A few days ago, a listener named Bree left a comment asking for an episode about the stress of being in your 20s. She called it the existential quarter-life crisis vibe, the what am I doing with my life vibe, and it made me smile because you don't have to be in your 20s to have that vibe. I'm a long way past my 20s and I still have it some days, so I wrote Bree's comment in my notebook of ideas and then I went off and started working on a completely different episode about affirmations, but somehow, without my even meaning to, the episode became one for Bree.I have no idea why, it wasn't what I meant to write, but sometimes the universe gives me a little nudge in a certain direction and I've learned it's best to go with it. So Bree, this is for you and for anyone at any age who sometimes wonders what they're supposed to be doing with their life. Like always, it was written to help you sleep.This episode does still have affirmations and I found the perfect person to share them. Some of you will remember Eleanor, the retired school teacher from Port Haven from a series of sleep stories we did a while ago. Well, she's back tonight and she has some kind, cozy, wise words to share that I hope will carry you into a deep and restful sleep.But before we begin, our usual disclaimer, this episode uses light hypnotherapy and relaxation techniques, so it's important to be somewhere safe when listening. Preferably, that's your comfortable bed and not anywhere. You need to stay alert. And one more thing, if that lost or stuck feeling has been with you for a long time, or if it's starting to feel heavy, please talk to your doctor or someone you trust. It's not something you have to carry on your own. And a quick word about the Snoozeville Sleep Club. It's where you'll find longer versions of these episodes and the whole collection. It's also how I'm able to cover the costs of making this show. But please know that you don't have to join to help.Just listening, following, or even leaving a comment keeps this little show going as well. So, thank you. And now, it's time to get you settled.Make sure you're comfortable. Turn on to whichever side you always end up anyway. Pull the covers up where you like them. Over your shoulder or tucked under your chin. Take a moment to get completely comfortable in your bed. Adjust your pillows.Fluff them up if you need to. Try to find that perfect position. And be very conscious of how settled you feel in your bed.How every limb can be still. And how quiet it is. How dark.Let all the tightness in your muscles release. In your shoulders, let them drop. And let your arms feel so heavy and relaxed.Feel your legs relax. Feel your feet softening. And feel where your hips rest against the mattress.Let all those tight muscles around your mouth and eyes let go. And notice how your heart rate is starting to slow. We want it to settle to about 60 beats per minute.Feel everything relax as your breathing gets progressively slower and deeper. And as you lie here, I'd like you to listen very carefully to my voice. And as you listen to my words, you'll drop deeper into peaceful darkness.You'll naturally move into a peaceful state where your mind can wander freely and safely. The more you follow my voice, the more comfortable and peaceful you'll become. In a moment, you'll hear Eleanor's letter. And if your mind wanders off somewhere, that's okay. When you notice, we'll just come back to the sound of my voice. And as you drift off to sleep before the letter ends, well, that's the best thing that could happen.So if you're ready, we'll begin. Dear Sarah, it's a foggy November night. And I'm writing to you from the big chair by the fire.It's the first fire of the season. It took me three tries and most of a box of matches. And I may have said a few words I wouldn't want a former student to hear.But it's going now. The fog came in off the water this afternoon and hasn't moved since. And when I look out the window, there's nothing but soft gray and the light from the lamp in the window.I've got my thick socks on and a blanket over my knees and a cup of tea going cold beside me because I keep forgetting to drink it. It's a good night for writing letters. Your letter came on Tuesday.I've read it four times now and I've been carrying it around with me all week while I raked leaves and walked to the post office and stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle. You said you feel lost. That you're not sure teaching is really what you're meant to be doing.That everyone else seems to know exactly what they're doing. And you lie awake wondering what you're doing with your life. I know that feeling so well.I've been thinking all week about what I would say and I've decided there are four things I wish someone had told me when I was your age. So I'm going to tell them to you now, one at a time, the way I used to write things on the board. Read them more than once, if you like.And the first thing is this. You don't have to know yet. I don't think I ever told you this, but I never meant to be a teacher.I studied botany at university. I was going to spend my whole life studying plants. I had it all worked out.And then I graduated and there were no other jobs. Not one. So I moved back home into my old bedroom at my parents' house with the same wallpaper I'd had since I was 11.I worked three afternoons a week at the fabric shop downtown. And I watched my friends get married and move away and start real careers. And I felt like the whole world had gone on ahead of me.And then one spring I saw notice at the library. The Nature Center needed somebody to lead school groups. And I applied because I thought, at least it's plants.And then on my very first morning, a busload of eight-year-olds tumbled out, all talking at once. And one little boy held up a fern and asked me if it was a dinosaur plant. I told him that ferns were around when the dinosaurs were.And his whole face lit up. And something in me lit up too. And by the end of the year, I knew it wasn't the plants I loved most.It was the kids and the look on their faces when they understood something for the first time. That fall, I went back to school to get my teaching degree. I was 28.I didn't find my life's work by planning it. I found it by accident at the end of two years that I had thought were wasted. So you don't have to know yet.I just put another log on the fire. The sparks went up the chimney all at once. And now it's settled into a low and steady crackle.And out past the point, every so often I can hear the foghorn. One long low note and then a long quiet. The second thing is this.Everyone is guessing. When I started teaching, there was a woman in the classroom next to mine who was the most organized person I ever met. Her lesson plans were typed and her students always lined up perfectly straight at the door.I was sure she had been born knowing exactly what she was doing. And I felt like an imposter beside her. Years later, at her retirement party, she told me that for the first 10 years of teaching, she sat in her car almost every night and cried before she went into the house.She said she was sure everyone could see she had no idea what she was doing. I thought about that for a long time. The people who seem so sure of themselves are mostly guessing too.They're just guessing more quietly. Even Tommy, who looks like he was born on his grandfather's fishing boat, told me he moved to the city right after high school. He worked in an office for three years and he hated every minute of it.And then he came home not knowing whether he'd made the biggest mistake of his life. He's out on that boat every morning now and I've never seen anyone look more like they belong somewhere. But he didn't know that then.Most people. They're just guessing. The third thing is this.The path only makes sense. When you look back, this week I've been planting bulbs. Tulips and daffodils and those little blue grape hyacinths.You plant them now, in November. You kneel on the cold ground and dig a little hole and drop in what looks like a small dry onion and then you cover it over and you pat the earth down. When you're done, there's nothing to see.Just a bare bed of dark earth and you'd think there's nothing happening there at all. Something is happening. All winter, down in the dark, the roots are slowly reaching out and in April the whole bed will come up. And I'll stand there with my morning coffee and remember the cold afternoon I planted them and I'll think, oh, so that's what that was for. Most of the most important things in my life were like that. And that time in my old bedroom felt like nothing at all.A bare bed of dark earth and it turned out to be the very thing that put me in front of that notice at the library. After all those years of teaching, I've retired to a little cottage by the sea and I spend my days with plants again. I studied botany more than 40 years ago and I've come back to it.I could never have planned that. I can only see it now, looking back. So if your life looks like an empty flower bed, things are happening that you can't see yet.Bath only makes sense. When you look back, the fog is even thicker now. I can't see the light at the end of the lane anymore. It's very quiet. Just the fire and the clock on the mantel and every so often that long, low note from the foghorn. The fourth thing, the last thing, is this.You can set the question down tonight. I can tell from your letter that you've been lying awake with it. What am I doing? What should I be doing? What if I got it all wrong? I did that too, in that bedroom with the wallpaper, night after night.But I've learned that the middle of the night is the very worst time to decide anything about your life. When you're tired, everything looks darker and more permanent than it really is. Your question will still be there in the morning and you'll be in a much better state to look at it once you've rested.Last week, a neighbor down the road who knows everything about bees came by to help to get my hives ready for winter. He told me that by now, the bees have gathered into one big cluster in the middle of the hive. Thousands of them, all pressed close together, keeping each other warm.They're not building anything. They're not deciding anything at all.  They're just resting and waiting for spring. And when spring comes, they'll know what to do.Nothing out there is trying to figure out its life tonight. It's all just resting and trusting that spring will come. So tonight, when you get into bed, I'd like you to try something for me.Take the question, the big one, the one that keeps you up. And imagine setting it down. You're not giving up on it.You're just putting it down for the night. It will still be there in the morning. And you can pick it up again.When you're rested, you just have to rest, like the bees in the hive. Close and warm, waiting for morning. That's what I'll be doing soon, too.The fire is burning low now. In a few minutes, I'll bank it down and turn off the lights. I'll go upstairs.My sister's quilt is still on the bed, the blue and cream one. And I'll leave the curtains open a little, the way I like to. And lie there in the dark, listening to the foghorn.One long, low note. And then the quiet. And I'll be thinking of you and hoping that you're resting, too.I've written all four things on a little card and tucked it into this envelope. And on nights when your mind won't settle, read it or just say them to yourself quietly. You don't have to know yet.Everyone is guessing. The path only makes sense when you look back. You can set the question down tonight.You are going to be just fine, Sarah. I don't know exactly how, and neither do you. But that's okay.It's how it's supposed to be. Write to me soon. Tell me about something in your classroom that made you smile.Even something small. I'd love to hear it. With warm affection, from a very foggy Port Haven, Eleanor.Yes, I've also put a little envelope of sweet pea seeds into this letter. I saved them from the vines on my garden wall. Plant them in the spring.You won't know what they'll look like until they come up. And that's okay. Let Eleanor's cottage fade now.The fog. The fire burning low. A long, low note of the foghorn. Let it all drift away and come back to your own bed, wherever it is tonight. Maybe you're in the house you grew up in. In the room that still has a little of your younger self in it.Maybe you're far from home. In a place that doesn't feel like yours yet. Trying to make it all work.Maybe you're a lot older than Sarah. Not feeling much wiser for it. Still trying to figure things out.Maybe you're somewhere else entirely. We're all somewhere different tonight. We're all so much the same. Every one of us, lying in the dark, trying to figure it all out. And I'll tell you a secret. That part never really stops.There's always something we're trying to figure out. Everyone is guessing. Everyone.But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy where you are right now. This bed. The weight of the blankets over you.The pillow under your head. Holding you up so you don't have to. The warmth you've made under the covers.This room. Dark and quiet. And yours.The day is over. Your breathing has slowed. You don't have to know yet.Somewhere. There are people who love you. Who are cheering for you.Even when you can't hear them. Maybe more people than you realize. And notice your heart.Beating slowly in your chest. Your heart that keeps you going. Your heart that loves so deeply.Sometimes more deeply than is comfortable. Slowing now. Each beat a little further from the last.Your mind is slowing too. All day long your brain hums along at that quick pace. Fast busy waves of activity.But right now, those waves are stretching out. Growing longer and slower. And as you drift closer to sleep, they'll slow even more.Into the long rolling waves of a mind that is letting go. Your shoulders, which carried so much today, are dropping down. Your hands, which held and carried and worked and reached, are lying still.Your eyes are resting. Behind closed lids. And your breathing is coming and going on its own.Slow and easy. And your feet. The feet that take you wherever your heart leads.They're resting too. All of you is resting now. All of you has done enough.And that big question. The one you come to bed with. The one about your life and where it's going.Imagine settling it down. Beside your bed. On the nightstand. Or the floor. Or in a drawer. It will keep.It will be there in the morning. When you're rested and the light is back. The path only makes sense when you look back.And one day, you'll look back on tonight. And on this whole uncertain time. And you'll see what it was for.But not tonight. Night is only for resting. You don't have to know yet.You only have to sleep.