You cut the coffee off at noon.
And you STILL wake up at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling.
So maybe the coffee was never the real problem.
Researchers have their eye on a plastic chemical called BPA.
A 2016 study in the journal Sleep looked at a national health survey of U.S. adults.
The more BPA people had in their urine, the less they tended to sleep.
And one place plastic chemicals get into your food is something you use every day... your microwave.
>>> Why "microwave-safe" plastic isn't what you think (and what to heat food in instead)
Switching to glass helps.
But that only slows down what gets IN.
It does nothing about the BPA your body is already holding.
That's where a compound from the Evodia fruit comes in. It's called RUTAECARPINE.
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To your health,
Beyond Organic Doctors
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*Not what you're looking for? Go to the HTML version for the fancy stuff and content. OR: I need to ask you something.. How tightly are you holding on? Now don’t just answer with your mind. Feel it. Feel the grip inside of you, the tension, the way your heart clings to things, the way your mind grabs at control. I’m asking because this story is about letting go. Not in theory—not as some idea to think about. But as something to do. Right now. Let me explain. There was a man who lived his life as if he were holding on to a rope. The rope was long and frayed, tied to all the things he thought he needed to survive. He gripped it with both hands and held on for dear life. He thought that if he let go, he would fall into an abyss. He didn’t know exactly what was down there, but he knew it would be bad. He’d lose everything—his family, his job, his sense of self. Without the rope, he was certain, he would be nothing. But holding the rope was exhausting. It burned his palms and cut into his fingers. Sometimes it felt like the rope pulled him in different directions at once—one end tied to his need for people to like him, the other to his fear of failure. Sometimes the tension on the rope was unbearable, but still, he held on. Because to let go? That was unthinkable. One day, the man met an old woman sitting on a bench in a park. She had a peaceful glow about her, as if she carried no burdens at all. The man was jealous of her ease. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way. “How are you so calm?” he asked her. The woman looked at him and smiled. “I let go of the rope,” she said simply. The man frowned. “What rope?” “The one you’re holding,” she said. “You can’t see it, but you can feel it, can’t you? That tightness inside of you. That fear that if you let go, you’ll lose everything. But the truth is, the rope isn’t saving you. It’s strangling you.” The man was quiet for a long time. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know how to imagine a life without holding on to the rope. “But if I let go,” he said finally, “won’t I fall?” The woman’s smile deepened. “That’s what you think,” she said. “But the only thing you’ll fall into is freedom.” The man didn’t believe her, of course. How could he? Letting go went against everything he’d been taught. He’d spent his whole life being told that survival depended on holding on—holding on to people, to possessions, to control. Letting go felt like giving up. It felt like failure. But the conversation stayed with him. And over the next few weeks, he started to notice the rope more clearly. It wasn’t something he could see, but it was something he could feel. He noticed how his stomach tightened when someone criticized him. He noticed how his chest constricted when he thought about money. He noticed how his mind raced when he imagined losing the things he loved. And the more he noticed, the more he realized that the rope wasn’t tied to anything outside of him. It wasn’t tied to his family, or his job, or his future. It was tied to his own need to control those things. And then one day, something happened that changed everything. He got into an argument with a friend. It was a stupid argument, the kind that shouldn’t have mattered, but it consumed him. He replayed it over and over in his mind, feeling the anger rise in his chest, feeling the grip of the rope tighten. He wanted to fix it, to make it right, to say the perfect thing that would restore the friendship. But no matter how much he thought about it, the tension wouldn’t go away. And that’s when he remembered the old woman’s words. “Let go of the rope,” she’d said. For the first time, he wondered what that might feel like. What if he stopped trying to fix the argument? What if he stopped replaying it in his mind? What if he just… let it be? So he tried. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and imagined himself opening his hands. He imagined the rope falling away, leaving his hands empty. At first, it felt terrifying. He could feel his mind resisting, telling him he was making a mistake, that he needed the rope to stay safe. But then something remarkable happened. The tension in his chest began to ease. The tightness in his stomach softened. And in the space where the rope had been, there was peace. It wasn’t the kind of peace he’d expected. It wasn’t a grand, earth-shattering revelation. It was quieter than that, gentler. It was the kind of peace that comes when you stop fighting. When you stop trying to control what you can’t control. When you stop holding on to something that was never holding you up in the first place. The man didn’t let go of the rope all at once. He still found himself holding it from time to time, especially when life got hard. But now, he knew he had a choice. He didn’t have to hold on. And every time he remembered that, the grip of the rope grew weaker. You see, we’re all holding on to a rope. It’s tied to different things for each of us—our careers, our relationships, our identities. But the rope isn’t real. The tension you feel, the struggle, the exhaustion—it’s all inside of you. The rope is just your mind trying to control what it can’t control. And here’s the thing: You don’t need to hold on. Life is not asking you to control it. Life is asking you to experience it. To let it flow through you, like a river, without clinging to the rocks. Letting go doesn’t mean giving up. It doesn’t mean you stop caring or trying. It means you stop resisting. It means you let life be what it is, instead of what your mind thinks it should be. So I ask you again: How tightly are you holding on? Can you feel the tension in your chest, the grip in your heart? And more importantly, can you let it go? You don’t have to do it all at once. Just open your hands a little. Just loosen the grip. And when you do, you’ll find that you’re not falling. You’re floating. You’re free. Let go of the rope. Trust me. You don’t need it. The Labyrinth of Light The dome was a living sun. Its translucent panels, segmented like a beetle’s shell, refracted the noonday radiance into a thousand glittering shards, each shard sliding and shimmering along the smooth, white walls below. Everything gleamed with antiseptic brightness, unmarred by the stains of weather, time, or emotion. This was Aurorium, the City of Light. It had no shadows, and, officially, no doubts. Here, under the ever-shining dome, humanity had left behind its fumbling uncertainties, its endless agonies of self-questioning. Gone were the abstract struggles of philosophers and the ceaseless murmur of poets. In their place stood the Ministry of Illumination, with its shining creed: “Meaning is not found—it is assigned. Meaning is not sought—it is delivered.” At the Ministry, every citizen was given their Lumen Pathway by the time they reached their eighteenth year. The system was flawless, or so the Ministry claimed. Each person’s psychometric profile was carefully analyzed; their neural maps scanned and cross-checked against the Collective Consciousness Index. By the end of the process, the result was inevitable: a tailored life-purpose, as precise as the color of one’s irises or the number of lines on one’s fingerprints. And yet, here was Elias. Elias Lorne, Citizen #71184-17, stood at the base of the Ministry’s grand atrium, staring at his Lumen Certificate. The holographic display shimmered faintly in the sterile air, the words inscribed in perfect golden light: "Your purpose is to tend the Reservoirs of Radiance." The Reservoirs. He had heard of them—a vast network of subterranean pools where the city’s refractive crystals were immersed and cleansed, their radiance replenished to ensure the eternal glow of Aurorium. It was honorable work, no doubt, necessary for the city’s unbroken illumination. And yet, as he stood there, holding his future in his hands, something in Elias’s chest remained unmoved. “Is this all there is?” he murmured under his breath. Behind him, a low hum of activity filled the atrium. Young citizens, fresh from their assignments, buzzed with nervous energy. Some smiled, others wept with joy at the clarity of their destinies. A girl beside him held her certificate like a talisman, her voice trembling as she whispered, “I’ll be a Vision Architect!” Another boy punched the air triumphantly, announcing to no one in particular, “Harmonic Technician. Exactly what I wanted!” Elias’s fingers tightened around the edge of the hologram. It wasn’t that he objected to the assignment—not exactly. He understood the necessity of the work. But somewhere deep in the cavernous recess of his mind, a quiet question flickered like a match held too close to the wind: Wasn’t there something more? The next morning, Elias descended into the Reservoirs. The air was cool, metallic. A faint green glow emanated from the crystal pools, each surface rippling with soft waves of light. Dozens of workers moved silently between the tanks, their movements precise and methodical. The cleansing process was simple: dip the crystal, let it absorb the liquid radiance, then return it to its casing. Elias fell into rhythm quickly. His hands moved automatically, his thoughts wandering. There was a kind of tranquility to the work, an easy hypnosis in the endless repetition. But as the hours stretched into days, and the days into weeks, he found that tranquility tightening into a noose. At night, lying alone in his cubicle, Elias began to feel the weight of the dome above him. Its brilliance, once comforting, now seemed oppressive. The endless light pressed against his eyelids, refusing to let him sleep. He stared at the ceiling for hours, his mind circling the same, unanswerable question: If meaning was assigned, then why did it feel so… hollow? Months passed. The other workers in the Reservoirs were kind enough, but Elias rarely spoke to them. They didn’t seem troubled by the same restless ache that gnawed at him. Most were content, even cheerful, in their purpose. It wasn’t until Elias met Mara that things began to change. Mara was a Senior Luminarian, one of the overseers who ensured the crystals were properly aligned before their return to the surface. She was older than Elias, with a sharp, watchful gaze that seemed to pierce through the white haze of the dome. “You’re distracted,” she said one afternoon, her voice cutting cleanly through the ambient hum of the Reservoir. Elias looked up, startled. “I’m fine,” he said, too quickly. Mara’s eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, her shadow brushing against the edge of his crystal tank. “You’re restless,” she said, not unkindly. “That’s dangerous.” “Dangerous?” “Restlessness is a crack,” Mara said. “And cracks are where the darkness seeps in.” Elias hesitated. Then, without meaning to, he said: “Do you ever feel like there’s something missing?” For a long moment, Mara was silent. Then, to Elias’s surprise, she smiled. “Come with me,” she said. That night, Mara led Elias to a hidden passage at the edge of the Reservoirs. The corridor was narrow and dim, its walls streaked with stains of rust. At the end of the tunnel was a door, heavy and ancient, unlike anything Elias had seen in Aurorium. Mara pushed it open. Inside was darkness. Not the faint, shimmering darkness of the city’s shadowless corners, but a true, unbroken blackness that swallowed light whole. For a moment, Elias was overwhelmed by it. The silence was absolute, the void pressing against his skin like a living thing. “What is this place?” he whispered. Mara’s voice was quiet, reverent. “This is where the light comes from.” Elias frowned. “What do you mean? The light comes from the crystals.” Mara shook her head. “The crystals only reflect it. But the source—the true source—is here. In the dark.” She gestured toward the center of the room. There, faintly visible, was a single point of light, no larger than a grain of sand. It pulsed softly, irregularly, like the heartbeat of some distant, unseen creature. “The Ministry doesn’t talk about this,” Mara continued. “They want people to believe the light is infinite, self-sustaining. But it’s not. It comes from here. And it’s fragile.” Elias stared at the tiny light, his chest tightening. “Why are you showing me this?” “Because you’re asking questions,” Mara said simply. “And questions can’t be answered in the light. Not the real ones.” In the weeks that followed, Elias found himself drawn back to the dark room. He spent hours staring at the tiny light, his thoughts unraveling in its faint glow. What was it about the darkness, he wondered, that made the light seem so alive? In the Reservoirs, surrounded by radiance, the light had felt hollow, artificial. But here, cradled in shadow, it was different—fragile, imperfect, and undeniably real. Perhaps, Elias thought, meaning wasn’t something the Ministry could assign after all. Perhaps it wasn’t something that could be given at all. Perhaps meaning had to be carved out of the dark. mere sight of those gaily-coloured images of pussy and cock-a-doodle-doo and baa-baa black sheep, the infants shrank away in horror, the volume of their howling suddenly increased. "Observe," said the Director triumphantly, "observe." Books and loud noises, flowers and electric shocks-already in the in- fant mind these couples were compromisingly linked; and after two hundred repetitions of the same or a similar lesson would be wedded indissolubly. What man has joined, nature is powerless to put asunder. "They'll grow up with what the psychologists used to call an 'instinc- tive' hatred of books and flowers. Reflexes unalterably conditioned. They'll be safe from books and botany all their lives." The Director turned to his nurses. "Take them away again." Still yelling, the khaki babies were loaded on to their dumb-waiters and wheeled out, leaving behind them the smell of sour milk and a most welcome silence. One of the students held up his hand; and though he could see quite well why you couldn't have lower-cast people wasting the Community's time over books, and that there was always the risk of their reading something which might undesirably decondition one of their reflexes, yet ... well, he couldn't understand about the flowers. Why go to the trouble of making it psychologically impossible for Deltas to like flow- ers? Patiently the D.H.C. explained. If the children were made to scream at the sight of a rose, that was on grounds of high economic policy. Not so very long ago (a century or thereabouts), Gammas, Deltas, even Epsilons, had been conditioned to like flowers-flowers in particular and wild nature in general. The idea was to make them want to be going out into the country at every available opportunity, and so compel them to consume transport. "And didn't they consume transport?" asked the student. "Quite a lot," the D.H.C. replied. "But nothing else." Primroses and landscapes, he pointed out, have one grave defect: they are gratuitous. A love of nature keeps no factories busy. It was decided to abolish the love of nature, at any rate among the lower classes; to abolish the love of nature, but not the tendency to consume transport. For of course it was essential that they should keep on going to the country, even though they hated it. The problem was to find an eco- nomically sounder reason for consuming transport than a mere affec- tion for primroses and landscapes. It was duly found. "We condition the masses to hate the country," concluded the Director. "But simultaneously we condition them to love all country sports. At the same time, we see to it that all country sports shall entail the use of elaborate apparatus. So that they consume manufactured articles as well as transport. Hence those electric shocks." "I see," said the student, and was silent, lost in admiration. There was a silence; then, clearing his throat, "Once upon a time," the Director began, "while our Ford was still on earth, there was a little boy called Reuben Rabinovitch. Reuben was the child of Polish- speaking parents." The Director interrupted himself. "You know what Polish is, I suppose?" "A dead language." "Like French and German," added another student, officiously showing off his learning. "And 'parent'?" questioned the D.H.C. There was an uneasy silence. Several of the boys blushed. They had not yet learned to draw the significant but often very fine distinction between smut and pure science. One, at last, had the courage to raise a hand. "Human beings used to be ..." he hesitated; the blood rushed to his cheeks. "Well, they used to be viviparous." "Quite right." The Director nodded approvingly. "And when the babies were decanted ..." '"Born,"' came the correction. "Well, then they were the parents-I mean, not the babies, of course; the other ones." The poor boy was overwhelmed with confusion. "In brief," the Director summed up, "the parents were the father and the mother." The smut that was really science fell with a crash into the boys' eye-avoiding silence. "Mother," he repeated loudly rubbing in the science; and, leaning back in his chair, "These," he said gravely, "are unpleasant facts; I know it. But then most historical facts are unpleas- ant." He returned to Little Reuben-to Little Reuben, in whose room, one evening, by an oversight, his father and mother (crash, crash!) hap- pened to leave the radio turned on. ("For you must remember that in those days of gross viviparous re- production, children were always brought up by their parents and not in State Conditioning Centres.") While the child was asleep, a broadcast programme from London sud- denly started to come through; and the next morning, to the aston- ishment of his crash and crash (the more daring of the boys ventured to grin at one another), Little Reuben woke up repeating word for word a long lecture by that curious old writer ("one of the very few whose works have been permitted to come down to us"), George Bernard Shaw, who was speaking, according to a well-authenticated tradition, about his own genius. To Little Reuben's wink and snigger, this lecture was, of course, perfectly incomprehensible and, imagining that their child had suddenly gone mad, they sent for a doctor. He, fortunately, understood English, recognized the discourse as that which Shaw had broadcasted the previous evening, realized the significance of what had happened, and sent a letter to the medical press about it. "The principle of sleep-teaching, or hypnopaedia, had been discov- ered." The D.H.C. made an impressive pause. The principle had been discovered; but many, many years were to elapse before that principle was usefully applied. "The case of Little Reuben occurred only twenty-three years after Our Ford's first T-Model was put on the market." (Here the Director made a sign of the T on his stomach and all the students reverently followed suit.) "And yet ..." Furiously the students scribbled. "Hypnopdedia, first used officially in A.F. 214. Why not before? Two reasons, (a) ..." "These early experimenters," the D.H.C. was saying, "were on the wrong track. They thought that hypnopaedia could be made an instru- ment of intellectual education ..." (A small boy asleep on his right side, the right arm stuck out, the right hand hanging limp over the edge of the bed. Through a round grating in the side of a box a voice speaks softly. "The Nile is the longest river in Africa and the second in length of all the rivers of the globe. Although falling short of the length of the Mississippi-Missouri, the Nile is at the head of all rivers as regards the length of its basin, which extends through 35 degrees of latitude ..." At breakfast the next morning, "Tommy," some one says, "do you know which is the longest river in Africa?" A shaking of the head. "But don't you remember something that begins: The Nile is the ..." "The - Nile - is - the - longest - river - in - Africa - and - the - second - in - length - of - all - the - rivers - of - the - globe ..." The words come rushing out. "Although - falling - short - of ..." "Well now, which is the longest river in Africa?" The eyes are blank. "I don't know." "But the Nile, Tommy." "The - Nile - is - the - longest - river - in - Africa - and - second ..." "Then which river is the longest, Tommy?" Tommy burst into tears. "I don't know," he howls.) That howl, the Director made it plain, discouraged the earliest investi- gators. The experiments were abandoned. No further attempt was made to teach children the length of the Nile in their sleep. Quite rightly. You can't learn a science unless you know what it's all about. "Whereas, if they'd only started on moral education," said the Director, leading the way towards the door. The students followed him, desper- ately scribbling as they walked and all the way up in the lift. "Moral education, which ought never, in any circumstances, to be rational." "Silence, silence," whispered a loud speaker as they stepped out at the fourteenth floor, and "Silence, silence," the trumpet mouths indefati- gably repeated at intervals down every corridor. The students and even the Director himself rose automatically to the tips of their toes. They were Alphas, of course, but even Alphas have been well condi- tioned. "Silence, silence." All the air of the fourteenth floor was sibilant with the categorical imperative. Fifty yards of tiptoeing brought them to a door which the Director cau- tiously opened. They stepped over the threshold into the twilight of a shuttered dormitory. Eighty cots stood in a row against the wall. There was a sound of light regular breathing and a continuous murmur, as of very faint voices remotely whispering. A nurse rose as they entered and came to attention before the Direc- tor. "What's the lesson this afternoon?" he asked. "We had Elementary for the first forty minutes," she answered. "But now it's switched over to Elementary Class Consciousness." The Director walked slowly down the long line of cots. Rosy and re- laxed with sleep, eighty little boys and girls lay softly breathing. There was a whisper under every pillow. The D.H.C. halted and, bending over one of the little beds, listened attentively. "Elementary Class Consciousness, did you say? Let's have it repeated a little louder by the trumpet." At the end of the room a loud speaker projected from the wall. The Di- rector walked up to it and pressed a switch. "... all wear green," said a soft but very distinct voice, beginning in the middle of a sentence, "and Delta Children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides they wear black, which is such a beastly colour. I'm so glad I'm a Beta." There was a pause; then the voice began again. "Alpha children wear grey They work much harder than we do, be- cause they're so frightfully clever. I'm really awfuly glad I'm a Beta, because I don't work so hard. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta chil- dren. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able ..." The Director pushed back the switch. The voice was silent. Only its thin ghost continued to mutter from beneath the eighty pillows. "They'll have that repeated forty or fifty times more before they wake; then again on Thursday, and again on Saturday. A hundred and twenty times three times a week for thirty months. After which they go on to a more advanced lesson." Roses and electric shocks, the khaki of Deltas and a whiff of asafceti- da-wedded indissolubly before the child can speak. But wordless con- ditioning is crude and wholesale; cannot bring home the finer distinc- tions, cannot inculcate the more complex courses of behaviour. For that there must be words, but words without reason. In brief, hyp- nopaedia. "The greatest moralizing and socializing force of all time." The students took it down in their little books. Straight from the horse's mouth. Once more the Director touched the switch. "... so frightfully clever," the soft, insinuating, indefatigable voice was saying, "I'm really awfully glad I'm a Beta, because ..." Not so much like drops of water, though water, it is true, can wear holes in the hardest granite; rather, drops of liquid sealing-wax, drops that adhere, incrust, incorporate themselves with what they fall on, till finally the rock is all one scarlet blob. "Till at last the child's mind is these suggestions, and the sum of the suggestions is the child's mind. And not the child's mind only. The adult's mind too-all his life long. The mind that judges and desires and decides-made up of these suggestions. But all these suggestions are our suggestions!" The Director almost shouted in his triumph. "Sug- gestions from the State." He banged the nearest table. "It therefore follows ..." A noise made him turn round. "Oh, Ford!" he said in another tone, "I've gone and woken the chil- dren." Chapter Three OUTSIDE, in the garden, it was playtime. Naked in the warm June sunshine, six or seven hundred little boys and girls were running with shrill yells over the lawns, or playing ball games, or squatting silently in twos and threes among the flowering shrubs. The roses were in bloom, two nightingales soliloquized in the boskage, a cuckoo was just going out of tune among the lime trees. The air was drowsy with the murmur of bees and helicopters. The Director and his students stood for a short time watching a game of Centrifugal Bumble-puppy. Twenty children were grouped in a circle round a chrome steel tower. A ball thrown up so as to land on the plat- form at the top of the tower rolled down into the interior, fell on a rap- idly revolving disk, was hurled through one or other of the numerous apertures pierced in the cylindrical casing, and had to be caught. "Strange," mused the Director, as they turned away, "strange to think that even in Our Ford's day most games were played without more ap- paratus than a ball or two and a few sticks and perhaps a bit of net- ting, imagine the folly of allowing people to play elaborate games which do nothing whatever to increase consumption. It's madness. Nowadays the Controllers won't approve of any new game unless it can be shown that it requires at least as much apparatus as the most complicated of existing games." He interrupted himself. "That's a charming little group," he said, pointing. In a little grassy bay between tall clumps of Mediterranean heather, two children, a little boy of about seven and a little girl who might have been a year older, were playing, very gravely and with all the fo- cussed attention of scientists intent on a labour of discovery, a rudi- mentary ual game. "Charming, charming!" the D.H.C. repeated sentimentally. "Charming," the boys politely agreed. But their smile was rather pa- tronizing. They had put aside similar childish amusements too recently to be able to watch them now without a touch of contempt. Charming? but it was just a pair of kids fooling about; that was all. Just kids. "I always think," the Director was continuing in the same rather maud- lin tone, when he was interrupted by a loud boo-hooing. From a neighbouring shrubbery emerged a nurse, leading by the hand a small boy, who howled as he went. An anxious-looking little girl trot- ted at her heels. "What's the matter?" asked the Director. The nurse shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing much," she answered. "It's just that this little boy seems rather reluctant to join in the ordi- nary erotic play. I'd noticed it once or twice before. And now again to- day. He started yelling just now ..." "Honestly," put in the anxious-looking little girl, "I didn't mean to hurt him or anything. Honestly." "Of course you didn't, dear," said the nurse reassuringly. "And so," she went on, turning back to the Director, "I'm taking him in to see the As- sistant Superintendent of Psychology. Just to see if anything's at all abnormal." "Quite right," said the Director. "Take him in. You stay here, little girl," he added, as the nurse moved away with her still howling charge. "What's your name?" "Polly Trotsky." "And a very good name too," said the Director. "Run away now and see if you can find some other little boy to play with." The child scampered off into the bushes and was lost to sight. "Exquisite little creature!" said the Director, looking after her. Then, turning to his students, "What I'm going to tell you now," he said, "may sound incredible. But then, when you're not accustomed to his- tory, most facts about the past do sound incredible." He let out the amazing truth. For a very long period before the time of Our Ford, and even for some generations afterwards, erotic play be- tween children had been regarded as abnormal (there was a roar of laughter); and not only abnormal, actually immoral (no!): and had therefore been rigorously suppressed. A look of astonished incredulity appeared on the faces of his listeners. Poor little kids not allowed to amuse themselves? They could not be- lieve it. "Even adolescents," the D.H.C. was saying, "even adolescents like yourselves ..." "Not possible!" "Barring a little surreptitious auto-erotism and homouality-abso- lutely nothing." "Nothing?" "In most cases, till they were over twenty years old." "Twenty years old?" echoed the students in a chorus of loud disbelief. "Twenty," the Director repeated. "I told you that you'd find it incredi- ble." "But what happened?" they asked. "What were the results?" "The results were terrible." A deep resonant voice broke startlingly into the dialogue. They looked around. On the fringe of the little group stood a stranger- a man of middle height, black-haired, with a hooked nose, full red lips, eyes very piercing and dark. "Terrible," he repeated. The D.H.C. had at that moment sat down on one of the steel and rub- ber benches conveniently scattered through the gardens; but at the sight of the stranger, he sprang to his feet and darted forward, his hand outstretched, smiling with all his teeth, effusive. "Controller! What an unexpected pleasure! Boys, what are you thinking of? This is the Controller; this is his fordship, Mustapha Mond." In the four thousand rooms of the Centre the four thousand electric clocks simultaneously struck four. Discarnate voices called from the trumpet mouths. "Main Day-shift off duty. Second Day-shift take over. Main Day-shift off In the lift, on their way up to the changing rooms, Henry Foster and the Assistant Director of Predestination rather pointedly turned their backs on Bernard Marx from the Psychology Bureau: averted them- selves from that unsavoury reputation. The faint hum and rattle of machinery still stirred the crimson air in the Embryo Store. Shifts might come and go, one lupus-coloured face give place to another; majestically and for ever the conveyors crept forward with their load of future men and women. Lenina Crowne walked briskly towards the door. His fordship Mustapha Mond! The eyes of the saluting students almost popped out of their heads. Mustapha Mond! The Resident Controller for Western Europe! One of the Ten World Controllers. One of the Ten ... and he sat down on the bench with the D.H.C, he was going to stay, to stay, yes, and actually talk to them ... straight from the horse's mouth. Straight from the mouth of Ford himself. Two shrimp-brown children emerged from a neighbouring shrubbery, stared at them for a moment with large, astonished eyes, then re- turned to their amusements among the leaves. "You all remember," said the Controller, in his strong deep voice, "you all remember, I suppose, that beautiful and inspired saying of Our Ford's: History is bunk. History," he repeated slowly, "is bunk." He waved his hand; and it was as though, with an invisible feather wisk, he had brushed away a little dust, and the dust was Harappa, was Ur of the Chaldees; some spider-webs, and they were Thebes and Babylon and Cnossos and Mycenae. Whisk. Whisk-and where was Odysseus, where was Job, where were Jupiter and Gotama and Jesus? Whisk-and those specks of antique dirt called Athens and Rome, Jeru- salem and the Middle Kingdom-all were gone. Whisk-the place where Italy had been was empty. Whisk, the cathedrals; whisk, whisk, King Lear and the Thoughts of Pascal. Whisk, Passion; whisk, Requiem; whisk, Symphony; whisk ... "Going to the Feelies this evening, Henry?" enquired the Assistant Pre- destinator. "I hear the new one at the Alhambra is first-rate. There's a love scene on a bearskin rug; they say it's marvellous. Every hair of the bear reproduced. The most amazing tactual effects." "That's why you're taught no history," the Controller was saying. "But now the time has come ..." The D.H.C. looked at him nervously. There were those strange rumours of old forbidden books hidden in a safe in the Controller's study. Bibles, poetry-Ford knew what. Mustapha Mond intercepted his anxious glance and the corners of his red lips twitched ironically. "It's all right, Director," he said in a tone of faint derision, "I won't cor- rupt them." The D.H.C. was overwhelmed with confusion. Those who feel themselves despised do well to look despising. The smile on Bernard Marx's face was contemptuous. Every hair on the bear indeed! "I shall make a point of going," said Henry Foster. Mustapha Mond leaned forward, shook a finger at them. "Just try to realize it," he said, and his voice sent a strange thrill quivering along their diaphragms. "Try to realize what it was like to have a viviparous mother." That smutty word again. But none of them dreamed, this time, of smil- ing. "Try to imagine what 'living with one's family' meant." They tried; but obviously without the smallest success. "And do you know what a 'home' was?" They shook their heads. From her dim crimson cellar Lenina Crowne shot up seventeen stories, turned to the right as she stepped out of the lift, walked down a long corridor and, opening the door marked GIRLS' DRESSING-ROOM, plunged into a deafening chaos of arms and bosoms and undercloth- ing. Torrents of hot water were splashing into or gurgling out of a hun- dred baths. Rumbling and hissing, eighty vibro-vacuum massage ma- chines were simultaneously kneading and sucking the firm and sun- burnt flesh of eighty superb female specimens. Every one was talking at the top of her voice. A Synthetic Music machine was warbling out a super-cornet solo. "Hullo, Fanny," said Lenina to the young woman who had the pegs and locker next to hers. Fanny worked in the Bottling Room, and her surname was also Crowne. But as the two thousand million inhabitants of the plant had only ten thousand names between them, the coincidence was not par- ticularly surprising. Lenina pulled at her zippers-downwards on the jacket, downwards with a double-handed gesture at the two that held trousers, downwards again to loosen her undergarment. Still wearing her shoes and stock- ings, she walked off towards the bathrooms. Home, home-a few small rooms, stiflingly over-inhabited by a man, by a periodically teeming woman, by a rabble of boys and girls of all ages. No air, no space; an understerilized prison; darkness, disease, and smells. (The Controller's evocation was so vivid that one of the boys, more sensitive than the rest, turned pale at the mere description and was on the point of being sick.) Lenina got out of the bath, toweled herself dry, took hold of a long flexible tube plugged into the wall, presented the nozzle to her breast, as though she meant to commit suicide, pressed down the trigger. A blast of warmed air dusted her with the finest talcum powder. Eight different scents and eau-de-Cologne were laid on in little taps over the wash-basin. She turned on the third from the left, dabbed herself with chypre and, carrying her shoes and stockings in her hand, went out to see if one of the vibro-vacuum machines were . And home was as squalid psychically as physically. Psychically, it was a rabbit hole, a midden, hot with the frictions of tightly packed life, reek- ing with emotion. What suffocating intimacies, what dangerous, in- sane, obscene relationships between the members of the family group! Maniacally, the mother brooded over her children (her children) ... brooded over them like a cat over its kittens; but a cat that could talk, a cat that could say, "My baby, my baby," over and over again. "My baby, and oh, oh, at my breast, the little hands, the hunger, and that unspeakable agonizing pleasure! Till at last my baby sleeps, my baby sleeps with a bubble of white milk at the corner of his mouth. My little baby sleeps ..." "Yes," said Mustapha Mond, nodding his head, "you may well shudder." "Who are you going out with to-night?" Lenina asked, returning from the vibro-vac like a pearl illuminated from within, pinkly glowing. "Nobody." Lenina raised her eyebrows in astonishment. "I've been feeling rather out of sorts lately," Fanny explained. "Dr. Wells advised me to have a Pregnancy Substitute." "But, my dear, you're only nineteen. The first Pregnancy Substitute isn't compulsory till twenty-one." "I know, dear. But some people are better if they begin earlier. Dr. Wells told me that brunettes with wide pelvises, like me, ought to have their first Pregnancy Substitute at seventeen. So I'm really two years late, not two years early." She opened the door of her locker and pointed to the row of boxes and labelled phials on the upper shelf. "SYRUP OF CORPUS LUTEUM," Lenina read the names aloud. "OVARIN, GUARANTEED FRESH: NOT TO BE USED AFTER AUGUST 1ST, A.F. 632. MAMMARY GLAND EXTRACT: TO BE TAKEN THREE TIMES DAILY, BE- FORE MEALS, WITH A LITTLE WATER. PLACENTIN: 5cc TO BE IN- JECTED INTRAVENALLY EVERY THIRD DAY ... Ugh!" Lenina shuddered. "How I loathe intravenals, don't you?" "Yes. But when they do one good ..." Fanny was a particularly sensible girl. Our Ford-or Our Freud, as, for some inscrutable reason, he chose to call himself whenever he spoke of psychological matters-Our Freud had been the first to reveal the appalling dangers of family life. The world was full of fathers-was therefore full of misery; full of moth- ers-therefore of every kind of perversion from sadism to chastity; full of brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts-full of madness and suicide. "And yet, among the savages of Samoa, in certain islands off the coast of New Guinea ..." The tropical sunshine lay like warm honey on the naked bodies of chil- dren tumbling promiscuously among the hibiscus blossoms. Home was in any one of twenty palm-thatched houses. In the Trobriands concep- tion was the work of ancestral ghosts; nobody had ever heard of a fa- ther. "Extremes," said the Controller, "meet. For the good reason that they were made to meet." "Dr. Wells says that a three months' Pregnancy Substitute now will make all the difference to my health for the next three or four years." "Well, I hope he's right," said Lenina. "But, Fanny, do you really mean to say that for the next three months you're not supposed to ..." "Oh no, dear. Only for a week or two, that's all. I shall spend the eve- ning at the Club playing Musical Bridge. I suppose you're going out?" Lenina nodded. "Who with?" "Henry Foster." "Again?" Fanny's kind, rather moon-like face took on an incongruous expression of pained and disapproving astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me you're still going out with Henry Foster?" Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. But there were also hus- bands, wives, lovers. There were also monogamy and romance. "Though you probably don't know what those are," said Mustapha Mond. They shook their heads. Family, monogamy, romance. Everywhere exclusiveness, a narrow channelling of impulse and energy. "But every one belongs to every one else," he concluded, citing the hypnopaedic proverb. The students nodded, emphatically agreeing with a statement which upwards of sixty-two thousand repetitions in the dark had made them accept, not merely as true, but as axiomatic, self-evident, utterly in- disputable. "But after all," Lenina was protesting, "it's only about four months now since I've been having Henry." "Only four months! I like that. And what's more," Fanny went on, pointing an accusing finger, "there's been nobody else except Henry all that time. Has there?" Lenina blushed scarlet; but her eyes, the tone of her voice remained defiant. "No, there hasn't been any one else," she answered almost truculently. "And I jolly well don't see why there should have been." "Oh, she jolly well doesn't see why there should have been," Fanny re- peated, as though to an invisible listener behind Lenina's left shoulder. Then, with a sudden change of tone, "But seriously," she said, "I really do think you ought to be careful. It's such horribly bad form to go on and on like this with one man. At forty, or thirty-five, it wouldn't be so bad. But at your age, Lenina! No, it really won't do. And you know how strongly the D.H.C. objects to anything intense or long-drawn. Four months of Henry Foster, without having another man-why, he'd be fu- rious if he knew ..." "Think of water under pressure in a pipe." They thought of it. "I pierce it once," said the Controller. "What a jet!" He pierced it twenty times. There were twenty piddling little fountains. "My baby. My baby ...!" "Mother!" The madness is infectious. "My love, my one and only, precious, precious ..." Mother, monogamy, romance. High spurts the fountain; fierce and foamy the wild jet. The urge has but a single outlet. My love, my baby. No wonder these poor pre-moderns were mad and wicked and miser- able. Their world didn't allow them to take things easily, didn't allow them to be sane, virtuous, happy. What with mothers and lovers, what with the prohibitions they were not conditioned to obey, what with the temptations and the lonely remorses, what with all the diseases and the endless isolating pain, what with the uncertainties and the pover- ty-they were forced to feel strongly. And feeling strongly (and strongly, what was more, in solitude, in hopelessly individual isolation), how could they be stable? "Of course there's no need to give him up. Have somebody else from time to time, that's all. He has other girls, doesn't he?" Lenina admitted it. "Of course he does. Trust Henry Foster to be the perfect gentle- man-always correct. And then there's the Director to think of. You know what a stickler ..." Nodding, "He patted me on the behind this afternoon," said Lenina. "There, you see!" Fanny was triumphant. "That shows what he stands for. The strictest conventionality." "Stability," said the Controller, "stability. No civilization without social stability. No social stability without individual stability." His voice was a trumpet. Listening they felt larger, warmer. The machine turns, turns and must keep on turning-for ever. It is death if it stands still. A thousand millions scrabbled the crust of the earth. The wheels began to turn. In a hundred and fifty years there were two thousand millions. Stop all the wheels. In a hundred and fifty weeks there are once more only a thousand millions; a thousand thou- sand thousand men and women have starved to death. Wheels must turn steadily, but cannot turn untended. There must be men to tend them, men as steady as the wheels upon their axles, sane men, obedient men, stable in contentment. Crying: My baby, my mother, my only, only love groaning: My sin, my terrible God; screaming with pain, muttering with fever, bemoaning old age and poverty-how can they tend the wheels? And if they cannot tend the wheels ... The corpses of a thousand thousand thousand men and women would be hard to bury or burn. "And after all," Fanny's tone was coaxing, "it's not as though there were anything painful or disagreeable about having one or two men besides Henry. And seeing that you ought to be a little more promiscu- ous ..." "Stability," insisted the Controller, "stability. The primal and the ulti- mate need. Stability. Hence all this." With a wave of his hand he indicated the gardens, the huge building of the Conditioning Centre, the naked children furtive in the undergrowth or running across the lawns. Lenina shook her head. "Somehow," she mused, "I hadn't been feeling very keen on promiscuity lately. There are times when one doesn't. Haven't you found that too, Fanny?" Fanny nodded her sympathy and understanding. "But one's got to make the effort," she said, sententiously, "one's got to play the game. After all, every one belongs to every one else." "Yes, every one belongs to every one else," Lenina repeated slowly and, sighing, was silent for a moment; then, taking Fanny's hand, gave it a little squeeze. "You're quite right, Fanny. As usual. I'll make the effort." Impulse arrested spills over, and the flood is feeling, the flood is pas- sion, the flood is even madness: it depends on the force of the current, the height and strength of the barrier. The unchecked stream flows smoothly down its appointed channels into a calm well-being. (The embryo is hungry; day in, day out, the blood-surrogate pump unceas- ingly turns its eight hundred revolutions a minute. The decanted infant howls; at once a nurse appears with a bottle of external secretion. Feeling lurks in that interval of time between desire and its consum- mation. Shorten that interval, break down all those old unnecessary barriers. "Fortunate boys!" said the Controller. "No pains have been spared to make your lives emotionally easy-to preserve you, so far as that is possible, from having emotions at all." "Ford's in his flivver," murmured the D.H.C. "All's well with the world." "Lenina Crowne?" said Henry Foster, echoing the Assistant Predestina- tor's question as he zipped up his trousers. "Oh, she's a splendid girl. Wonderfully The Doorway to Freedom Let me take you on a journey. I don’t mean a physical one, but an inner one—a journey into the depths of your own experience. You see, every moment of your life, there’s something happening inside of you. It’s subtle, but it’s constant. It’s the way your heart contracts when you feel afraid. It’s the way your chest tightens when someone doesn’t meet your expectations. It’s the way your mind races to build a story about who you are, what’s wrong, and what needs fixing. Now, let’s pause for a moment and reflect. Have you ever wondered what’s driving all of this? Why does the mind run like this? Why does the heart cling so desperately? And most importantly, is there a way to stop? Is there a way to be free? That’s what this story is about: the search for freedom—not just from the external chaos of life, but from the internal prison we don’t even realize we’re trapped inside. There was a man who spent his life building a house. Not a house made of wood and bricks, but a house made of thoughts and emotions. He didn’t realize he was doing it at first. He just knew that life was unpredictable, and he wanted to feel safe. So, he started putting up walls. He built one wall to protect himself from rejection, another to shield himself from failure, and another to keep the pain of the past from getting too close. Over time, the house grew bigger and more complex, with rooms and hallways designed to keep anything uncomfortable at bay. At first, the house seemed like a good idea. It gave him a sense of control, a sense of security. But as the years went by, something began to feel off. The house felt small and cramped. The walls that were supposed to protect him now felt like they were closing in. He wanted to experience the world outside—to feel the sunlight on his skin, the breeze on his face—but every time he tried to step out, he felt afraid. The house had become his prison. One day, the man heard a knock at the door. He froze. He never got visitors, and he liked it that way. But the knock came again, soft but persistent. Against his better judgment, he walked to the door and opened it a crack. Standing there was a stranger with a calm presence and a gentle smile. “Who are you?” the man asked, suspicious. “I’m here to help you,” the stranger replied. “Help me with what?” “With leaving this house,” the stranger said. “You don’t need it anymore.” The man frowned. “Of course, I need it. Without this house, I wouldn’t be safe. Do you know how dangerous it is out there?” The stranger nodded. “I do. But do you know how small it is in here? Do you know how much you’ve given up to feel safe?” The man didn’t respond. He didn’t want to admit it, but the stranger was right. Still, he wasn’t ready to leave. “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how,” he said. “The walls are too strong. I’ve spent my whole life building them.” The stranger’s smile didn’t waver. “You don’t have to tear them down,” he said. “You just have to stop holding them up.” “What do you mean?” “The walls aren’t as solid as you think,” the stranger explained. “They’re made of your own energy—your own fear, your own resistance. If you let go of the need to protect yourself, the walls will crumble on their own.” The man didn’t believe him, of course. How could he? The house felt so real, so solid. But the stranger’s words planted a seed in his mind. Over the next few days, he started paying attention to the walls. He noticed how they seemed to grow stronger whenever he felt afraid or angry. He noticed how his thoughts and emotions seemed to feed them, like fuel to a fire. And for the first time, he wondered what it might feel like to stop feeding them. One morning, the man woke up and decided to try. He sat down in the middle of the house, closed his eyes, and waited. He didn’t try to tear down the walls or push them away. He just sat there and allowed himself to feel the fear, the tension, the need to protect. At first, it was overwhelming. It felt like the walls were closing in even tighter. But then something unexpected happened. He noticed that the fear wasn’t constant. It came in waves—rising, peaking, and then fading away. And in the moments when the fear faded, the walls seemed to thin, as if they weren’t as solid as he’d thought. Encouraged, the man kept going. Day after day, he sat with his fear, his anger, his pain. He didn’t fight them or push them away. He just observed them, like a scientist studying a storm. And little by little, the walls began to crumble. Light started to seep through the cracks. The air began to feel fresher, freer. And one day, he realized there was nothing left of the house at all. When he stepped outside, he was amazed at what he saw. The world was vast and open, full of colors and sounds he’d forgotten existed. The sunlight was warm on his skin, the breeze gentle on his face. For the first time in his life, he felt truly free. But the most surprising thing was this: He didn’t feel unsafe. He realized that the house had never really protected him. It had only kept him from living. This is the journey we’re all on, whether we realize it or not. We all have our houses—our walls of fear, our fortresses of control. We think we need them to survive, but the truth is, they’re keeping us from living. The walls are not protecting us. They are trapping us. And the key to freedom is not in tearing them down, but in letting them go. Let me be clear: Letting go is not something you do with your mind. You can’t think your way out of this. Letting go is something you do with your heart. It’s the willingness to feel, to experience, to let life flow through you without resistance. It’s the courage to sit with your fear, your anger, your pain, and let them pass through you without feeding them. It’s the realization that you don’t need to hold on to anything—not your past, not your future, not even your sense of self. When you let go, you don’t lose yourself. You find yourself. You discover the vast, open space within you—the space that has always been there, hidden behind the walls you built. And in that space, you find peace. Not the fragile peace of control, but the unshakable peace of freedom. So, I ask you: What walls are you holding up? Can you feel them? And more importantly, are you ready to let them go? You don’t have to do it all at once. Just sit with them. Observe them. And when you’re ready, let them crumble. The doorway to freedom is always open. All you have to do is walk through. I want to tell you a story. But I don’t want you to listen to this story with your mind. Your mind will try to dissect it, categorize it, or argue with it. Don’t let it do that. Just let the words flow through you, like a river, without clinging to the edges. Just watch. There was a man who lived by a stream. He didn’t really notice the stream, though—it was just always there. He was busy with other things: he had fields to tend, tools to fix, and animals to care for. Life kept him busy, and when it didn’t, his thoughts did. His mind was full of chatter—some of it about the past, some of it about the future, some of it about whether the people in the nearby village respected him enough or if he was good enough at the things he did. And when the chatter got too loud, the man worked harder, hoping that keeping busy would silence it. But it didn’t. One morning, as the man was fixing the fence that ran along the edge of his property, he noticed the stream more than he ever had before. It wasn’t doing anything special; it was just flowing, the way streams do. Yet something about it caught his attention. The water sparkled in the sunlight, dancing and gliding over smooth rocks. He could hear its gentle music, the soft gurgle as it ran toward the river beyond. For a brief moment, the man felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—stillness. For that one moment, his thoughts weren’t shouting at him. They were just… gone. And in their absence, there was peace. He couldn’t explain it, but that moment stayed with him. The next day, and the day after that, he found himself standing by the stream again, watching it, listening to it. And each time, the same thing happened: the noise in his head grew quieter, and the stillness grew louder. But this man was like all of us—he had a mind. And so the mind did what it always does: it wanted to figure out what was happening. It started asking questions. “Why does the stream make me feel this way? What is it about the water? Is there something special here that I should understand? Maybe this stream holds the meaning of life.” And just like that, the man’s peace vanished. Instead of simply watching the stream, he was now trying to solve it. He started bringing books to the stream, hoping they would explain the feeling. He brought a notebook and wrote down all his thoughts about the stream, trying to analyze what it was doing to him. He even started asking the villagers if they knew anything about magical streams that could bring peace. But the more he tried to figure out the stream, the less peace he felt. His thoughts were louder than ever. He no longer simply sat by the water and watched it flow. Instead, he was busy searching for something in it, as though the stream owed him an answer. One day, a traveler passed through the village. The man saw him sitting by the stream, gazing at it with a quiet smile. Curious—and perhaps a little desperate—the man approached him. “What do you see in the stream?” the man asked. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks.” The traveler turned to him with a knowing look. “Figure it out?” he said. “What is there to figure out?” “Well, every time I watch the stream, I feel a sense of peace. But I don’t understand why. I think it might hold some kind of secret.” The traveler chuckled. “It does hold a secret,” he said. “But it’s not what you think. You’re trying to find meaning in the stream, but the stream isn’t where the meaning is. The stream is just a mirror.” “A mirror?” The man frowned. “What do you mean?” “The peace you feel doesn’t come from the stream. It comes from the part of you that’s quiet enough to notice the stream. The stream didn’t change—it’s been flowing this whole time, whether you were paying attention or not. What changed is that, for a moment, you stopped paying attention to the voice in your head. That’s when you felt the peace.” The man was quiet for a long time. He looked at the stream, at the way it flowed so effortlessly. There was no struggle in the water, no trying. It didn’t resist the rocks or the bends in its path—it simply flowed around them. And for the first time, he understood what the traveler meant. The peace wasn’t in the stream. It was in the letting go. That night, the man lay in bed, listening to the voice in his head. It was still there, still chattering away about all the things it always did. But now, instead of fighting it or trying to silence it, he simply noticed it. He let the voice be like the rocks in the stream—just something to flow around. In time, the man realized that life itself was like the stream. It was always flowing, always moving. And just like the stream, it didn’t need to be figured out. It didn’t need to be controlled or solved. It just needed to be lived. You see, we are all like that man. We spend our lives searching for meaning, hoping that if we just ask the right question or read the right book, we’ll find the answer. But the truth is, meaning isn’t something we have to find. It’s something we bring to life when we let go of the struggle, when we stop clinging to the rocks in our path and allow ourselves to flow. The mind will always have its questions. That’s what minds do. But you are not your mind. You are the one who watches, the one who notices. And when you stop trying to grasp at life and instead allow it to flow through you, the search ends. Not because you’ve found the answer, but because you’ve realized there was never a question to begin with. Let the stream flow. Let the voice speak. Just watch. And you will see. "
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