Tropical Island Grove

(rain pouring) The island grove is shaped by rain, time, and touch. Vines wander their own quiet paths, and the trees sway in the breeze, murmuring night tales to the stars. (rain pouring) This endearing tropical farm sits at the end of a long dirt road, beyond the paved station, where travelers step off the final sleeper bus of the day. (rain pouring) As we prepare for our visit, let's take a moment for a brief wind-down exercise. (rain pouring) Tonight's exercise is a really simple breathing exercise, so when you're ready, let's begin. So first, get comfortable in your bed. Now, just bringing the attention to the breath, just noticing where you feel it, in the nose, the throat, the chest, the diaphragm. You're nice and relaxed. (rain pouring) We are going to be taking a deep breath, in for four, holding it for four, and then, breathing out for six, so are you ready? Let's begin. In for four, two, three, four, hold it for four, two, three, four, now, breathing out for six, two, three, four, five, six, in for four, two, three, four, holding for four, two, three, four, out for six, two, three, four, five, six, in for four, two, three, four, holding for four, two, three, four, out for six, two, three, four, five, six, in for four, two, three, four, holding for four, two, three, four, out for six, two, three, four, five, six. Great. Now, returning the breath to normal. (crickets chirping) In the dim light of dusk, small tree frogs call from the undergrowth, their little voices joining the percussion of raindrops on leaves and soil, like a miniature orchestra. (frogs croaking) Down a trail that looks like it might not lead anywhere important, you'll find the sapling nursery, a quiet pocket where the island jungle's future looks like tiny green leaves. (rain pouring) Above the nurseries, wide panels of green shade cloth stretch between tall bamboo posts, filtering the light during the peak hours of the day, like jungle curtains, and they sway slightly in the breeze. (rain pouring) Beneath them, rows of saplings rest in clay pots shaped by hands, their rims thumb-pressed and imperfect. (frogs croaking) The baby trees are delicate little things, some no taller than a teacup, others just tall enough to peak shyly over the edge. (frogs croaking) Each row is marked with hand-painted wooden signs, noting the tree's fruit type and the harvest the seedling came from. (frogs croaking) On the back, you might find the date it first sprouted, the gardener who noticed it, or even a description of the clouds overhead that day. (rain pouring) Each market day back on the mainland begins the same way, with the quiet arrival of fruit crates, their wooden sides still damp with morning mist. (rain pouring) They come by boat just before sunrise, stacked high with jungle-grown specialties. Golden-skinned pineapples, mangoes, blushing red, baskets of glossy coffee cherries, and bundles of lemongrass tied with twine....