A Woodland Winter Solstice | Yuletide Sleep Story

In tonight’s fantasy sleep story, winter approaches in the enchanted grove where you live among the gnomes, fairies, sprites, and woodland animals. On the Winter Solstice, you come together to honor the changing season and demonstrate your commitment to the collective. Snow may be starting to fall on the branches of your beloved trees, but your community generates infinite warmth. Concludes with a series of positive affirmations for the Yuletide season.

Music & Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Watercolor Motion by Trevor Kowalski, Binaural Overlay by Joseph Beg, Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Enjoy a festive solstice celebration with fairies,

Forest creatures,

And woodland sprites in this wintry bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep.

If you are still awake at the end of the story,

I'll guide you through a relaxing meditation with positive affirmations for the winter solstice.

In tonight's story,

Winter approaches in the enchanted grove where you live among the gnomes,

Fairies,

Sprites,

And woodland animals.

On the winter solstice,

You come together to honor the changing season and demonstrate your commitment to the collective.

Snow may be starting to fall on the branches of your beloved trees,

But your community generates infinite warmth.

Villagers of this frosty tide,

Let your doors swing open wide.

The wind may follow and snow beside,

Yet draw us in by your fire to bide.

Joy shall be yours in the morning.

Kenneth Graham,

The Wind in the Willows At the center of everything,

The center of your life,

Your community,

The whole seemingly infinite forest,

There is a tree,

An oak tree to be exact,

Older than the living memory of any of the denizens of the forest,

Perhaps older than time itself.

For a tree of such venerable stature,

Time surely seems a trivial thing.

The seasons come and go,

The trunk twists and spirals toward the sky,

The limbs trace their incomprehensible patterns,

Tangling with neighbors,

Sagging with age,

And the irrepressible tug of gravity.

Buds burst and bloom,

Acorns swell and tumble to the soil,

Wind tickles the leaves.

A million tiny lives must whiz by in an instant when you're a tree.

Old trees are like gods,

They are ringed with memory,

Rooted in mystic wisdom,

And forever objects of awe and generosity.

Even as frost hardens the ground and invites the once vibrant foliage of the forest to recoil,

Even as her limbs lose their leaves and crackle barren under white gold sky,

You still think the old oak looks splendid,

Majestic,

But after all,

She is home.

You and many others have found refuge among her roots,

Limbs,

And hollows.

Most mornings you wake to the music of songbirds who nest in the cavity,

While you nestle,

Snug in your little hollow,

Furnished with the forest's treasures.

You'll often break bread with the squirrel next door,

Or traverse the complex tunnels beneath the roots to visit the rabbit warren.

Some creatures come and go with the seasons,

Making use of the old oak as a temporary shelter.

Migratory birds,

Seasonal sprites,

And so on.

Others,

Like you,

And the rabbits,

And the ancient dryad,

Call her home year-round.

In thanks for her gifts of food,

And shade,

And safe harbor,

You tend to her needs and make offerings.

And at no time of the year is her generosity more deeply felt,

More keenly appreciated,

Than at the doorstep of winter.

When you awoke this morning,

Curled up in your cozy hollow,

Before you even opened your eyes,

You felt the change coming.

A pearly amber shimmered behind your closed eyelids,

The frosty glow of dawn refracted by crystals of ice.

So delicate a glaze of ice,

It melts on first contact with the sun's rays,

Yet leaves behind the smell,

The chilly afterimage,

The sensory ghost of itself.

Winter doesn't always announce her arrival so gently.

Only two seasons ago,

You recall a blustering blizzard about this time.

But this year,

It seems,

The frost fairy danced through pleasantly,

Barely skimming the last of the leaves,

The spindly branches,

The unrelenting asters,

With her wand.

Until this moment,

You've resisted rising from the warmth of your blankets,

Knowing a chill awaits outside your door.

But this is not a day to dilly-dally.

Today,

As evidenced by the first kiss of frost,

Is the winter solstice.

The daylight will be short today.

A long and bitter night will follow.

But you are resolute,

For warmth can be found even in the coldest of winters,

And light on the darkest of nights.

You emerge from the hollow,

Greeting the icy sunshine with a smile.

There's already a flurry of activity down on the forest floor,

You discover.

You climb down the trellis of shelf mushrooms that ring the outside of the trunk,

A perfectly sized spiral staircase.

You stop midway down to knock softly at the trunk.

A moment later,

You hear a cheerful knock in response.

The dryad is awake.

Down on the forest floor,

You greet the busy wood sprites already deep into preparations for the annual solstice celebration this evening.

Those with wings are stringing garlands of fallen needles on the errant knobs and branches of trees and shrubs.

The younger sprites,

Whose wings have not yet budded,

Crush freshly harvested winter berries and stir a large vessel preparing the traditional woodland wassail.

A donzie of gnomes are gathered,

Sitting on rocks and tinkering away at some project.

A closer look shows you they're collaborating on solstice crowns,

Decorative headpieces always presented to two forest residents at the annual gathering,

Designating them the sun and moon for the coming year.

Life in the forest is bound by the seasons,

By the changing light and bounty of nourishment.

You and your fellows mark the time diligently,

Observing the light and dark points of the year in equal measure.

On the longest day,

You rejoice in the persistent sunlight,

The extra hours spent together,

Well-fed and happy.

On the shortest,

You gather to honor the challenges you've overcome,

Standing together against the onset of cold,

Promising to carry each other through.

To the return of the light.

The annual crowning of the sun and moon is a favorite tradition of the winter solstice.

For each year,

Members of your community are appointed to keep the seasonal calendar and oversee the rites of the seasons.

It's a job suited for the most diligent,

Most observant,

And the most sensitive to the needs of others.

Anything I can do to help,

You ask the general company.

If you're not busy,

Comes a voice from behind you.

I could use an extra pair of hands.

You turn around to see Cornelius,

The wood pigeon perched upon a toadstool.

Slung over his back is a satchel,

Full to bursting with packages and parcels,

Some of which are drawn up with twine and bows.

You deduce that he's delivering solstice gifts from all across the forest today.

You warmly accept his plea for assistance.

It's easy enough for him to drop boxes into nests and hollows,

But for the underground woodland residents in particular,

A smaller accomplice is often necessary.

You take a portion of the gifts and set off to make your deliveries.

There's a parcel for the rabbit family that lives beneath the old oak.

You're happy for an excuse to pay them a visit.

The mother rabbit kindle the new litter this season,

And though they're starting to venture out on their own,

The kits still spend most of their time underground.

Given that the parcel is about the size of a rabbit,

Larger even than you,

You find yourself pushing it across the mossy floor toward the opening between roots.

Down you descend into the rabbit hole,

Gliding the package across smoothly dug clay.

You like visiting the rabbit warren.

The vast interconnected network of tunnels always reminds you of the sprawling mystery of the forest.

This subterranean kingdom could stretch on for miles for all you know,

Opening into untold other worlds.

Because the tunnels are dug directly under the ancient majestic oak.

The Lapine architects made use of its sturdy roots in the structure of their home.

They form a kind of spine,

A skeletal system of vaults and buttresses supporting the various tunnels and a great central burrow,

Which the rabbits use as a communal gathering space.

As you throw your weight against the parcel,

You round the last curve in the tunnel that leads to this central burrow.

Peering around the edge of the box,

A great feeling of warmth at once overtakes you.

Dry pine needles cover the floor of the burrow,

And just ahead,

A sheaf of brilliant green juniper stands.

It's decked with feathers,

Dried flowers,

And other treasures rescued from the forest floor.

The rabbits have evidently been busy decorating their shared space for the solstice.

It isn't long before the sounds of tiny thumps echo down another tunnel.

Your face splits into a wide grin as the littlest rabbit kittens bound into the burrow.

Willow,

And Junebug,

And tiny,

Downy-furred Arthur,

His feet too big for his body.

Their exasperated mother enters after them,

Bidding the babies calm their racket.

Presence,

Mother,

They call in a chorus.

Junebug snuggles up to you,

Eyeing the parcel.

You scratch behind her soft bunny ears,

Still small and growing.

Soon,

Thanks to the enthusiasm of the kids,

The whole warren is awake.

And within moments,

The spacious burrow is snug,

With rabbits sniffing at the parcel.

Mother rabbit,

Whose expression is one of resigned,

Blissful exhaustion,

Addresses you.

You'll stay for a cup of tea,

Won't you?

I really should be off on my next delivery,

You say half-heartedly.

But following the pleas of Willow,

Junebug,

And Arthur,

You smile and accept the invitation.

It's warm and pleasant among the rabbits.

You sip a mug of nettle tea as they unpack the gifts from their cousins.

From a neighboring warren,

Far across the downs.

They've sent herbs and flowers from their part of the country.

Dandelion and mint,

Delicacies here in the forest.

And little sparkling gems and crystals too,

At which the kittens marvel.

The morning slips away in the company of rabbits,

Who cannot help but spin tales and songs when they get together.

But you must pull yourself away to finish your duties,

Even as the littlest kids beg you to stay for one more cup of tea.

I hope I'll see you all at the party tonight,

You call as you shuffle backward up the tunnel.

Mother Rabbit sighs as her babies whimper with enthusiasm.

We will make an appearance,

She says,

Then turns to her little ones.

But then it's off to bed for each of you.

A cacophony of cheers echoes all the way up the winding tunnel toward the daylight.

Emerging under the oak,

You find tremendous progress has been made in sprucing up the grove for the celebration.

A whole host of forest creatures have joined in the effort.

You also find that in contrast to the dizzy warmth of the underground hideaway,

The biting cold of the late morning air begins to nip at your face.

You pull your scarf a little tighter around your neck as a shiver runs through you.

Already,

You find yourself longing for the heat of the fire and the heartwarming wassail you'll soon have the chance to drink.

But there are more deliveries to do.

Your small pile of boxes waits beside the toadstool where you left it.

You cheerfully wave to the stoat sisters who scurry by,

Bearing between them a mountainous platter of food for the party.

Your duties take you in and out of the many hideaways in the grove and beyond.

You bring a parcel to Molly the Mole,

Who,

Despite advancing age and diminishing mobility,

Still hopes to attend the festivities tonight.

You promise to send someone to come and collect her,

Should she need someone to lean on.

And you visit the hollyberry fairies in their prickly abode.

They unwrap their gifts before you.

Gowns spun from the finest spider silk,

With a shimmering beauty to rival the gossamer iridescence of their wings.

You'll wear them to the party tonight,

I hope,

You cheer,

As the fairies twirl about in their new threads.

As you go about the last of your deliveries,

A sense of inner warmth seems to radiate from your heart,

Kindled by the brief yet merry encounters with your fellow forest residents.

You feel grateful for the chance to help Cornelius,

Because you so rarely get to visit all these corners of your own community,

Sharing space and time with the wondrously diverse cast of characters who call the forest home.

And to see gifts arrive from friends and family as near as the next grove,

Or as far as the coast,

Reminds you of the unbroken tethers of love and friendship.

That bind all souls.

No matter how far away,

That love,

That intention of affection,

Can travel on the wings of wood pigeons,

Or down the current of a forest stream,

On the breath of the wind,

And through the systems of roots and soil.

As it happens,

When you leave the home of your last parcel delivery,

A hand-knit sweater for the hob who lives in the rotting stump by the river,

Cornelius wings overhead.

You call to him,

And he lands with a flutter on the mossy floor beside you.

Any more I can help with,

You ask,

Eager to lighten his load.

I've just wrapped up,

He replies,

And adds with a wink,

Just dropped off something in a very familiar hollow.

You grin.

The morning has quickly waned to afternoon,

And Cornelius offers you a lift back to the oak grove.

You gladly accept,

For festivities will be starting soon,

And you could use a break from walking the woods.

You climb aboard the pigeon's back,

And heeding his advice to hold on tight,

You cling to his feathers as he lifts off.

It isn't the first time you've flown,

But you find the activity never loses its luster.

An elegant and smooth flyer,

Cornelius takes you up over the treetops.

Bright,

Icy,

Pine-scented air fills your lungs,

And the wind whips your hair.

Growing up in the forest,

There was a time you envied your friends with wings.

You watched with longing the sprites in your own age group sprout their buds,

Which developed into glassy wings and took them anywhere they wished to go.

You even believed you would grow wings one day,

But perhaps yours were just late in blooming.

But,

When summer after summer came,

Without wings,

You at last accepted the way of things.

It was hard not to mourn for this thing you had so coveted.

Flight.

The freedom and infinite thrill of it.

It took time to find,

In yourself,

A tender appreciation for your earthbound nature.

Still,

Whenever the opportunity presents itself to fly,

You seize it.

The forest changes size and scope when you can see it from overhead.

Here,

In the throes of winter's waking,

It gives you a stunning glimpse of a moment of transition.

A bird's-eye view of velvet evergreens,

Fragile golden and brown leaves clinging dearly to the bare branches of deciduous trees.

A patchwork of color,

Quality,

And shape.

From here,

You'd be hard-pressed to identify your ancient oak,

For she seamlessly blends into the blurred landscape below,

One of countless old-growth monuments.

And more fascinating yet,

When you get this chance to rise above the canopy,

You can see beyond the forest.

You are reminded of the sheer size and incalculable grandiosity of the wide world,

Which stretches out into a great expanse.

Rolling hills and rivers,

And even,

As you're told,

The sea.

Vast and churning water,

Other forests,

Cities,

Deserts,

Mountains.

Distant as a legend,

And all but inaccessible,

But nevertheless real.

Real.

Your heart expands when you fly,

When you can grasp,

Not with your senses,

But with an innate stirring,

The profound mystery and incomprehensibility of this earth.

When you realize that your world,

The wide and wondrous forest,

Is but a miniscule fragment of a greater something.

The wind is cold up here,

But you can feel the sleepy sun's heat tempering the steely ice.

Golden rays skim your cheeks and eyelashes as the shortest day hangs on.

And soon Cornelius tips down through scruffy firs and spindly branches.

He soars in a spiral round the trunk of the old oak,

Down and down and down to the forest floor.

Where you slide from his back and get your bearings.

The sun already droops westerly,

Casting long striated shadows across the grove.

Friends and neighbors have begun to gather gleefully under the oaks,

Including the dryad,

Who's come out of her tree trunk hideaway and looks resplendent in a robe of golden oak leaves.

Someone gets a fire going in the center of the grove,

And several move in to warm their hands beside it.

Pink noses and frosty fingers thaw.

You nearly shriek when you realize it's time to go and collect Molly the mole,

And you enlist a pair of strapping gnomes to help you escort her.

By the time you return,

The rabbit family are emerging from the tunnels,

The kittens simply buzzing with joy.

Acorn caps are filled with the steaming wassail and passed round the fire.

You breathe in the scent trails of fresh forest fruit and cinnamon.

The drink warms you down to your toes.

More and more partygoers arrive by twos,

Threes,

And tens.

The hollyberry fairies,

The stump-dwelling hob,

A family of chipmunks from a neighboring knoll,

And even a group of river sprites you've never met.

All are gladly welcome at the solstice fire,

Where old friends rejoice in each other's presence,

And new friendships are continually forged.

Evening falls early,

And a platinum moon,

Just shy of full,

Rises rapidly over the glade.

The fire dances,

Bright and energetic,

Its flames leaping high as if striving to caress that moon.

Among the merrymakers flit last year's crowned representatives of the sun and moon.

Cornelius is the sun,

Of course.

He wears a circlet of dried dandelions on his head.

The moon is Magnolia the wood sprite.

Her lunar crown might as well have been spun with moonbeams,

You think,

As it gleams opalescent in the firelight.

Tonight,

After serving an entire year,

Watching the seasons,

Leading the rites,

And stewarding the forest,

They'll relinquish their crowns and designate the new year's sun and moon.

You love to try and guess who will be chosen.

You scan the crowds now and disquint,

Imagining a solstice crown upon the head of the hob,

Or the robins,

Or mother rabbit.

You dance to the fairy fiddle as the stars light their fires.

Aside from the bonfire,

Hovering will of the wisps lend a gentle,

Luminous glow to the gathering.

A troupe of field mice from upriver file in as the fiddle music ends,

Scarves round their necks and knit caps on their heads.

The party goes quiet as they open their mouths to sing.

They serenade you with beloved solstice songs,

As old as the forest.

It isn't long before revelers join the chorus,

One and two at a time.

You sing along too,

A feeling of cozy community buzzing in your chest.

The act of singing together,

Enlivening the ancient words and rhymes,

Seems to stir up all the long ages of the forest.

You imagine the rings in every tree lighting up,

Itching to dance to a tune that's encoded in their every splinter.

The rocks rumbling in the earth,

The decomposing matter in the soil,

Remembering a time when it was something else,

When it,

Too,

Sang.

After the carolers finish and another round of woodland wassail is poured,

You spot Mother Rabbit wrangling her children to turn in for the night.

But before they make it to the mouth of the tunnel,

Cornelius hops atop a towering stump and hollers for the crowd's attention.

My friends,

He says in his gentle but booming voice,

It is time to crown the new year's sun and moon.

You hear the bunnies squeal,

Little Arthur begging his mother to let them stay just another moment,

Just to see who it is.

Their mother smiles and acquiesces.

Cornelius invites the moon,

Magnolia,

To join him upon the stump,

A veritable pulpit.

She flits up to stand beside him,

Her wings as slender and green as willow leaves.

Wings you once envied,

But now you simply admire.

As you all know by now,

She addresses the party,

We have a tradition in our grove of naming each year a sun and moon.

These are cherished members of our community who are chosen to serve as symbolic leaders in the seasons to come.

They exemplify the qualities of the moon,

Spirit,

Intuition,

And the ability to change.

And the sun,

Cornelius continues,

Warmth,

Nurturing,

Growth,

And resilience.

Throughout the year,

The sun and moon are entrusted to keep the seasonal calendar,

Overseeing the rites of spring,

Summer,

Autumn,

And winter,

And to serve our community in mind,

Body,

And spirit.

Magnolia speaks again.

It is our honor,

As your faithful sun and moon of the diminishing year,

To present the title to our successors.

If the crowns of the new year will be brought forward.

Two of the tinkering gnomes now come forward and pass the crowns to Magnolia.

She sets one down in front of Cornelius and holds the other before her.

The moon crown catches the light of the fire and an audible sound of awe escapes the crowd.

Crafted of snowy owl feathers and glowing mushrooms,

It has an eerie,

Supernal elegance.

You look around at your friends,

Still trying to guess at the crown's recipient,

And see reflected in their eyes its blue-green bioluminescence.

I am pleased to present the lunar crown to someone who embodies our connection to the forest,

Who knows the cycles of the seasons,

And cares for our trees with every action,

Magnolia says.

Our dear Dryad.

The crowd breaks into applause and cheering as your teary-eyed neighbor comes forth to claim her crown.

She towers over the presenting stump,

So she drops to a knee and bows her head as Magnolia places the circlet.

The Dryad seems lit from within,

Beaming as she turns round to display her new adornment.

When the applause subsides,

Cornelius clears his throat.

And I have the pleasure of presenting the solar crown to a member of our community who brings warmth and light everywhere they go.

Someone whose very presence is a form of care,

Who keeps us connected to each other,

No matter how different we are.

Cornelius scoops up the solar crown with a wing,

Bringing it into the light,

Where its lunar counterpart was a thing of ghostly beauty.

This crown is a marvel of majestic splendor.

Around its circumference are a dozen sparkling hunks of amber resin,

As dazzling as the fire,

And reminiscent of liquid sunlight.

On either side of the crown are crooked widths,

And carved to resemble the antlers of a stag.

And then,

Cornelius calls your name.

There is a fraction of a moment of ringing silence after he says it,

A moment of time in which the whole world seems to stop,

The celestial bodies frozen in their patterns,

The wind ceasing to blow,

The fire locked in uncanny stillness.

In the infinitesimal space of this moment,

You find your gaze flicks to the sky.

You hadn't noticed the gauzy clouds rolling in until now.

Against the endless dark of the longest night,

A whisper of snow flurries dance down the sky,

Toward the grove.

Your heart leaps,

And you feel as if you could fly.

And now the party erupts into joyous applause.

The baby bunnies you see out of the corner of your eye are hopping up and down with glee.

The gnomes clap you on the back.

Almost in a daze,

You step forward and allow Cornelius to set the solar crown upon your head.

It's lighter than you expected,

A perfect fit.

After all,

It was made for you.

You turn to behold your friends and neighbors,

Who shout your name and words of praise and delight.

The fire burns and the trees bear witness,

Seeming to bow their branches toward you.

Delicate flakes of snow tumble down on the revelry.

Melting and evaporating instantly as they approach the flame.

Only in the cold,

Dark crevices between roots do small piles accumulate.

The fairy fiddle resumes,

As does dancing and merriment.

You are showered with congratulations and confidence by young and old.

You manage to catch the rabbit family and say goodnight,

Before Mother Rabbit ushers her ecstatic but sleepy bunnies back down the tunnel for bed.

You aren't sure you can ever remember feeling this cheerful.

Funny how that can happen on the longest,

Darkest night of the year,

On winter's snowy doorstep.

But that's just it,

You think.

It's here,

On the threshold of winter,

That we huddle closest together,

When friendship is most essential and is its own kind of physical and spiritual warmth.

The party goes late into the night,

And you and the dryad are implored to lead the dancing.

Pour more acorn goblets of wassail,

And deliver toast after toast.

It's exactly what a solstice gathering should be,

You think.

A communal coming together to nurture and tend to each other in the face of a long and bitter season.

And you,

Of all the wonderful beings who inhabit this sweet grove,

Have been recognized for your warmth,

Your leadership,

And the way you show up for your neighbors.

You cannot think of a higher honor.

Cold creeps in at the edges of the grove,

But here by the fire,

All is warm and welcoming.

And the knowledge that after this night,

The days will lengthen again,

The sun will stay longer in the sky.

That knowledge brings an effervescent lightness to the gathering.

This is,

After all,

A promise,

A covenant of resilience.

You will carry each other.

When,

At last,

You grow weary of dancing,

Caroling,

And catching up with old friends from across the forest,

Your crown beginning to feel heavy on your head,

You bid the party goodnight.

Everyone seems more or less ready to turn in,

But some straggle by the dying fire,

Promising to put out the embers before they retire.

You embrace the dryad,

Your lunar counterpart,

Before turning back to the ancient oak tree,

Who has watched over this celebration so stalwartly in the dark.

Her twisted trunk and bare branches flatten against the sky,

Breaking up the pattern of stars.

Tender exhaustion loosening your limbs,

You hoist yourself up to climb the spiral stairway of shelf mushrooms that lead to the hollow.

As you ascend,

You recall today's flight on the wings of Cornelius,

The setting sun.

Now,

You have risen to the occasion.

You think of the rabbit warren,

Deep in the earth,

Warm and alive and breathing below.

A new appreciation for your own role in the forest blooms within.

You may not have wings,

But you can fly when you want to.

You may not live in the subterranean kingdom,

But you are welcome in the deepest parts of the earth.

You inhabit a space of transition,

Able to walk between worlds,

Connect with all the characters of the forest on their own terms.

There is something quite extraordinary about that,

You realize.

And deep in your heart,

You feel grateful that it's been recognized by your friends.

Finally,

You reach the mouth of the hollow and climb inside.

Not a moment too soon,

As the cold is setting in with the fires diminishing.

Within,

All is comfortable.

The oak tree's great stature shields you from the wind and the biting temperature.

You light the lamps and smile to see a small parcel drawn up with string waiting on your kitchen table,

Just as Cornelius promised.

You look at the tag and recognize the name of a loved one who lives downriver.

But you are too exhausted to open it tonight,

You think.

And after receiving the gift of the solar crown,

Your heart is so full you can hardly bear it.

You lift the crown from your head and place it atop the parcel for now.

They'll both be waiting for you in the morning.

Shuffling off your shoes and climbing into the little bed in the corner,

You snuggle up under the heavy blankets.

You look to the mouth of the hollow and you can see the silent flurries of snow drifting by,

Bouncing on the breeze as if buoyed by laughter.

Faintly,

You can hear conversation and the crackle of a dying fire.

But soon even that noise fades as the last party goers pack up for the night.

You watch the snow for as long as your eyes will stay open,

Which isn't long.

A dreamy smile floats across your face as your eyes flutter closed.

Remembering the feeling of hearing your name.

The whole grove cheering for you,

Celebrating you,

Carrying you.

Your last thought before drifting to sleep is of how deeply you commit to being their sun this year.

How brightly you hope to shine in the coming days,

Rising fuller and finer with each and every dawn.

Life in the forest is bound by the seasons,

But you are also bound to one another by forces stronger than roots or rivers,

By forces of friendship and love.

Take a deep breath in all the way into the belly,

And breathe out.

Let everything go.

Send your awareness throughout the body,

From root to crown.

Notice where you may still be holding on to tension.

Loosen up,

Softening the muscles of the feet,

The knees,

The hips,

The shoulders,

The neck,

And the face.

Let yourself soften and sink.

There is nothing you need to do right now,

But relax.

As you settle in for sleep tonight,

I will guide you through a gentle series of affirmations anchored around themes of the winter solstice and the changing season as a time for reflection,

Resilience,

And grace.

You don't have to do anything but soften and open your heart to receive these messages,

Taking them with you into sleep and into this next turn of the wheel.

You are safe.

You are loved.

You belong.

You are vital to your community.

You are intentional.

You are compassionate.

You are caring.

You are supportive.

You are a good friend.

You are strong.

You are capable.

You can handle this.

You are enough.

You are thoughtful.

You are resilient.

You bring light and warmth to your community.

You embrace change.

You are brave.

You are open-hearted.

You are doing great.

You can handle anything.

You can do hard things.

You are just.

You are free.

You are loved.

You are safe.

You are kind.

You are resilient.

You are enough.

You are everything you need.

Wishing you warmth and light in this time of seasonal transition and best wishes for a bountiful new year.

Blessed Be.

Reviews

🙏🏼

If wintery imagery and cozy community are your thing. This is the story for you.

Lovely

Love it ❤️ I found myself wondering what type of creature the main character was? 🕊❄️

Nurturing and soothing 🙏🧚💗

I love this one, as I love them all.

Wonderful! And I loved the affirmations at the end. Yes, I was still awake! 🥴🙏

Awesome. Was really nice and great. Happy holidays and christmas to you!

🙏🏼

Very soothing and relaxing thank you

Fantastic celebration 🥳

Thank you so much for posting this new solstice practice. As always an amazing story, read so calmly and peacefully. I snoozed for parts and was asleep before the end so will be listening again over the next few nights. I am so grateful and have bought your book, which is also fabulous, for when my partners snoring means I can’t hear you! Thank you 🙏

Got me to deep quick!