Tonight,
We meet with hope again.
Hope,
In case you don't know her,
Is a character of mine that I came up with,
Who lives in a cabin in a very peaceful forest.
With her dog,
Fred.
And her cat,
Melissa.
She has a joyful life.
Surrounded by nature.
And in this particular day.
Hope will be in the fall.
Or autumn.
And she will be out collecting leaves.
Enjoying her slow day.
And ending it.
Sitting by a crackling fire.
Reading her book.
Okay,
Let's do the relaxation session now,
Which will take a few minutes before tonight's sleep story.
I'm going to count down from ten to one.
And as I do.
.
.
Allow yourself to let go.
More and more.
Feel the support of the bed beneath you.
Or the floor.
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
Really feel that support.
And beneath all of that.
There is the support of the Earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And notice that the more you become aware of that support.
The more you can let go.
The more you can.
Sink into this moment.
Nein.
You.
Safe.
Know that tonight,
My voice is nothing but a friend.
A guide of kindness.
That will only ever take you to safe places.
Allow my voice.
To be an anchor of peace.
Guiding you.
To beautiful.
Wondrous places.
Become aware of your body now.
And as you do.
Just become aware of your breath for a moment.
Perhaps take a deep breath in through your nose when you're ready.
And breathe out when you're ready.
And maybe another deep breath.
And up and as you.
Become aware of that breath.
The breathing out.
With each out-breath.
Let go.
A little more.
Maybe.
Through your body.
Check where you're holding tension.
Or pain.
Maybe it's in your feet.
Your lower legs.
Your size.
Your belly.
Your chest.
Your butt.
Her shoulders.
Your hands.
Your arms.
Your neck.
Or maybe you like me.
Do you hold the tension in your face?
Just let it all go now.
Seven.
The day is done.
Whatever has been.
Has been.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
Whatever thoughts you may be having.
Don't fight them.
Seize them for what they are.
Thoughts.
A symptom of being human.
And as they arrive.
.
.
Welcome them.
And then just let them go.
Watch them float away.
Like leaves on a moonlit river.
Or clouds passing.
Through a starlit sky.
Six.
This is your moment.
This is your time.
You.
Deserve rest.
You deserve peace.
There is nowhere to be now.
Nowhere to go.
No obligations.
Absolutely nothing to do.
But settle into this moment.
Five.
Peace.
Lives within you.
It is always there.
It's just waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Maybe you can find it tonight.
Maybe you can.
Journey to that peace.
With your mind's eye now.
Maybe you find it in your chest.
Are in your head.
Wherever you might find it.
Know that it's a constant friend.
For her.
Perhaps.
.
.
Feel a little gratitude now.
Gratitude for the simple things.
For the shelter you have tonight.
Whatever it may be.
The use of your body.
With the ability to just.
Lie here.
And listen to a sleep story.
For those you love.
And who love you.
Know that you are loved.
Whoever you are.
Wherever you are tonight.
3.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see.
Oops,
Little cabin.
In the autumn.
Or the fool.
It's a very beautiful morning.
Kind of day that it was.
Is rare.
That's what makes it special.
It's late autumn.
The sky is blue.
The trees are golden.
And hope is still asleep.
In her cozy bed.
Check in with your body one more time now.
Releasing anywhere that you're still holding on.
And one.
Completely letting go now.
As I tell you.
Tonight's sleep story.
Morning comes gently to the cabin.
Wakes without hurry.
Lying still for a while.
And listening to the choir.
The kind of quiet that feels full.
Like the world is holding its breath.
She can hear Fred snoring lightly near the stove downstairs.
The soft creak of the trees outside.
As they shift in the cool air.
For a few moments.
She stays under the blanket.
Feeling the warmth around her.
And faint.
Chill at the tip of her nose.
When she finally stirs.
She reaches for the curtain beside her bed.
And pulls it back.
Just enough to see out.
The windowpane is cold under her fingertips.
Outside.
The forest is covered in gold and rust-colored leaves.
The ground,
Sick with them.
The sky is pale blue.
The kind that looks freshly washed.
Crow moves along the fence post.
Then lifts into the air,
Slow and steady.
Hope smiles a little.
There is a brightness in the air today.
A kind of crispness.
That makes her chest feel open and alive.
She sits up and wraps her shawl around her shoulders.
For a moment.
She just.
.
.
Looks at the light coming in.
How it touches the wooden floorboards.
How it glows on the old chair in the corner.
There's no rush to move.
When she finally does.
She swings her feet onto the rug.
And breathes in deeply.
The scent of the cabin in autumn.
What?
Smooth.
A hint of apples from the basket downstairs.
They all miss her.
She runs a hand through her hair.
And looks once more out the window.
At the scatter of colours across the yard.
It feels like the whole forest is quietly celebrating.
This beautiful season.
She stuns,
Takes her time to dress.
And steps softly.
Down the wooden stairs,
One hand trailing along the rail.
Fred lifts his head as she appears.
Tail giving a half-hearted wag.
The fire from last night still smoulders.
Hope Kneels.
To add a few locks.
And whispers.
Good morning,
My friend.
The flames catch.
And soon the cabin begins to warm again.
Then Hope opened the front door.
And steps out onto the veranda The old boards cool beneath her bare feet.
The air greets her at once.
Clean.
Share.
And full of the scent of dry leaves.
She draws it in deeply.
Filling her lungs.
Then lets it out slowly through her mouth.
The world feels white this morning.
The sky.
Stretches endlessly.
Pale than time.
And the forest hums quietly.
With its late autumn calm.
She sits down on the wooden bench by the railing.
Pulling her shawl tighter.
The wood is smooth from years of use.
And a few leaves have gathered around her feet.
Somewhere far off.
The woodpecker is at work.
Hope watches the breath leave her in small white clouds.
Disappearing into the light She always finds this time of day sacred.
When everything is just beginning to stir.
And yet,
Nothing demands anything from her.
Fred pads out after a few moments.
Yawning so wide.
His whole body seems to fold in half.
He stretches.
Gives a small sneeze.
Then lies down beside her.
Melissa.
As always.
Takes her time.
She appears silently.
Her tail held high.
And curls herself on the step just below Hope's feet.
Hope reaches down to stroke her once.
Then rests her hand on her lap.
She looks out at the trees that circle the clearing.
To all,
Steady.
Letting go of their last leaves one by one.
The sound they make when they fall is almost nothing.
A tiny sigh.
As they touch the ground.
Hope sits and watches this quiet show for a long while.
No phone.
No clock.
No list to keep track of.
Just air.
And breath.
And the feeling of being here.
After some time.
She says softly.
Thank you.
Not to anyone in particular,
Maybe to the day itself.
Words feel right in her mouth.
Warm and small but full of meaning.
Then she sits a little longer listening to the sound of the wind.
Moving gently through the trees.
Eventually.
She goes back inside.
Closing the door softly behind her.
The air in the cabin feels warmer now.
The fire in the stove.
Crackling.
And a thin curl of smoke winding up the chimney.
She moves slowly through the small kitchen.
Her slippers brushing the floor.
On the shelf above the counter.
Sits a row of jars.
Grains.
Dried fruit.
Tea leaves.
And one that glows golden.
Even in the dim light,
The honey from her neighbor.
A few miles away.
She fills a small pot with water from the jug.
And sets it on the stove.
The familiar tick of the metal heating fills the room.
Then she takes down her tin of oats.
The sound of them pouring into her hand like soft rain.
She thinks of where they came from.
The farmer's steady work.
The turning of the soil.
The rhythm of the seasons that brought them here.
Adds them carefully to the pot.
Stirring with a wooden spoon.
The steam beginning to rise.
On the table sits a small bowl of blueberries.
Their deep color.
Catching the morning light.
She'd picked them herself earlier in the week.
A few bushes still holding fruit down by the stream.
They're smaller now.
Sweeter somehow.
Touched by the last of the sun.
Before winter.
She tips a few into her bowl.
Watching the purple stain bloom on the edge of the porcelain.
When the porridge thickens.
She spoons it gently into the pool.
And drizzles a line of honey over the top.
You always pause us to look at that.
The way it moves.
The soft gold of it.
She thinks of her neighbour's hives.
The slow hum that drifts across his orchard in summer.
The bees moving from flower to flower,
Working tirelessly.
And without fuss.
She smiles to herself and murmurs,
Thank you,
Little ones.
Before stirring it through.
Fred sits patiently at her feet,
Hopeful as always.
Hope gives him a few pieces of oat biscuit from the tin and scratches behind his ear.
Then she carries her bowl to the table by the window.
Sits down.
And eats slowly.
Letting each spoonful warm her from within.
She looks outside now and then.
The sunlight resting on the leaves.
And the soft movement of the branches.
And feels quietly grateful.
For all the unseen hands.
Human and not.
That made this small,
Perfect meal possible.
When her bowl is empty.
Hope sets down the spoon and leaves it on the table for a moment.
The warmth from the porridge.
Still lingers in her chest.
She pulls her small notebook from the shelf.
One bound in brown leather.
Edges worn soft.
And carries it along with her cup of tea to the desk by the window.
The surface is scattered with a few pencils.
Some dried leaves she'd kept from last week's walk.
And a small stone shaped like a heart.
She opens the notebook where she left off.
The handwriting is uneven.
Some lines faint.
The pen had nearly given up.
At the top of the page.
You write the date.
Then pauses.
Looking out at the forest while her thoughts settle.
Today,
She begins.
I'll tidy the garden better.
Gather the last of the herbs before the frost.
Gather some leaves.
And bring in more firewood from the stack.
And maybe I'll bake some breads this afternoon.
She smiles at the last line.
She never writes these notes as rules.
More as small promises to herself.
After a while.
Her hand slows.
And her thoughts drift elsewhere.
She writes.
The air today smells like the autumn I spent with my father when I was little.
The image comes easily.
She's walking beside him on a country path the leaves piled high along the edges.
He's wearing his wool coat.
The one that always smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and rain.
Their gathering chestnuts.
She remembers the way he'd crack one open for her.
Showing her the smooth nut inside like a treasure.
She can almost hear his voice now.
Steady.
Low.
With that kindness that made even silence comfortable.
He'd said something simple that day something she never forgot.
There is no hurry.
To understand everything hope.
It's enough to just be here.
She writes those words down again.
Tracing them slowly.
As if to make them stay.
Oop,
Then closes her notebook.
And rests her hand on it for a moment.
Then she exhales.
A long,
Steady breath.
And whispers.
I miss you.
It's not a sad sound.
Just honest.
Like a leaf falling when it's ready.
Hope then slips on her boots by the door.
Tucks her hair beneath a wool cap.
And steps outside again.
The sun has risen a little higher now.
Turning the clearing.
Into a quiet glow of gold and copper.
The leaves that blanket the ground are dry.
And they crunch softly under her feet.
She takes up the old rake,
Leaning against the porch.
And begins to pull the leaves into small rustling piles.
She works slowly.
The sound of the rain.
Moving through the leaves.
Is steady and pleasant.
And now and then she pauses just to listen Fred trots beside her.
Nose buried in the piles.
Occasionally sneezing when he stirs up too much dust.
The air is cool but kind.
And she feels the strength in her arms as she moves the gentle satisfaction.
Of working with the land.
Rather than against it.
Every now and then.
She stops to take in the scene.
The colors,
So alive.
They almost hummed.
The smoke.
Rising thinly from her chimney.
The way Melissa perches on the fence,
Watching everything.
As if overseeing the work.
You're not much help.
Hope calls to her,
Smiling.
The cat flicks her tail but doesn't move.
When the yard looks neat again.
Hope gathers the leaves into a basket to carry over to the compost heap.
She loves that part.
Knowing that what falls away now,
Will become part of next year's life.
Nothing really ends.
She says softly.
She tips the leaves onto the purr.
And brushes her hands clean on her trousers.
From there.
She heads to the small herb garden by the side of the cabin.
The air here smells stronger.
Where is me?
Sage.
And the last of the mint still holding on.
She kneels and begins to gather what remains.
Tying each bundle neatly with twine.
The leaves are cool and soft in her hands.
And the scent rises up as she works.
She thinks of how much care these plants have given through the seasons.
T.
Or soups.
For healing.
Thank you.
She murmurs again.
As she always does.
She sets the herbs on the porch rail to dry in the late morning sun.
Then wipes her hands on her apron.
And looks down at Fred.
Come on.
She says quietly.
Let's go and see the world.
His tail starts thumping at once.
The word walk doesn't even need to be said.
She takes her walking stick from its place by the door,
Slips into her coat,
And together.
They head out toward the path that leads through the forest.
The ground is soft underfoot.
A mix of soil and leaves.
Fred runs ahead.
Nose to the ground.
Zigzagging between the trees.
Walks at her own pace.
Steady and unhurried.
Letting the cool air touch her face.
The forest smells alive.
Pine.
Earth.
And the faint sweetness of old apples that have fallen.
And begun to fade into the ground.
After a while.
She comes to the stream.
It moves quite slowly now.
The water low after summer.
But still bright in the light.
She crouches to touch it.
The chill sharp against her skin.
And watches it pass over the stones.
Fred drinks a little.
Then looks up at her.
As if checking that everything is as it should be.
All's well.
She says.
You're a good boy.
She leans against her leg for a moment.
Before trotting off again.
They follow the path.
Until it opens into a small meadow.
The grass here is pale gold.
The edges of frost.
Just beginning to gather in the shaded parts.
Hope stands there quietly for a long moment.
Breathing it in.
The hills in the distance are washed in soft light.
And a few clouds move lazily overhead.
She feels.
As she often does on these walks.
That she belongs not to this place.
But with it.
When they finally turn back.
The sun is high.
And a few birds cross above the trees in small,
Steady groups.
Fred walks beside her now.
Slower.
Satisfy.
Hope touches his back lightly.
And they make their way home.
Both of them carrying that quiet fullness.
That only a morning outdoors can bring.
On the way back.
As hope follows the narrow path between the bridges.
She sees someone ahead.
A familiar figure,
Standing by the gate.
Where the forest opens into the lane.
It's Marta.
Her closest neighbor.
A woman in her seventies with silver hair.
Always tied back in a scarf.
She's holding a basket of apples.
And looking up at the trees as if lost in thought.
Hope cools out softly.
Morning,
Marta.
And Marta turns.
Her face brightening.
Uh.
.
.
Oh.
She says.
I thought that was you.
I was just admiring the color of these leaves.
Every year,
I think I've seen the best of them.
And then they go and surprise me.
Hope smiles.
Coming closer.
That's the way of things,
Isn't it?
They save a little beauty for the end.
Martian nuts.
Bending her one of the apples.
It's cold and red.
With a faint scent of sweetness.
Ope takes a bite.
Crisp.
Fresh.
Perfect.
For a while.
They just stand there in silence.
Chewing quietly.
Watching the leaves drift down around them.
Fred circles them both.
His tail brushing against their coats.
After a moment.
Marta says.
I lost my husband in the autumn.
20 years ago now.
I used to hate this season for it.
But one day I realized.
He loved it most of all.
So,
Now I think of it.
As his way of coming back.
All this color.
All this light before the dark.
Her eyes glisten a little.
But her voice is steady.
Hope reaches out and squeezes her hand.
He'd like that,
I think.
She says softly.
The idea of being color.
Marta smiles.
Her eyes crinkling.
Maybe that's what we all become in the end.
Someone's color in the world.
They stand there a while longer.
And still joined.
Both of them looking out.
At the quiet,
Leaf-covered path.
There's nothing more to say.
After a time.
Marta says she should be heading home.
And hope promises to visit soon.
They part with a small wave.
Each carrying a different kind of peace.
Hope walks on.
The apple core in her hand.
The air cool against her face.
For a moment.
She feels her father beside her too.
And all the others she's loved.
Just working.
Just breathing.
Just being color in someone's world.
Reaches the cabin.
As the sun climbs to its softest point in the sky.
The air around the porch is still.
And a light warmth has settled over the clearing.
She hangs her coat on the peg by the door.
Leaves her stick beside it.
And gives Fred a quick rub on the head.
Before heading into the kitchen.
She decides on a simple lunch a solid.
The kind that tastes of the garden and the season.
Begins by washing her hands at the sink.
The water running cool and clear.
Then she takes some vegetables that she picked yesterday.
And starts to prepare them.
She rinses everything carefully.
The scent of earth lifting into the air.
She slices the carrots thin.
Chopped spinach?
And boils potatoes just until soft.
On the shelf.
Sits a jar of pickled beets that she made in early September.
She opens it.
And adds a few slices.
Watching the pink color spread gently across the bowl.
Then comes a crumble of cheese she traded with Marta a few days ago.
And a drizzle of oil pressed by another neighbor from his own orchard.
She finishes with a spoonful of the same honey from earlier.
Whisked together with vinegar and mustard for the dressing.
The smell fills the small kitchen.
Sweet and sharp all at once.
As she stares.
She thinks again of all the hands and seasons that brought this meal to her table.
The soil.
The sun.
The neighbors.
To peace.
She takes a slow breath.
Then carries her bow.
To the table by the window.
Fred settles at her feet while she eats.
Eyes half closed.
Oak looks outside between bites.
The leaves are still falling.
The light is still kind.
She feels the warmth of the stove on her back.
And she thinks that.
.
.
Maybe this is all she's ever really wanted.
Food that came from the land around her.
Of Ruth.
A bit of company.
And time enough to notice it all.
After lunch.
Hope tidies the kitchen.
And wipes down the table.
Leaving it bare.
Except for the small bowl of apples Marta had given her.
The fire hums gently in the stove.
And the warmth makes her eyelids heavy.
She sets her chair a little closer to the hearth.
Holds a blanket over her legs.
And lets herself sink.
Into stillness.
Fred and Melissa are already asleep on the rug.
Closes her eyes.
The sounds of the cabin soften.
And she doesn't mean to fall asleep.
Only to rest.
But her body knows better.
The nap comes quietly.
And for a short while.
Time disappears.
No lists.
No plans.
No thoughts about what's next.
When she slowly wakes.
The light in the room has changed.
It's softer now.
Golden.
The kind of light that feels like kindness itself.
Stretches.
Smiling a little.
That fresh,
Clear feeling.
A good nap gives.
Starting the day over again.
But gently.
.
.
The world outside is the same.
Yet she sees it with new eyes.
Hasn't stolen time.
It's given some back.
She stands.
Smooth the blanket.
And ties her apron again.
Alright.
She says quietly to herself.
Let's bake.
She has some dough already prepared,
Waiting in a bowl on the counter.
It's risen and ready.
She needs it slowly.
Folding and turning with care.
The smell of ye.
Warm and alive in the air.
Soon the loaf is in the oven.
The whole cabin.
Begins to fill.
With that unmistakable scent.
Comfort.
Patience.
Aum Hope leans against the counter for a moment.
Listening to Fred snore again.
So it's a fire ship.
And to the day turning toward evening.
And she feels rested.
You feel steady.
She feels grateful.
Through the quiet cycle of things.
The world.
The rest.
The warmth.
The bread still to come.
Sometime later.
The bread.
Comes out perfectly.
Golden crust.
Soft inside.
Descent.
Spreading through every corner of the cabin.
Hope sets it on the wooden board and waits a little.
Listening to the faint crackle as it cools.
The day has already slipped toward evening The light outside has thinned to a quiet blue.
She lights a few candles and places them on the table.
There's small flames flickering.
Against the window glass.
The fire burns steadily.
Hello.
Orange glow.
Pulsing behind the grate.
Hope cuts a slice of the warm bread.
Adds a patch of butter that melts almost at once.
He then goes and sits in the living room by the fire.
With her plate on her lap.
Eating slowly.
Savouring each bite.
The taste is simple.
Grain.
But it feels like the whole day distilled.
Outside.
The forest is settling into darkness.
And the only sounds are the gentle crack of the fire.
And the occasional sigh of wind through the trees.
She takes a sip of tea.
And reaches for her favorite book.
The art of doing nothing.
She opens it where she last left off.
And begins to read silently to herself.
Chapter four The practice of still time.
There is a kind of doing.
That looks like not doing at all.
The world won't teach you this.
It will tell you that every moment must point toward a result.
A measure.
A purpose.
But watch the way the trees stand.
The way they move.
Only when the wind asks them to.
They do not rush to grow.
Yet they reached the sky all the same.
Doing nothing is not idleness.
It is the art of presence without agenda.
It is the gentle refusal.
To be swept away.
By the noise of the clock.
Or the demands of the next thing.
When you sit.
Truly sit.
And let the day unfold around you.
Something happens beneath the surface.
The mind.
Begins to breathe again.
The heart.
Remembers its own rhythm.
There will always be voices.
Inside and out.
That tell you you should be doing more.
They will cool your stillness,
Laziness.
Your rest wasteful.
Smile at them.
They do not understand.
That stillness is what gives movement its meaning.
A bird must land.
Before it can take off again.
She turns the page and continues reading.
The practice of still time Asks nothing complicated of you.
It only asks that you stop for long enough.
To notice what is already here.
The sound of the stove.
The shape of your breath.
The quiet company of your own mind.
At first it may feel strange.
Even uncomfortable.
That's alright.
Stillness is like an old friend we forget to visit.
But when we sit with it long enough It remembers us.
The secret is not to wait for the perfect moment to rest.
Because the world will never hand it to you.
You must claim it.
Softly and deliberately.
As an act of care.
Sit by the window.
Lie on the grass.
Close your eyes.
In the middle of the afternoon.
Watch.
As the minutes expand.
When you stop trying to use them.
When nothing is expected of the moment.
Life begins to show itself.
In its simplest form.
Not as a task.
But as a gift.
A flicker of light on the wall.
The scent of bread.
Cooling on the counter.
The feeling.
Of being quietly.
Undeniably alive.
And when you rise again.
Because you always will.
You carry some of that quiet with you.
You move differently.
You listen better.
You remember.
That the world does not turn because of your effort.
But that your effort.
Becomes more meaningful.
And you remember.
To pause.
So let yourself do nothing.
Sit with the hour as it is.
Let it be.
Enough.
Hope closes the book.
And lets it rest on her lap.
The fire is still burning.
The candles are flickering softly in the still air.
She takes another small bite of bread.
The crust now cool.
And feels that what she's just read isn't only a source.
But a truth she's living right now.
In the quiet.
In the company of her animals.
In the sound of her own breath.
She leans back in the chair.
And lets the evening unfold.
Exactly.
As it is.
After some time.
Rises slowly stretching her arms above her head.
The book lies open on the table beside her half-finished cup of tea.
The candles softening to smaller flames.
Bread lifts his head and she moves and thumps his tail once.
Before resting again she tidies the table.
Rinses her plate.
And sets everything neatly for the morning.
The way she likes it.
So that tomorrow begins calm.
He blows out the candles.
By one.
Pausing between each.
As though thanking them for their light.
The cabin darkens.
But it isn't a heavy darkness.
It feels gentle.
Like a blanket.
Drawn over the day.
Upstairs.
She can still hear the fire.
The air is cooler.
And she changes into her nightshirt.
And brushes her hair by the small mirror.
Outside.
The moon is bright enough.
To paint the edge of the window frame.
She pulls back the curtain and looks out.
The forest is quiet.
Silvered by moonlight.
The trees standing still as if listening.
She whispers.
To them.
To the world.
Fred settles on his rug at the foot of the bed.
Melissa curls into a tight circle on the chair.
And hope slips beneath the covers.
The sheets are cool at first.
Then quickly warm.
She lies on her back for a moment.
Ends on her stomach.
And breathed deeply.
The smell of wood smoke.
Lingers faintly in the room.
Her thoughts drift lightly.
To Martha's apple.
To her father's words.
To the chapter she read.
Everything feels connected somehow.
Part of a quiet pattern.
That doesn't need to be understood.
As her eyes close.
She feels the simple weight of her body.
Sinking into the mattress.
The comforts of being home.
The steady breath.
Of sleep approaching.
Before she drifts off completely.
She thinks.
This.
Was a good day.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing grand.
Just a day.
Fully.
Kindly.
As if it were enough.
And it.
Was.
