Welcome to this visualization.
This is a practice about receptivity.
It's about making a little more room for good things to find you.
Sometimes in ways you might not expect.
We'll spend some time in a garden that exists just for you and later somewhere quieter within it where some things may begin to shift.
There's no pressure to get anything right.
Just allow the images to arrive and let your body respond however it responds.
So firstly.
.
.
Find your way into a position that lets you feel held.
By the chair beneath you.
The bed,
The ground if you're lying down.
And just allow your eyes to close.
And as you do that,
Begin to notice your breath.
No need to change it yet,
Just notice.
Arriving on its own,
Leaving on its own.
And whatever you carry as you arrive here.
You don't need to put it down.
Just let it rest beside you for now,
So if you're ready.
.
.
Just take a nice slow breath in.
And a longer breath out.
And let's do that a couple more times breathing in out through your nose.
One more breathing in.
And exhaling out Let your shoulders soften with this next breath.
Let your jaw loosen.
The small muscles around your eyes letting go of whatever they were holding,
Just feel yourself.
Really beginning to relax.
In your mind's eye now.
I invite you.
To picture.
A garden gate.
It's an old one.
The wood is softened by years of weather.
Maybe there's a little moss at the hinges.
You don't know yet what's on the other side,
You only know.
That it is safe to find out.
So you reach out now.
And place your hand on the gate and you feel the grain of the wood beneath your palm.
Maybe it's cool at first.
Then slowly warming under your touch.
Feel solid.
Real.
You push the gate open.
And notice the sound it makes.
Maybe it's self.
An unhurried sound,
Like it's been waiting.
Beyond the gate.
Is a path.
Stone uneven in places.
Edged with grass that brushes your ankles as you step through.
You notice the light first,
It's late afternoon.
Has a golden edge to it,
Falling at an angle through leaves somewhere above you.
Scattering across the ground in moving patches that shift slightly with each soft breeze.
Feel that warmth touch your face.
There's no destination here.
No task waiting at the end of this path.
Simply a place that exists anew.
Walking through it.
As you begin to walk,
You notice the ground beneath your feet.
Holding your weight,
Asking nothing of you in return.
To your left,
There's a border of flowers you don't quite recognise,
In colours that don't quite exist anywhere else.
Deepest of blues,
The softest of goals.
And a green that seems to hum faintly if you listen closely enough.
And to your right,
There's a low stone wall.
Sunburn.
The kind you could rest your hand on as you pass.
So do that now.
Let your fingers trail along the top of it as you walk.
And just feel the warmth held in the stone.
Just gather there from hours in the sun and feel the warmth passing into your skin.
The air smells of something green.
And something sweeter underneath,
Maybe jasmine or something this garden invented just for you.
And somewhere,
Nearby,
There's water.
You can't see it yet,
But you can hear it a slow steady movement.
Neither rushing nor still.
As you continue along the path.
You notice something up ahead.
A bench.
Half in the sun.
Half in the dappled shade of a low tree,
Its bark pale and smooth.
And you make your way towards it.
In no particular hurry.
And as you walk these last few steps.
Let yourself become aware of something true.
Something good may be on its way to me.
You don't have to believe that yet You don't need to convince yourself.
Just notice what happens in your body when those words pass through.
Does something soften?
Does something resist?
Or does something grow quietly curious?
Whatever happens,
That's data,
That's information.
Reach the bench now and sit.
Feel it support you completely.
The wood beneath you slightly warm where the sun has touched it.
From here,
You can see the whole garden spread out before you.
The path you walked,
The wall,
The flowers,
The light moving slowly across all of it,
Like someone breathing.
And as you sit.
.
.
Notice the tree above you beginning very gently to release something.
Not leaves,
Something smaller,
Something like light.
Or pollen.
Or all like the first soft flakes of a kind of snow that isn't cold at all.
Just drifting down around you,
Slow and unhurried.
Each one as it falls seems to carry something.
A small kinder.
A moment of unexpected ease.
A door opening.
You don't need to catch them,
These moments.
You don't need to do anything with them at all,
Simply let them land.
On your shoulders.
In your hands resting open in your lap.
Your hair.
And just feel the weightlessness of them all.
Barely there and yet.
.
.
Somehow.
You can feel each one arrive.
The smallest pressure,
The smallest warmth again and again.
And as they settle around you,
Let yourself notice.
There is room here.
Room you didn't know you had.
Many of us learn quite recently to keep that room small,
To expect less so disappointment has less to land on.
If that's true for you,
There's nothing wrong with that.
It simply means it might take a moment to feel this receiving space opening.
So let it open slowly at whatever pace.
Feels right.
Place a hand over your heart now if that feels right.
And simply say inwardly.
Thank you.
For trying to protect me.
Pause here.
Let that land however it lands and just see if there's space for one more thought without pressure.
Perhaps I no longer need to expect the worst to stay safe.
Take a breath with that.
Let it settle the way the light is settling around you.
Rest here a few moments longer.
Let the falling light continue.
There's no hurry to what comes next.
And when you feel ready and only then.
Notice the sound of water you heard earlier.
Notice it seems closer now.
As if the path continues just slightly.
Beyond the bench.
Rise when you're ready and follow it.
The path.
The path narrows here.
The trees grow closer together,
Their branches meeting overhead.
And the light is falling differently now.
It's softer,
More dappled,
More hush.
The sound of water grows clearer with each step.
Until you come to a small clearing.
And there it is.
A pool.
Still dark and deep,
Fed by a thin stream slipping quietly over stones at the far edge.
Come to the edge.
Kneel if that feels right or simply stand close enough to see your reflection.
Notice what you see there.
This is a place in the garden few people find.
Because it asks you to slow down enough to hear the water before you can find your way to it.
And you have arrived here.
To sing in its depth.
Things can rest in depth without being lost.
And imagine now that everything you've kept small,
Every hope you've quietly shrunk to keep yourself from disappointment.
Could be set,
Just for now,
Onto the surface of this water,
Not thrown in,
Not buried,
Simply placed there,
The way you'd place a leaf to see if it floats.
You don't have to know yet whether it will.
Take a slow breath in.
And release it.
Long and slow,
As if you were setting something down onto that still surface.
Watch it rest there,
Let the water hold it.
And now notice just beneath the surface.
The faintest light beginning to rise from somewhere deep in the pool.
It's not blinding,
It's simply present.
The way a single lit window appears against a darkening sky.
It rises slowly towards the surface and as it nears,
The water seems to soften.
To glow faintly gold.
The way the sky does in the last moments before dusk.
This light.
Was always there beneath the surface.
And what's changing now is there's enough stillness for you to notice it.
Let it rise fully now until it rests just beneath the water's skin.
Glowing softly.
Lighting the leaves you place there from below.
As it does,
Let these words rise with it,
Quiet as breath.
I am open to unexpected good.
I am becoming someone who receives it.
And let those words settle.
Stay here for as long as feels right.
The pool,
The rising night,
The quiet.
There's nothing here asking anything of you.
And when you're ready,
Rise slowly.
Let your eyes return once more to the path.
It leads back the way you came,
Past the trees growing further apart again,
The light opening up overhead,
Back towards the bench.
Still warm,
Still scattered faintly with the last of the falling light.
Continue on past the stone wall with the flowers and their beautiful colours until you reach the gate standing open exactly as you left it.
Step back through it.
And as you do,
Know.
That none of it disappears,
The gate remains,
The path remains,
The bench and the deep still pool and the light that rose to meet you.
All of it continuing to exist,
Quietly waiting for you whenever you wish to return.
Bring your attention back now to the room around you.
The sounds nearby.
The temperature of your air against the skin,
The solid ground beneath you still holding you exactly as it has the whole time.
Take one more breath in.
And sigh it out.
And when you're ready,
Open your eyes,
Carrying this quiet openness with you.
As something you can always come back to.
