The North Wind and the Sun | Gentle Bedtime Story for Sleep | The Quiet Corner

It's night now, where you are, warm and safe. But somewhere else, a long way from here, it is morning on a green hillside. Let's go there, not with your feet, just with your eyes half closed. You are lying high up on the hill, in the soft grass, looking down. Nobody can see you here. Nobody is looking for you. You have nothing to do at all, except watch. Below you, a small road winds through the valley, and far off, a traveler has begun to walk along it, with a warm cloak around his shoulders. This is an old story, very old. People have been telling it for thousands of years, quietly, to children who were falling asleep. Two great friends are having a gentle disagreement today. The north wind, the sun, you only have to... I am stronger than you, says the north wind, but he says it kindly, the way old friends tease. Perhaps, says the sun, she's in no hurry to argue. They look down together at the little traveler on the road. Whoever can take the cloak from that traveler, says the sun, is the stronger. You may go first. So the north wind takes a breath, and begins to blow. At first, it is only a breeze, moving through the grass around you, cool and soft. Down on the road, the traveler feels it, and pulls his cloak a little closer. The wind blows harder now, but watch, the harder he blows, the tighter the traveler holds his cloak. He webs it close, and lowers his hand, and keeps walking. The wind cannot get underneath it. The more he pushes, the more the traveler holds on. And already, the wind is growing tired. He was never going to win this way. Force never quite works on a person. It only makes them hold tighter to what they have. The breeze softens, and softens. And falls away to nothing. The grass around you goes still. For a moment, everything is calm. The wind has stopped. The traveler straightens up. The valley is quiet. You rest in your grass, high on the hill, and you wait to see what the sun will do. The sun does not blow, or push, or hurry. She simply comes out from behind a cloud, and she shines. Warm light spreads slowly down the hillside, over you, over the grass, over the little road far below. The traveler feels the warm on his shoulders. He walks a little more. Slowly now, he loosens the cloak at his neck. The warmth grows. Gentle, golden, patient. Not all at once. The sun is never in a hurry. Warmer still. Soft, and golden, and kind. And on the road below, the traveler stops. He unfastens his cloak, and folds it over his arm, and turns his face up to the warm light with a smile. He gave it up, gladly. Nobody made him. He simply grew warm, and let it go. And you feel it too. On your hill, the same warmth spreading over you, shoved as a blanket. Warmth is stronger than force. That is what this old story has been saying for thousands of years to children who were falling asleep. The wind pushes, and we hold on tighter. Warmth, warmth, we open too. All on our own. The hillside grows soft at the edges now. The traveler walks on into the golden valley. The sun shines quietly. The wind is resting somewhere. Not unhappy. Only resting the way you are resting. You don't have to leave. At least gently, on its own, the way stories do. And you are back in your bed. Warm, safe, exactly where you were. A home you didn't have to do anything. You only had to walk and grow. Warm. You rest. You dream. You sleep deeply. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I love you. Up, up, so high, like a diamond in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I love you.