Hello,
Dear friend.
I'm Anna.
I'd like to welcome you home to Whisperwood.
Come in.
And make yourself comfortable.
The cattle is warm.
The fire is glowing softly.
In the hearth.
And your favourite chair is waiting for you.
Right beside the window.
Whether this is your first visit to Whisperwood,
Or whether you've wandered these gentle paths many times before.
I'm so very glad you found your way here tonight.
Now.
Before we begin our story.
Take us slow.
Comfortable breath.
And another.
Perhaps.
It's been a long day.
So.
.
.
I want you to know.
That you are exactly here.
Where you need to be.
There's nothing left to finish.
The day can take care of itself now.
And tonight.
We're going to build something.
Very special.
Not a grand castle.
Not a magnificent shape.
Not even one of alginate.
Our enthusiastic hedgehog's curious inventions.
No,
Tonight.
We are going to build.
A nest.
A nest.
Of tenderness.
A quiet place.
Where tired hearts can rest.
Her place.
Woven from comfort.
And kindness.
A place.
Where every worry can loosen its grip.
A place.
Where you are welcome.
And supported exactly as you are.
Outside the cottage window.
Evening is settling across Whisperwood.
The last golden light.
Is fading from the treetops.
The birds have tucked their heads beneath their wings.
The rabbits.
Have disappeared into their burrows.
Somewhere in the distance.
A sleepy owl.
Is preparing.
For its nightly rounds.
Inside the cottage however.
Everything feels warm and unhurried.
You lift a beautiful China cup.
To your lips.
The tea inside.
Is perfectly warm.
Not too hot.
Not too cool.
Just right.
Slowly you breathe in the gentle fragrance.
Perhaps there is chamomile.
Maybe a little lavender.
Something.
Sweet.
And familiar.
Reminds you of home.
As you take a sit.
A feeling.
Begins to spread through you.
Not excitement.
Something softer.
Quiet.
Sense of relief.
As though your shoulders have finally remembered how to relax.
As though your thoughts have been given permission.
To slow down.
As though someone has gently whispered You have done enough today.
And perhaps dear friend you have.
Perhaps more than enough.
Now.
You are allowed.
To let go.
You place your cup back onto its saucer.
A tiny clink.
Makes a wonderfully comforting sound.
Then you notice something unusual.
A small note.
Has appeared upon the table.
The thick,
Creamy coloured paper is folded neatly.
You recognize the handwriting immediately.
It's from Mrs.
Pym.
A friendly Robin.
From the Post and Provision Barn.
You unfold it carefully.
It reads.
Dear friend.
A nest of tenderness.
Is being built beneath the moon tree this evening.
All are welcome.
Come whenever you are ready.
Love.
Mrs.
Pym.
You smile.
Because in Whisperwood.
.
.
Invitations like these are never to be missed.
And so.
.
.
Now you have finished your tea.
You gather your shore.
Open the cottage door.
And step out into the soft blue evening.
The path ahead is lit.
Tiny lanterns.
Fireflies drift lazily through the air.
And the stars are beginning to appear overhead.
Small and tentative like candles being lit one by one.
You step onto the path.
It is soft underfoot.
Carpeted with fallen cork oak leaves and the kind of moss that looks as though it has never once been hurried.
The air smells of wild thyme and damp earth.
And something else entirely.
Something.
You can't quite name.
Like the memory.
Of a place.
Where you once felt completely safe.
And with every slow step forward.
Your shoulders drop.
A little.
Your jaw softens.
A little.
And the tightness you have been carrying.
Begins.
Very gently.
To loosen.
As you walk slowly towards the moon tree.
A grand old cork oak.
You can already sense that something is wrong.
Very special awaits.
When you arrive.
Clearing is glowing softly beneath the moonlight.
And there beneath the great silver branches of the moon tree stands Algernon.
Pea Trimble.
For a hedgehog.
He is being.
Extremely brave.
Carrying.
An enormous cushion.
A truly Ridiculous sized cushion.
It's larger than he is.
Alginate is attempting to drag it across the grass.
Whilst maintaining an air of dignity.
Unfortunately.
Cushion has other ideas.
It keeps flopping over.
One point.
It nearly swallows him entirely.
Oh,
Good evening.
He says cheerfully.
Emerging from a fold of fabric.
Perfect timing.
We're constructing a nest.
And exceptionally.
Comfortable nest.
Comfort is everything.
And kindness.
He gives the cushion.
Determined tug.
Cushion refuses to cooperate.
Algernon sighs.
The cushion remains unmoved.
But you decide not to mention this.
Eventually,
However.
Cushion is persuaded into place.
And immediately.
There is a shift.
In the balance of the clearing.
Everything feels.
More welcoming.
The first layer of the nest.
Is in place.
And this is only the beginning.
Soon.
Nini arrives.
Graceful as ever.
A white cat with smoky markings.
And sparkling blue eyes.
She carries something.
Very precious.
Not in her paws.
In her eyes.
She has collected.
Silver moonbeams.
Soft ribbons of pale light.
The truth.
Gently.
Through the clearing.
With great care.
She weaves them around the cushion.
Moonbeams shimmer quietly.
Everywhere they touch.
The nest becomes calmer.
More peaceful.
More serene.
As though the moon itself.
Has wrapped the nest.
In a blanket of silver light.
That should help everyone rest.
Lily says softly.
And somehow.
.
.
You know she's right.
The nest.
Is growing larger.
Softer.
More beautiful.
And soon.
More friends begin to arrive.
The first.
Is Mrs.
Pym.
The Little Robin and neatly.
Upon a nearby branch.
And adjusts her spectacles.
As always.
She appears wonderfully organized.
She carries a tiny basket.
Woven from willow twigs.
Inside.
Our feathers.
Not ordinary feathers.
These are feathers of kindness.
Collected.
Throughout Whisperwood.
Mrs.
Pym.
Has been gathering them for weeks.
Whenever she notices.
A small act of gentleness.
She carefully places one.
Inside her basket.
A rabbit.
Sharing his carrots.
A squirrel.
Helping an elderly hedgehog.
Carry acorns.
A mouse.
Leaving a daisy.
On a neighbor's doorstep.
Every kindness.
Becomes.
Another feather.
Mrs.
Pym.
Begins placing them carefully.
Around the nest.
Soft.
White feathers.
Silver grey feathers.
Golden feathers.
That seemed to glow softly in the moonlight.
The moment each feather settles into place.
The nest.
Becomes a little softer.
A little warmer.
A little more welcoming.
There now.
Says Mrs.
Pym.
One should never underestimate.
The importance of kindness.
And everyone agrees.
A little while later.
A familiar trot can be heard.
Approaching through the grass.
It is Oinkerella.
Our favorite little pink.
Piglet.
With grey splotches.
She is carrying a bundle.
Almost as large as she is.
A bundle.
Tide.
With blue ribbon.
What have you brought?
Asks Algernon.
Oinkerella smiles.
Shorts.
Good thoughts.
Saison Karema.
Important thoughts.
She carefully unties the ribbon.
Inside.
Are dozens of tiny paper stars.
Each star.
Contains a message.
Little reminders.
That are easily forgotten during busy days.
The sort of reminders.
Every heart needs.
From time to time.
Oink-a-rella.
Picks up the first star and reads aloud.
Please don't hurry.
She places it gently into the nest.
Immediately.
The clearing seems to grow quieter.
The second star reads.
You've done enough for today.
Into the nest it goes.
The third.
We trust you totally.
The fourth.
Life.
Is full of joy,
Love and laughter.
The fifth.
Tomorrow.
I can wait.
Unto.
Tomorrow.
One by one,
The stars are placed throughout the nest.
Until the entire clearing.
Feels wrapped in a feeling of permission.
Commission.
To stop striving.
Commission.
To stop proving.
Permission to allow things to be.
As they are.
Commission.
To simply be.
You notice your own breath.
Becoming slower.
Easier.
As though.
.
.
Each paper star.
Is gently Loosening a knot somewhere.
Deep inside.
Like a hand.
Unfurling.
From a cyst.
Nearby.
The Fergus Puddingfoot.
Our friendly badger.
Who has exceptional taste in waistcoats.
Has been inspecting the construction with caution.
Great seriousness.
He circles the nest twice.
Then three times.
Then once more for good measure.
Finally he nods.
Hmmmm.
.
.
Everyone waits.
Sir Fergus.
Clears his throat.
The nest has passed inspection.
A gentle cheer.
Rises from the gathering.
It's a fungus.
Raises a paw.
Furthermore.
.
.
He continues.
I have determined.
That it is.
An exceptionally good place.
Full resting.
This announcement.
Is greeted with Considerable approval.
Even Sophogus?
Appears pleased with himself.
As the evening deepens.
More layers are added.
A blanket.
Woven from peaceful moments.
The feeling of sunlight.
Through a window.
On a quiet morning.
The scent of rain.
On warm earth.
Freshly washed sheets.
A favorite book.
The sound of a kettle beginning to sing.
All the small comforts.
That help a heart.
Remember.
It is safe.
Each one.
Finds its place within the nest.
Which grows large enough.
Everyone to enjoy.
And slowly.
Something remarkable.
Begins to happen.
The nest.
No longer seems to be made of cushions or feathers or moonlight.
It begins to feel.
A stone.
It is made from something else entirely.
Something.
Invisible.
Something we rarely remember.
To offer ourselves.
Tenderness.
Gentle acceptance.
Patience.
Compassion.
The sort of kindness we so readily give to others.
Yet somehow forget.
To give ourselves.
The moon tree seems to understand.
Its silver branches sway softly overhead.
And from time to time.
A leaf drifts downwards.
Each leaf.
Settles somewhere within the nest.
Every leaf.
Carries a blessing.
One whispers.
May you be peaceful.
And other whispers.
May you feel safe.
Another.
May you rest deeply tonight.
And another.
May you remember.
That you Unloved.
Soon the nest is complete.
The friends gather inside it quietly.
No one feels the need to speak very much.
Some evenings.
Are too beautiful for conversation.
And this is one of them.
Above the stars shine steadily.
Below.
Lanterns glow softly amongst the grasses.
The air smells faintly of grass.
Lavender,
And pine.
And the nest.
Waits patiently.
Beneath the moon tree.
Waiting.
For anyone who needs it.
Including you.
Mrs.
Pym smooths a feather.
Lily arranges.
A ribbon of moonlight.
Alginate.
Fluffs the enormous cushion.
Sefagus.
Conducts one final inspection.
And oincarella.
Pats the space beside her.
As though she has been saving it.
Just for you.
You settle slowly.
Into the center of the nest.
Cushions support you perfectly.
The moonlight wraps around you like silk.
Feathers.
Cradle every worry.
And all around you.
Rests the quiet certainty.
That for this moment.
Everything.
Is enough.
You.
Are enough.
The stars.
Are watching over Whisperwood tonight.
And whisper words.
Is watching.
Over you.
The nest rocks ever so gently in the evening breeze.
Just enough.
To feel.
As though you were cradled.
In a lullaby.
Or so.
The whole woodland has gathered around.
To hold you while you rest.
And perhaps dear friends.
That is.
What tenderness.
Truly is.
And simply.
Being held.
With kindness.
Exactly.
As you are.
So now.
As the stars drift across the sky.
As the lanterns glow more softly.
As the moon tree.
Keeps its silent watch.
Allow yourself to sink.
A little deeper into the nest.
Knowing that here in Whisperwood There will always be a place for you.
A chair by the fire.
A warm cup of tea.
A lantern.
Lighting the path home.
And whenever life.
Feels heavy.
Whenever your heart feels weary.
You may return this nest of tenderness.
It will be waiting.
Just as it always has.
Just.
As it always will.
And now,
Dear friend,
The stars are growing sleepy.
The lanterns are dimming.
The sound of whisperwood.
Is all around you.
Let it hold you.
Let yourself.
Be held.
The moon tree.
Is whispering.
Good night.
That's your thoughts.
Drift like feathers upon the evening breeze.
And rest.
Goodnight,
Dear friend.
Goodnight,
Whisperwood.
Good night.
You you
