Now,
Just close your eyes and take one breath in through the nose,
Deep into the diaphragm and out through the mouth.
Not a big dramatic breath,
Just a breath that says,
I'm here now.
And wherever you've been today,
Whatever your mind has been turning over,
Replaying,
Planning,
Worrying,
Solving,
You don't have to do any of that for the next 19 minutes.
I'm going to take you somewhere,
Somewhere that once you find it,
You can return to whenever you need it,
A place that belongs to you,
That will always be exactly as you left it.
So just let your body settle,
Feel the wonderful weight of yourself,
Feel the chair,
The floor,
The bed,
Whatever is beneath you right now.
Let it hold you completely.
You are always held.
Good.
Now follow me.
Imagine you are standing at the end of a long corridor.
The floor beneath you is stone,
Smooth and cool and worn in the middle from years and years of feet passing over it.
There are lamps along the walls,
Not electric light,
Something older,
Warmer,
Something that flickers just slightly,
Just enough to give that bit of light.
The corridor is quiet,
Completely quiet.
The kind of quiet that has weight to it,
The kind that feels like it has been kept very carefully for a very long time.
Walk slowly now towards the end and there at the far end of the corridor you will find a door.
It's tall,
Certainly taller than it needs to be.
Beautiful wood,
Old and gorgeous to the touch,
With a handle made of something that catches the lamplight,
Brass maybe,
Or something older than brass.
Somehow you already sense what's going to be behind that door.
Something in you has always known this place was here.
You reach out and take the handle and you notice how it feels in your hand and you open the door.
Oh books,
From floor to ceiling,
And the ceiling is very,
Very high.
There are books everywhere,
Every wall covered,
Not in rows exactly,
But in a way that feels entirely right,
Entirely considered,
As if each book knows exactly where it belongs,
Each book has a home.
As you look around in wonder,
The spines of the books are every colour you can imagine,
Every age.
You have deep blues and forest greens and warm burgundies,
And the particular faded gold of a book that has been loved for a very long time.
And there are rolling ladders,
Rolling ladders on brass rails that curve along the shelves.
There are low wooden reading tables with green shaded lamps casting pools of amber light onto the tables.
There are armchairs,
Deep old armchairs that look as though they were placed there specifically for someone who needed to disappear into them just for a little while.
And in the distance,
There is a huge beautiful window,
Only looking onto a beautiful green lush scenery.
What does the room smell like?
Take a breath,
Right now.
What do you smell?
Do you smell the old paper and the wood,
Or something faintly sweet,
Perhaps beeswax or cedar?
Or perhaps you notice the scent of a room that has held thousands upon thousands of stories and memories,
And is entirely at peace with that.
Notice how your shoulders drop when you breathe in this wonderful scent,
And as you breathe in this beautiful image of all that wonderful literature,
All those stories.
And notice how something in your chest unclenches,
Just slightly.
You are the only person here,
And this library exists for no one other than you.
Just walk around and let the door close softly behind you.
You can go anywhere you like.
You can touch the spines of the books as you pass them,
Feel the textures of the cloth covers,
The slight coolness of the leather,
The rougher edges of the older volumes.
There is no hurry here.
There has never been any hurry here.
Just take a walk around the room,
Dance around it.
Just enjoy where you are,
Right at this moment.
Now,
As you move slowly along one of the shelves,
Not choosing,
Not searching,
Just drifting,
Something happens.
A book falls.
Not dramatically,
Not loudly,
It simply tips forward very gently from somewhere at about your shoulder height,
And it lands right in your hands,
As if it had been waiting for exactly this moment.
You look down at the book.
The cover is unlike anything you've seen before,
Or perhaps it's exactly like something you've always imagined.
The colour of it,
The feel of it in your hands,
Heavier than it looks,
Or lighter in a way that feels right for you.
There may be a title,
Or there may not.
This book is yours.
You decide.
And when you feel ready,
Just open it.
And as you do so,
As the pages separate for the first time,
Or the thousandth time,
Something extraordinary happens.
A scent rises from the pages.
Breathe it in now,
Very slowly.
It's wonderful.
The scent is different for everyone who holds this book.
It might be something from your childhood,
A garden in summer or a kitchen,
Or the particular smell of rain on a warm pavement.
It might be the sea.
It could be pine needles or old roses or wood smoke.
It might even be something that has no name.
But whatever it is,
Your body recognises it,
Your nervous system knows it.
It's the smell of safety.
The smell of enough,
The smell of,
This is where I can breathe,
This is where I feel home.
Now take another breath of it.
Let it move all the way down into your chest,
Into your belly,
But also up gently into the mind.
You take your book to one of the armchairs.
Where are you going to go?
To the big armchair in the corner of the room?
To one of the chairs near a lamp?
Or are you going to go to the window overlooking that gorgeous green scenery?
Sit yourself down and just feel the arms of the chair on either side of you.
Feel the support of it,
The depth of it,
The comfort of being home.
The book sits open in your lap.
You don't need to read it.
You may wish to,
But you don't need to.
You could simply hold it for a while.
And know that whatever you need from the book right now,
Whatever you need from that scent,
You will receive.
And just stay here for a moment.
Here in this chair,
In this wonderful room,
In this light,
Surrounded by this wonderful scent.
And surrounded by so many wonderful stories.
And notice now how calm your mind is sitting here.
And when you think of all the times that you went into your mind to escape some of the chaos of the world,
You sit here now in joy.
That books,
Which may have been a distraction for a big part of your life,
Have been such a liberation too.
And I want you to know that this place,
This room,
This scent,
This feeling is always here for you.
When the thinking gets too loud,
When the to-do list won't stop,
When you lie awake and your mind refuses to settle,
This library is here.
You close your eyes for a moment now.
And you savour the moment.
And whenever you feel ready,
You can gently close the book.
And you can leave it wherever you like.
On the table in the middle of the room,
Or you could hide it in a special place.
Because wherever you leave it,
It will be right there the next time you come back.
Just waiting for you.
As you place the book now in your chosen place,
You slowly move back to the door.
And as you open it and get ready to leave this room,
You look back one more time,
Moved at what you've just experienced.
How wonderful this place is.
Take as long as you like.
And once you're ready,
Just close the door behind you with a big heavy click.
And start walking back now along that corridor.
And whenever you feel ready,
Just begin to bring your awareness back to the room that you're in.
Feel the weight of your body.
Perhaps move your hands and feet a little.
And become aware of your breath moving in and out.
And take one very deep breath in.
And slowly let it all out.
And when you open your eyes,
You'll bring something of the library back with you.
A little of that quiet,
A little of that peace,
A little of that space.
And perhaps a memory of that wonderful scent.
You know where this room is now.
And you can come back any time you like.
And whenever you now feel ready,
Just open your eyes.
And have a wonderful,
Wonderful day.
