A Christmas Walk For Sleep

Take a walk in the winter snow that glistens in orange street lamps, notice all the things about this time of the year with visualisation as you rest your eyes like cotton wool and prepare for the best night's sleep.

Transcript

You stand at the edge of a woods,

Snow is gently falling around you,

It doesn't rush from the sky,

But rather flutters,

Like feathers slowly drifting from unseen wings.

The air is crisp,

Pure and sweet,

Carrying the faintest scent of pine,

Of distant smoke from wood fires,

Of something older still,

Something almost forgotten.

Beneath your boots,

A foot of snow crunches,

Giving way with a satisfying hush,

Each step feels like a gentle punctuation in the silence.

The snow is thick,

But not difficult to walk on,

It supports your weight with the kindness of freshly fallen powder,

But never wet or slushy.

Each footprint is a quiet claim on the land beneath,

Your coat is thick and heavy,

Its lining smooth against your arms.

Around your neck,

Your scarf is knotted with care,

Brushing the bottom of your chin.

Your gloves are fleece lined,

And your fingers curl easily inside of them,

Warm and snug.

The tip of your nose tingles in the air,

But not uncomfortably.

The woods welcome you.

With trees all around,

Their bark is rough and furrowed,

Each one patterned like the ridges of an old map.

Some are tall and young,

Their branches thin and lifted upward,

Like hopeful hands.

Others are old and wide,

Their trunks curved,

Bent slightly with wisdom,

Their bark touched by the snow.

A quietness rests over everything,

It's not just the hush of nothingness,

It's a hush of reverence.

The kind of silence that you might find in a sacred library.

Above you,

The branches weave together,

Laced with frost,

They shimmer faintly in the moonlight,

Forming arches that seem carved from silvered lace.

Each branch holds the weight of snow gently,

Each needle is a delicate cradle.

You begin to notice things more clearly now,

Tiny crystals of frost that form delicate starbursts on the bark.

The hollow call of an owl somewhere deep within.

A single snowflake caught on your sleeve,

It's shape is perfect and precise.

You walk deeper into the woods,

With every step the world feels softer,

Quieter and even perhaps warmer in your heart.

You see a flicker,

A golden light between the trees,

And then another,

It's a flame.

Soon you arrive at a wide space where the trees seem to bow outward,

Creating a natural amphitheater of sorts.

Here,

Hundreds of candles sit safely in lanterns,

Glass domes and tall torches that lean into the landscape like luminous reeds.

The light seems to dance,

Some flames are still and tall,

Barely moving in the still air.

Others flick rapidly,

Casting long shadows that sway across the white snow.

The candles rest on stumps,

In hanging glass globes,

And on iron stands.

Some are nestled into carved ice pedestals that glow from within.

The smell is of a warm wax,

And a faint wood smoke,

And pine.

Your boots move slowly now,

Each step is lighter than the last.

It feels like walking through a memory you never knew you had.

You stand near one flame.

The glass lantern housing is etched with swirling patterns,

Snowflakes and stars.

Your gloved hand reaches out to feel the heat.

You can feel the heat without touching,

A gentle warmth like being remembered.

You walk through rows of candles arranged in circles.

Some burn low,

Others tall and brilliant.

You notice small plaques beside some,

Engraved with names and years,

Perhaps left in memory,

Perhaps left in hope.

You take a breath,

The air here seems denser,

Not heavy,

Just meaningful.

It feels like time has slowed down,

You walk on.

The trees begin to part gently,

Their branches no longer overlap,

But stretch out creating space.

You step forward and feel the shift before you see it.

The sky opens up,

You enter a wide clearing.

The snow beneath you is untouched,

Soft as powder.

The stars above shine in full,

Unobstructed brilliance.

There is no roof here,

No canopy,

Just the endless night sky.

The moon glows like a pearl,

Perfect and soft,

Close enough to speak to.

The stars do not twinkle like cartoons,

They shimmer,

Pulse and feel alive.

You walk into the middle of the clearing,

And stop.

The silence is absolute,

It's not eerie,

It's comfortable,

Like the world has come to a standstill.

You look up and breathe out,

And for a moment you feel it.

The immensity of everything,

The deep time of the stars,

The soft brevity of snow,

The stillness between heartbeats.

You sit down for a while,

And you gaze up,

Nothing needs to be done,

And there is no expectation here,

Only presence.

Only you and the sky.

The air changes again,

And you can smell the scent of a hint of spice,

Or fir sap,

Of something bittersweet and beautiful.

The trees begin to take shape in more distinctive rows,

You notice the difference in their shape and height.

There is no random forest clearing,

This is a grove of christmas trees.

Some are young and perfectly shaped,

Their branches symmetrical and full,

Their needles vibrant and green.

Others are ancient,

Wide at the base and thin at the top.

Their branches heavy with snow.

Every single one of them is decorated,

Each one tells a story.

One is trimmed with old fashioned tin garlands and miniature toy trains,

Another with cranberry strings and dried orange slices,

Like something from long ago.

You pause in front of a particularly tall tree,

At its tips,

Near the very top,

Are brass candle clips,

In them,

Tiny white candles.

They are unlit now,

But you can imagine their flame flickering in another time.

Their gentle glow on glass ornaments,

How the light must have danced through the needles.

Reflecting in a thousand gentle directions.

You think of how those candles gave way to early bulbs,

Large and colourful and shaped like teardrops,

And then to fairy lights,

Warm and endless.

Then to leds,

That twinkle like stars.

The grove feels layered,

Like time is folded.

Each tree is a different year,

Each decoration,

A chapter.

You walk between them,

Reading with your eyes,

And feeling with your heart.

You pass a tree with a paper angel,

Another with bells tied to its lowest branches,

You hear them jingle quietly in the breeze.

And for a moment,

You are every age you've ever been.

As you exit the grove,

The land slopes gently downwards,

Ahead,

You hear the soft scrape of blades on ice.

And then you see it,

A frozen lake,

Glimmering in the moonlight.

To your left,

A great wooden bridge,

Arches over one end of it,

Connecting two snowy banks.

You approach the bridge that's built from thick timbers,

Its railing carved with patterns of snowflakes,

Pinecones and birds.

As you walk across,

The bridge creaks a little,

In a familiar old wood sort of way.

But it's solid and reassuring.

The sound is muffled slightly by the snow,

Layered across its planks.

Below you,

The lake stretches out like a sheet of glass,

Only slightly misted at its edges.

Skaters glide across its wide arcs,

Their scarves trail behind them,

Their cheeks rosy.

A couple holds hands,

Spinning slowly at the centre.

A golden retriever bounds across the bridge behind you,

Snow spraying with each leap,

Its fur is dusted with flakes,

Its tail wagging like a banner.

It sniffs the air,

Then bolts off to chase a snowball,

Thrown by someone just out of view.

You can sense the unfiltered joy in the air.

You pause in the centre of the bridge,

And rest your gloved hands on the railing.

You breathe,

The air smells of ice,

Pine and a subtle distant cocoa scent.

You could stay here forever,

But the path calls you on.

You begin to walk again.

The frozen lake fades behind you as the path rises gently once more.

The trees begin to thin out,

And the snow continues to fall,

Though more lightly now.

Ahead,

You begin to see the soft curve of a road,

Not paved,

But packed with snow,

Warm by careful footsteps,

And there,

A warm glow.

You step onto the quiet road and lift your gaze.

Old fashioned streetlights stand like tall guardians,

Their curved necks holding wide shallow domes.

From each dome,

An orange light pours downward in soft circles.

The colour is unmistakable,

Amber,

Amber like memory,

Amber like old photographs,

Amber like warmth that lives in the bones.

These lights haven't been replaced yet,

Their glow is not bright enough to startle,

But just enough to gently outline the snowdrifts,

To gild the tops of mailboxes,

To paint the air itself.

You pass beneath them,

One by one.

Your shadow lengthens and shortens,

In time with your steps.

The poles hum faintly,

A gentle buzz.

In between each light,

A pocket of deeper night,

And then warmth again.

Your boots crunch in rhythm,

Your scarf brushes your cheeks,

Your breath curls like ghostly ribbons,

And in this light,

Every detail becomes more vivid.

The snowflakes that land on your gloves and refuse to melt,

The faint glimmer of frost on the wooden fences,

The way your footsteps look like they belong in a painting,

And now,

Ahead on a hill,

You see it.

A church,

Its windows glow with golden light,

Flickering gently.

Perhaps there are candles behind the glass.

You hear the bells before you see the tower,

They chime perfectly.

The sound rolls over the snow,

Like a wave of warmth,

A comfort you didn't know you needed.

You walk past the gate,

Its iron bars lightly frosted,

Past the snow covered garden,

And towards a house nearby.

The house is small,

Timbered,

With deep eaves and heavy shutters,

Its roof is thick with snow,

And there is smoke curling from the chimney.

The porch light is on,

Amber like the street lamps.

You step onto the wooden porch,

It creaks beneath your boots.

A doormat brushed with snow awaits your feet.

Beside the door,

A bundle of birch logs leans in a basket,

And the scent of pine and wood smoke surrounds you.

This is your house,

You open the door,

And the warmth wraps around you,

Like a thick blanket.

Inside,

Your home glows.

Wooden floors,

Woven rugs,

Candles flicker on the windowsills.

You remove your boots and coat slowly.

Your scarf,

Still cool to the touch,

Is draped over a hook.

You walk quietly to the lounge,

The fire is already lit.

Its flames crackle softly,

Throwing shadows that dance along the walls.

In front of the window sits a rocking chair,

Its wide,

Wooden,

With a patchwork quilt that's draped over its back.

You take a seat,

And the chair creaks once,

Gently,

Then settles into a rhythm of its own.

Outside,

Through the frosted glass,

The snow falls in thick,

Silent flakes.

Wind is calm now,

The world is muted.

You wrap the blanket around yourself,

Feeling its soft,

Warm texture.

The fire beside you hisses as it shifts.

The wood releases scents of cedar and something faintly sweet,

Like cloves.

You feel the weight of your body in the chair,

Your spine settling,

Your breath slowing down.

You are not cold,

You are not busy,

You are beginning to relax.

Outside,

The snow falls,

Each flake is like a lullaby,

Each moment is a breath.

The orange glow from the street lamps filters faintly through the window.

You can still faintly hear the church bells,

In your memory.

The dog you saw is probably curled up by someone's fire now,

And the skaters have perhaps returned home.

But you,

You are still here,

And the world has slowed down,

Just for you.

Your eyelids grow heavier,

Your thoughts drift like snowflakes,

Unhurried and light.

The blanket is warm,

The fire is steady,

The chair rocks gently,

Barely moving at all.

You are safe,

And you are already dreaming.

You are safe here,

Wrapped in warmth and winters quiet calmness.

Your breath flows easily,

Like snow drifting gently to the ground.

You are held by the hush of the woods,

And the softness beneath your feet.

Your body is warm,

Your heart is still,

And your spirit is at ease.

The candle light around you,

Soothes every part of your mind and body.

The flicker of every flame,

Reminds you that you're never alone.

Your mind quiet with each snowflake that passes the window.

You are allowed to rest,

Just as the forest rests under its snowy blanket.

You are connected to everything.

You release the day with every breath out.

Peace flows through you,

Like moonlight on snow.

You belong to this quiet moment.

The bridge you cross,

Leads you to rest and surrender.

Your heart softens with every breath.

The glow of the orange street lamps,

Comforts your spirit.

You are no longer moving towards sleep,

You are already there.

You are allowed to do nothing,

And simply be.

Your dreams are waiting for you.

Tonight,

And every night,

You are safe to let go,

And fall asleep.

Your muscles release as you fall asleep.

Let go.

Reviews

This beautiful holiday visualization made me feel so peaceful. Thank you.