Welcome to this guided meditation,
Stillness of snow,
Welcoming,
Healing,
And rest.
I invite you to take a moment to settle wherever you are,
Perhaps in a comfortable chair,
Or wrapped in something soft,
Or lying down with a blanket,
Whatever is your practice.
Allow your shoulders to drop.
Feel the surface supporting you,
Allowing your breath to find its natural rhythm.
Settling in,
Noticing how your body feels as you take this time for yourself,
This time of self-care.
And as the world outside quickens with the rush of the season,
Gifts,
Gatherings,
And endless to-do lists,
This time together is an opportunity to pause,
To soften,
To come home to yourself.
Allow yourself to take a full breath in through your nose,
And release it gently out through your mouth,
Letting go of whatever hurried energy clings to you.
This is your time,
A gentle refuge within winter's quiet.
I invite you to imagine stepping outside after the first snowfall.
The air feels crisp,
Clean,
Alive.
The world is hushed,
It's a kind of silence that only snow brings.
Each breath you take feels sharper,
Pure,
Like the air itself has been cleared of hurry.
Now,
Notice the snow beneath your feet,
Soft,
Forgiving,
New.
With each step,
It seems to whisper,
Slow down,
Slow down.
Above snowflakes continue to drift.
Each one unique,
Each one perfect in its own way.
None trying to be like another,
None rushing to the ground before its time.
Allow these snowflakes to remind you of your own uniqueness.
There's nothing you must prove,
Nothing you must chase to be enough.
You are already whole.
As natural and irreplaceable as a single snowflake among billions.
Now I invite you to draw your awareness inward.
Feel your breath like snowfall,
Soft,
Steady,
Peaceful.
Each inhale,
A snowflake landing lightly on your heart.
Each exhale,
A soft paw,
Releasing away tension,
Doubt,
Or self-judgment.
And as you breathe,
Repeat gently to yourself,
This is my season to rest.
This is my time to return to stillness.
Again,
This is my season to rest.
This is my time to return to stillness.
Allowing that to wash over you,
Embracing it,
Feeling it.
And allow your breath to lengthen,
Lengthen to four counts.
Perhaps even six.
Breathing into the count of four.
Exhaling to the count of six.
And imagine that with every exhale,
The hurried pace of the holiday goes from your body,
Releases,
Drifts away.
Another round of breathing into the count of four.
And exhaling to the count of six.
And then when ready,
Returning to your own natural rhythm of breathing.
Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us,
Smile,
Breathe,
And go slowly.
Allow that to become your rhythm,
A quiet smile,
A slow breath,
A gentle pace.
If your thoughts wander to things unfinished or undone,
It's okay.
Picture those thoughts as snowflakes drifting through your mind.
Watch them land softly and then melt away.
You don't need to chase or resist them,
Just notice.
Release.
And allow the next breath to be deeper,
Filling your heart with compassion for yourself.
You're doing your best.
You're learning,
Growing,
And evolving,
Even when the world feels busy around you.
In this softness,
Invite healing.
Healing that doesn't come from doing,
But from allowing.
As Jon Kabat-Zinn reminds us,
You can't stop the waves,
But you can learn to surf.
In winter,
Surfing looks like surrendering,
Letting yourself float on life's cold waters,
Trusting that the thaw will come.
Now imagine a gentle light glowing beneath the snow,
Earth quietly renewing itself under its blanket of stillness.
That same quiet renewal lives inside you.
You don't need to force it.
Just as winter trusts in spring,
Trust your own timing.
Offer yourself words of kindness,
Repeating silently or out loud.
May I be gentle with myself this season.
May I find peace in slow moments.
May I remember that rest is also growth.
Again.
May I be gentle with myself this season.
May I find peace in slow moments.
May I remember that rest is also growth.
One more time.
May I be gentle with myself this season.
May I find peace in slow moments.
May I remember that rest is also growth.
Just allowing yourself a few moments to rest in the stillness,
Noticing how the breath has calmed,
Or how your body feels,
Observing it.
When ready,
I invite you to bring movement back into your body.
Gentle stretches.
And if you close your eyes,
Fluttering them open,
Gentle and slowly.
And as you prepare to return to your day,
Carry the sense of winter peace with you.
A reminder that even in the busiest time,
Quiet and healing are within reach.
The snow will melt,
But its silent lessons remain.
Each moment unique,
Leading all in itself.
Allow your last breath to be deep and warm.
And as you exhale,
Smile softly.
May this winter be gentle to you.
May you be gentle to yourself.
