The Cabin At The End Of The Road

There is a cabin at the end of a long dirt road, and tonight it belongs to you. Come in out of the cold. The fire is already lit. Let the door close behind you, let your shoulders come down from your ears, and let a low, warm voice walk you the rest of the way down into sleep. The story carries you for the first half hour, and then it loosens its hold as a soft bed of sound settles in and stays with you through the night. No sudden sounds. No voice returning to wake you. Just somewhere safe to set your head down until morning. Best in the dark, with your eyes already closed, at a volume you can barely hear. Please do not listen while driving or operating machinery.

Transcript

Let the breath begin to flow. Over the tree. Let your body's rhythms begin to sing. With the natural. Wings. Of nature. The dance of the tree. How they drink the air. The slow. Movement of the moon. Rising over the horizon. Notice how the trees. . . Reflect the light. Notice how if you. . . Listen. With your whole body. You can feel the moonlight. On your skin. You can begin to imagine. The covers of your bed. Becoming. Allowing your mind to relax. To slow down from the rhythm. Of the day. Feeling the drift. And in this place, You can begin to imagine movement. Footstep. Imagine what it might be like to walk slowly. A dirt. The whisper of wind. Between the evergreen. The anticipation. Of arriving. Almost there. You see a light in the distance. Glowing firelight reflecting in a window. Beautifully framed between tall trees. The end of the road. And as you get closer, It seems. . . As if the troubles of the day begin to just start. Like spring. Removing winter frost. The crickets announce your arrival. How wonderful it feels. To finally. . . Now. And you are home. For the evening. The Old Man. Lit a fire in the fireplace for you. Knowing you were arriving soon. You feel your body beginning to anticipate. Being around. Built of cedar. A stone fireplace. Quilted bed. And as you lay your hand on the cold doorknob, You notice the heat. For a minute. You look back. The Starry Sky. The Shadowed Dream. Acknowledging. Transition. Place. To another. The door opens. With you. Movement. And you are greeted. By the smell of wood smoke. The world. Of a small space. The Welcoming Touch. Of an old friend. Loving you with a service. Of a space. Ancient. And relaxing. You step across the threshold. And loosen your boots. You feel. The air on your lips. Sweat damp socks. And pull them off. Feeling. The freedom. Of warm air. The door closes heavily. Solid. And secure. You'd notice the line. And textures in the wood. The Cabin. Is older. Than it looks. Your old friend's grandfather built this place. A man who said. Not a cabin. Does not reveal its name. Until it protects you. You sit down. In a comfortable chair by the fire. Holding your hands. To the world. The warmth flows through your fingers. Down into your palms. Up your wrists and forearms. Flowing slowly. The ache in your bones. To release. The warmth grows on your face. And acknowledgement. Wonder. The sound. Of crackling wood. Massaging your ear. Eventually after. A certain amount of time. You get up. And begin. Remove your coat. You hang it. On a knobby. On the wall. You feel the roughness means. Of the bed frame. You allow your bones. To relax even further. You place another log. Chopped. During the day. Right in the center of the fire. The fire happily. Welcomes it. Hugged with ancient stones. Framed in the heart. You move your spine. Feeling the tension being released. You think of the stories. That are being told. And little aches. And pain. That work themselves out. You reach down to touch your toes. Loving outweigh this body. Has brought you here. And looking around. You see. A tiny little stone. With a kettle. Sitting there. Waiting. For you. You find. Some beautiful. . . Chamomile tea. And you turn on the stovetop. Watching. As the kettle. Begins. To steam. From the he. Smell. The way the wood smoke intermingles with the steam. And just before the kettle begins to whistle loudly. You put the chamomile flower. Into a dry strainer. Pouring the hot water over them. Enjoying the fragrance. The relaxation of earth. Every sense. Reaching for the cup. You feel the heat. And your fingertips. ECHOES of the fireplace. The heat of loving preparation. Familiarity. Gratitude. There's a small bookshelf. With book spines reflecting. In the firelight. The floor creaked. Softly. As you. Slowly shuffle your feet. Along the plush carpet. Holding your tea. You select a beautiful. Leather spine. A book of wishes. And possibility. You take the book. To the chair. Sitting down. You cross your lane. And place the tea. On the table next to you. You take a deep breath. And sink your body into the comfort. Of the cushions. And open the book slowly. Enjoying. The signal. Mixture. Black lettering. The Seraph. Titles of poems. That reflect hope. And light. Within darkness. Narratives. At crisp. Around your mind. Reminding you. Dimensions. Beyond. Present. You read. And listen. To the sound of the pages being turned slowly. After another. You feel the poetry. Penetrating. To your root. Inviting. Motion. Wisdom. To penetrate deeper. Feel the gratitude for the rhythms. Of the storytellers. The ancients. Who seek to remind us. Of who we are. Om. Flowing through this simple body. Set of poems. Expanding. Simple. Experience. In a plush chair. By the fire. Before long you notice. How the poetry reflects. Your own adventure. You feel the onset. Of fatigue. The fire begins to burn low. It's light. Diminishing. You stretch. And take one last sip. Of your tea. And standing up, You place the book. By your cup on the table. You walk to the small bathroom in the back. Of the cabin. And splash. Some water on your face. Slowly. Meticulously. You move through the rhythms of self-care. Flossing. Brushing. Cleaning. Releasing. Purging. Sleep. In the forest. You change into the softest. Pajamas. And slip your body under the beautiful. Quilted. Covers. The weight of which cradles your body. So. Calmly. Like the hug of the mother herself. You feel yourself begin to sink. Into the feather pillow. The crackle of the fire fading. Quieter. And before you drift off completely. You feel. The wonder. Surrounding you. The owl. The Crow. The Evergreens. A snug. Little cabin. Loving you into the deepest. Of beautiful slumber. Reminding you. That you are allowed to relax. You are allowed. To be loved. And support it. Your breathing begins. Just slow. Taking its time. Feel the magic. Of the cabin. Feel it anchor you. The love. Kindness. The self-care. And the mystery. Of the darkness. Cabin at the end of the row. The simplest. Dream. An easeful presence. Are simple. Combination. Of smell. And ancient wisdom. That reminds you in the moment. The softest. Of whisper. You are loved. You are wondrous. You are free.