.
She folded sails after storms.

Some were stiff with salt.

Benara folded them anyway.

A sailor named Jure asked if this helped.

“It lets them rest,” Benara said.

Suchness allows rest after strain.

At night, resting is natural.

In a hillside village, there lived a step frost watcher named Lirien.
She checked steps at dawn for ice.

When she found it, she spread sand.

Some melted on their own.

Lirien noticed that too.

A resident named Hal asked if she trusted melting.

“I trust looking,” Lirien said.

Suchness begins with seeing.

In a quiet market town, there lived a stall rope retier named Oves.
He retied loose ropes after closing.

Wind loosened them again.

Oves retied them the next day.

A merchant named Sela asked if this bothered him.

“It’s how things stay,” Oves said.

Suchness maintains gently.

In a monastery storeroom, there lived a sack bottom checker named Mirea.
She checked sacks for weak stitching.

Some split later anyway.

Mirea patched them when they did.

A novice named Rion asked how she accepted this.

“Grain moves,” Mirea said.

Suchness moves with movement.

In a mountain town, there lived a rain channel stone replacer named Vasko.
He replaced stones washed loose by rain.

The rain returned.

Vasko returned too.

A villager named Elka asked if this felt like chasing water.

“It’s guiding it,” Vasko said.

Suchness guides without control.

In a fishing village, there lived a hook rust scraper named Seleneva.
She scraped rust from hooks before they were stored.

Rust returned over time.

Seleneva scraped again.

A fisher named Mads asked if this annoyed her.

“It keeps them sharp,” she said.

Suchness preserves function.

In a monastery garden, there lived a hose coil keeper named Parel.
He coiled hoses neatly after watering.

They tangled again when used.

Parel recoiled them.

A monk named Ivo asked why order mattered.

“So water reaches where it goes,” Parel said.

Suchness organizes for flow.

At night, flow slows.

In a river hamlet, there lived a dock edge moss feeler named Linet.
She felt boards for slickness after rain.

When she felt it, she brushed.

A child named Rowan asked why she used her hands.

“They tell me first,” Linet said.

Suchness listens with the body.

In a mountain monastery, there lived a bell rope wear marker named Siona.
She marked spots where ropes thinned.

They wore further.

Siona marked again.

A monk named Talen asked if this worried her.

“It informs,” she said.

Suchness informs without panic.

In a hillside town, there lived a shutter squeak tester named Aurel.
He opened and closed shutters at dusk.

When they squeaked, he oiled them.

A resident named Jori asked if he enjoyed the quiet.

“It comes,” Aurel said.

Suchness allows quiet to arrive.

In a coastal village, there lived a float net untangler named Perin.
She untangled floats caught on one another.

They tangled again later.

Perin untangled them again.

A fisher named Ansel asked if this was tiring.

“It clears them,” Perin said.

Suchness clears what blocks.

In a monastery passage, there lived a floor seam dust picker named Eluned.
She picked dust from seams with a thin stick.

Dust returned.

Eluned returned too.

A visitor named Marek asked if this was necessary.

“It helps feet,” she said.

Suchness attends to movement.

In a mountain town, there lived a window drip deflector named Sava.
She adjusted metal lips so rain dripped away from walls.

Rain returned.

Sava adjusted again.

A homeowner named Bri asked if this ever finished.

“When the rain finishes,” Sava said.

Suchness does not argue with weather.

As the night opens even wider, these lives blend into a single, quiet rhythm—seeing what is here, doing what belongs to this moment, and letting the rest go.

There is no conclusion forming.
No understanding to reach.

Suchness has been present in every small response, every moment not argued with.

If sleep has already come, these words move through it without disturbance.
If wakefulness remains, it rests easily, without pressure.

The night stays open and gentle, holding everything—care and repetition, noticing and release—exactly as it is.

The night has carried us a long way without ever moving.
It has done what it does best—held, allowed, and stayed.

We have passed through many lives together.
Not to gather lessons.
Not to remember names.
But to feel, again and again, how life meets itself when nothing is being argued with.

Ordinary hands doing ordinary things.
Attention without tension.
Care without demand.

Looking back now, there is no need to line these moments up or make sense of them.
They do not form a conclusion.
They form a field.

In that field, everything was allowed to be exactly what it was.
Work that repeated.
Conditions that returned.
Effort that did not promise permanence.

And somehow, in that simplicity, there was nothing missing.

Suchness is not something we reached.
It was the way the journey moved when we stopped pushing it forward.
It was the tone beneath every small action.
The quiet agreement with what was already here.

Now, as the night deepens into its final quiet, understanding no longer needs to stand upright.
It can lie down.
It can loosen.
It can drift.

The body may already feel heavier, or softer, or barely noticed at all.
Breath may feel distant, or close, or not thought about anymore.
Awareness does not need to sharpen itself.
It can blur at the edges.

There is nothing to hold onto from this night.
Nothing to carry forward.
Nothing to keep awake for.

If sleep has already arrived, then these words are simply part of the dark—passing sounds, no more important than the wind outside.
If sleep has not yet arrived, there is no problem to solve.
Rest is already present in the not needing.

The night does not require completion.
It fades when it fades.

And so we allow everything to settle exactly as it is—
thoughts thinning,
stories dissolving,
the simple fact of being here becoming enough.

Sleep well, and thank you for joining us here at Calm Zen Monk.