Welcome to your sleep story.
The cabin beneath the moon.
If you're ready,
I'm ready.
You can settle into bed.
While we take this little walk.
Allowing the pillow to receive your beautiful head.
And arrange the covers as you like them.
Your eyes may close whenever they wish.
And there is no need to remember the story.
Or stay until it's ending.
Will still lead to the cabin.
And if you drift away along the way.
That will be sleep.
It is an evening in early autumn.
And you are standing at the edge of a meadow.
A beautiful meadow.
The moon has risen above the trees.
Large enough to light the pale gravel path.
The curves ahead.
And you walk.
Up ahead in the distance.
A cabin window shines a soft amber light.
You know the way.
You've been here before.
It's a short walk.
And tonight,
There is no reason to hurry.
The air has that particular freshness that arrives after sunset.
A little coolness touches your cheeks.
Your coat is warm around your shoulders and your hands rest easily in its pockets.
Along the meadow's edge,
The grasses.
Begun to bend beneath the first silver beads of dew.
The scent.
Is almost enough.
Put you down to rest.
And you walk.
Your steps.
Along the path.
And the path is firm beneath your feet.
There is a little movement through the ankle and knees.
And a brief moment when the Earth receives your weight.
You let the next step arrive in its own time.
Breathing effortlessly.
Stepping.
Along the path.
And a few flat stones have been set into the gravel.
Some are pale and smooth.
Others hold small flecks that catch the moonlight.
You notice one.
Than another.
Until your gaze begins to include more of the meadow.
The stones at your feet.
The grass is beside you.
And the great broad stretch of sky overhead.
There is so much room for all of it.
And your attention can rest on the path.
While the night remains around you.
Walking.
Softly walking.
Somewhere in the distance.
A bird gives one small call.
And falls quiet.
And the sound seems to make the meadow larger.
You hear the hush that follows.
And then the soft brushing of your coat as you walk.
The path.
Turns towards a stand of tall pines.
Their branches are high.
Leaving plenty of space beneath them.
The moonlight reaches through the long long uneven patches.
Pine needles have gathered at the edge of the path.
Where your shoes touches them.
And the sound of your steps change,
Becoming softer.
And the scent of the trees is faint,
Yet familiar.
You breathe as you walk,
Inhaling.
And exhaling.
Without needing to keep your breath.
In time with your feet.
Sometimes a breath lasts a step or two.
Sometimes you pause besides a tree and let it come and go while you stand still.
And the breath is easy.
And effortless.
As if it's taking you.
And there's a pine that has a low branch that reaches out to you over the path.
And you pass beneath it easily.
Its shadow rests upon your face,
Your sleeve,
For a moment.
And then slips away.
As you continue to walk.
And beyond the trees a narrow stream runs through the meadow.
A small wooden bridge crosses it.
Only a few steps from one bank to the other.
Its handrail has been smoothed by weather and by the many hands.
Place your palm there and feel the cool wood.
And below the water moves around.
All the stones that have become softened by the water.
The moonlight gathers on their wet surface.
A fallen leaf turns slowly.
In a shallow pool.
And then continues downstream.
You watch silently on the bridge.
Just watching.
And there is the rail beneath your hand.
And the quiet movement of water.
And the space between the banks.
You can notice them together without choosing which matters most.
It all matters.
And if a thought from the day comes along,
It can accompany you here.
You do not need to stop.
You don't need to figure it out.
The stream continues moving.
Your hand remains on the rail.
And after a few moments,
You lift your palm and take the few steps.
To the other side.
The cabin is closer now.
You can see its steep roof and the little porch beneath it.
Climbing vine has left a handful of rust-colored leaves around the post.
One leaf lifts in the breeze.
Showing its pale underside.
And beside the path stands a wooden bench.
That someone is placed to cushion on.
Just at one end.
You've been here before.
You sit for a moment before going inside.
And you feel the support beneath you.
Your feet rest on the ground.
Your hands lie loosely in your lap.
And you feel the warmth of your coat.
And from here,
The cabin looks especially quiet.
The curtain hangs beside the lit window.
And on the sill is a small,
Beautiful ball.
The bowl holds nothing.
It is simply there.
Its curved edges catch the light.
And you notice how the night surrounds the cabin.
The space above its roof.
The meadow on either side.
The trees behind it.
The house is small.
The warm place within.
All that openness.
There is an openness to the space.
Sitting on the bench you remember the feeling of arriving somewhere and being welcomed.
Perhaps it is only a small memory.
A door opening.
A place made.
Beside someone,
A familiar voice.
You being welcomed.
Allowing the details growing quietly.
Keeping whatever warmth is available.
The cabin door is waiting just a few steps away.
It's waiting for you.
And you stand when you're ready and cross the porch.
The brass latch is cool beneath your fingers.
It lifts with a soft click.
The door opens.
And inside the room smells faintly of cedar and clean linen.
A lamp lights a circle.
On a wooden table.
There are two comfortable chairs.
A woven rug.
A shelf holding a few well-used books.
Books you've read before.
In the corner.
A closed iron stove gives off a gentle warmth.
The evening fire has settled to embers.
And the temperature is perfect.
You close the door and hang your coat on a peg.
Your shoes come off besides the mat.
There is a pleasant change as your feet meet the rug.
The day's firm souls giving way to something soft.
You're welcome here.
You settle into the chair nearest the window.
Its cushion has a shallow hollow.
As if it has been expecting someone to sit there.
A wool blanket lies folded over the arms.
You open it across your lap and tuck one edge around your feet.
Becoming cozy.
The room holds several sounds.
And the stove makes an occasional tick.
The wind touches the eaves.
A floorboard settles somewhere beneath you.
Between them all,
There's quiet.
Your eyes move to the window.
Beyond the glass.
To the moonlit meadow.
Soft arrangement of silver and shadow.
You can notice the room's warmth and imagine the cool air outside.
Both belonged to this precious evening.
You are here.
Resting.
And your hands are warm beneath the blanket.
And your face feels the slightly cooler air above it.
There's weight where the blanket rests.
And lightness where the shoulders no longer carry your coat.
And for just a while you simply sit.
You sit with these small indifferences.
Warmth and coolness.
Weight and lightness.
Quiet room in the open night.
And a book rests on the table within reach.
Looking at its faded cloth cover.
Leaving it where it is.
Tonight the chair and the window are enough.
Just being.
Resting.
And watching.
The beams of light.
And when sleep begins to draw near.
You rise and walk towards the bedroom.
It is just beyond an open doorway.
Bed stands beneath the sloping ceiling,
Covered in a cream-colored quilt.
At its foot is a folded blanket.
And a small lamp glows on the bedside table.
You turn back once to lower the lamp in the sitting room.
The stove remains closed,
Its embers slowly fading.
Heat.
Continues to fill the room.
Entering the bedroom.
Allowing the door to rest.
Looking at the mattress.
And it takes your weight as you sit down.
Lift the quilt and slip beneath it.
The sheets are cool at first.
When you arrange the pillow,
Move one leg,
Then the other.
Discovering the position that asks very little of you.
Inviting you to rest.
Inviting you to sleep.
And your feet have finished their walk.
And the links can lie where they are.
Pelvis and back are received by the bed.
And your hands find somewhere comfortable to rest.
You notice the pillow beneath the head.
And the room around the bed.
There is space.
Space above the quilt.
Space besides your shoulders.
Beyond the window.
Beyond the meadow that extends towards the little bridge and the pines.
All of it.
All of it can remain there while you rest.
Resting here.
A narrow line of moonlight crosses the floor.
It reaches the end of the bed.
Then disappears beneath the quilt's shadow.
You watch it for a moment.
Or simply imagined its pale shape.
And your breathing body makes a small movement beneath the covers.
While the bed remains steady.
Movement and support together.
And this simple thought passes through.
It passes through you.
I can allow myself to rest here.
I can allow myself to rest here.
And you need only hear it once.
I can allow myself rest here.
And the room grows less detailed as your attention softens.
The lamp is turned down.
World is warm and cozy where it meets your body.
Outside the stream continues through the meadow.
Thought may appear.
And lose its place.
That image may become something else.
The cabin does not need to stay clear.
The body begins to rest.
Sensing the pillow beneath your head.
The covers resting over you.
Little moon lying on the floor.
The farther away the pine branches move.
The water passes beneath the bridge.
And here.
The band holds your weight.
Warmth.
Room to rest.
Sleeping.
Resting.
Peacefully.
The cabin beneath the moon.
Resting.
.
.
Peacefully.
The cabin beneath the moon.
