Find a comfortable position now.
Let your body settle into whatever is beneath you,
The mattress,
The pillow,
The warmth of your covers.
Let your arms rest softly at your sides.
Let your legs be heavy and still.
And take one slow breath in through your nose and a long slow breath out through your mouth.
And again,
Breathing in.
And breathing out,
Letting the day begin to fall away with every breath.
The things you did today.
The things you thought about.
The things you still need to do tomorrow.
Just let them go for now.
Just for tonight.
They will all be there tomorrow if you need them.
But tonight,
You don't need them.
Tonight,
You are going somewhere else entirely.
Take one more slow breath in.
And breathe out all the way.
Until your body feels just a little heavier than it did a moment ago.
That's it.
Now let your eyes close.
Or if they are already closed,
Let them be soft and still.
And let your imagination begin to wake up.
Because tonight we are going on a journey and it begins,
As the best journeys always do,
With a single step.
Imagine that you are standing at the edge of a field.
It is evening.
The sky above you is the colour of a ripe peach,
Soft oranges and pinks,
And the very first hints of purple beginning to gather at the edges.
The air is warm and still,
And smells faintly of grass,
And something sweeter,
Something you can't quite name,
But that feels familiar somehow,
Like a smell from a very long time ago that you had almost forgotten.
The field stretches out around you,
Soft and golden in the evening light.
And at its far edge,
Where the light begins to change and the colours of the day become deeper and more mysterious,
There is a forest.
Not just any forest.
Even from here.
Even standing at this distance with the warm grass beneath your feet and the evening breeze just barely moving the air around you.
You can tell that this forest is different from any you have ever seen.
The trees are taller,
Much taller.
Their trunks are wide and ancient,
Wider than houses some of them,
And their bark is the colour of silver and warm honey.
Their branches reach up and up and up into the sky.
And their leaves catch the last of the evening light.
And turn it into something extraordinary.
Flickers of gold and green.
And a soft impossible blue that you have never seen in any leaf before.
And there is a sound coming from the forest.
Very soft.
Very far away.
Like music,
But not quite music.
Like the forest itself is breathing.
Like it is alive in a way that goes much deeper than the trees and the leaves and the roots.
You stand there for a moment,
Just looking.
And then,
Without quite knowing why,
Without quite deciding to,
You begin to walk toward it.
The grass is soft beneath your feet with every step.
A bird calls somewhere above you.
One long,
Sweet note,
And then fall silent.
The sky deepens around you.
And the forest grows closer.
As you reach the edge of the field,
Where the grass ends and the first great roots of the forest trees begin to rise from the ground like the backs of sleeping giants,
You stop.
And you notice something.
There is a path.
It begins right at your feet,
As if it has always been there,
Waiting for you.
And it winds its way between the roots and into the trees.
It is soft underfoot.
Covered in moss,
The most beautiful moss you have ever seen.
Thick and green and almost glowing in the fading light.
Like a carpet laid out especially for you.
And you know,
With a certainty that comes not from your thinking mind,
But from somewhere deeper and quieter,
That this path is yours.
That it has always been yours.
That the forest has been waiting.
Patiently,
Unhurriedly,
For as long as it is taken.
For you to find it.
So you step onto the path.
And you walk into the forest.
The moment you step between the first trees,
The world changes.
The sounds of the field fall away behind you.
The distant birds.
The soft movement of the evening breeze.
And in their place comes something else.
Something richer and more layered and more beautiful.
The sound of the forest.
Leaves moving very gently far above your head,
Not in the wind exactly,
But as if the trees themselves are shifting,
Breathing,
Settling into the evening.
The soft sound of water somewhere nearby,
A stream perhaps,
Or a trickle of something running over smooth stones.
And beneath all of it.
That sound you heard from the field.
That's almost music.
That deep,
Steady,
Breathing aliveness of a place that has been here since long before you were born and will be here long after.
And that is completely,
Utterly,
Entirely safe.
The light in the forest is different too.
It is softer than the light outside.
More golden.
It comes through the canopy far above in long slanting beams.
Each one full of slowly turning motes of light,
Like tiny stars drifting through the air.
You reach out your hand and let one of the beams fall across your palm.
And the warmth of it is extraordinary.
Gentle and deep.
Like sunlight after a long winter.
Like something that knows you and is glad you are here.
You walk on.
The path winds between the great trees,
Each one taller and wider than the last,
Each one more extraordinary.
Some of them have faces in their bark,
Not frightening faces,
But kind ones.
Old and still and full of a patience so deep it makes you feel calm just to look at them.
They have been standing here for hundreds of years.
For thousands perhaps.
And they are completely,
Absolutely untroubled,
As if they know something that you are only just beginning to learn.
That everything is going to be alright.
You breathe that in as you walk.
The smell of the forest.
Moss and warm bark and something sweet,
Like honey or like rain on warm earth.
Or like the smell of a very good book.
Rich and layered and completely unlike anything in the ordinary world.
And with every step.
Every soft footfall on the mossy path.
You feel something loosening in you.
Some tightness that you have been carrying all day,
Perhaps all week.
Perhaps for much longer than that.
Some knot of thoughts and worries and things left undone,
Just loosening.
Just beginning very gently to let go.
You don't have to do anything with that.
You don't have to fix it or understand it or make it mean something.
Just let it loosen.
Just walk.
Just breathe.
Just be here in this extraordinary forest.
On this path that was made for you.
In this light that is glad you came.
You have been walking for a little while.
You are not sure how long because time moves differently in this forest,
More slowly and more kindly.
When you notice something in the moss beside the path.
A light,
Very small.
Very soft.
Like a star that has fallen from the sky and decided to stay.
You slow down.
And you look closer.
And you see it.
Sitting in the moss,
Perfectly still.
Looking up at you with eyes the colour of warm amber.
Is the tiniest creature you have ever seen.
It is no bigger than your hand.
Its skin,
If skin is the right word,
Seems to be made of something between light and shadow.
Something that shifts and glimmers as it moves.
And it glows very softly,
Very warmly.
Like a candle seen through a curtain.
It does not seem afraid of you at all.
It tilts its tiny head to one side.
And regards you with those amber eyes,
And then it speaks.
Its voice is like the sound of a very small bell.
Clear and pure.
And just at the edge of hearing.
You were carrying something.
It says.
You look at it.
From the day,
It says.
You brought it with you.
You always do.
Most people do.
You think about your day,
The things that happen.
The things it didn't.
The thoughts you turned over and over.
The worries that followed you from morning to evening like shadows you couldn't quite shake.
The tiny creature nods.
As if it can see all of it.
You don't need to carry it here,
It says.
This forest doesn't need any of it.
And neither do you.
Not tonight.
It reaches out one tiny glowing hand and very gently,
Very softly,
It touches the air in front of you.
And you feel it,
Something leaving.
Something releasing from your shoulders,
Your chest,
Your busy mind.
Like a bag that has been put down after a very long walk.
Like a breath that has been held for too long and is finally completely let out.
Leave it at the edge of the path,
The creature says.
It will be there when you come back.
But tonight,
You don't need it.
Tonight you are free.
And it smiles at you,
The warmest,
Most ancient smile you have ever seen on such a tiny face.
And then,
Very quietly,
Like a flame that has decided to rest,
Its light softens,
And it settles back into the moss and is still.
You stand there for a moment,
Just breathing.
Just feeling that extraordinary lightness,
The lightness of something put down,
Something released.
And then you walk on.
The forest deepens around you as you go.
The trees grow even taller.
The canopies now so far above that you can barely see them.
Just the impression of leaves and branches and that soft,
Impossible blue-green light filtering down from somewhere high above.
The roots of the trees have grown into incredible shapes,
Arching over the path like doorways,
Curling into spirals and curves that look like they were carved by someone with a great deal of time and a great love of beauty.
Flowers grow in the spaces between the roots.
You have never seen flowers like these.
Some of them glow very softly in shades of silver and violet and the palest,
Most delicate gold.
Some of them seem to be made of light itself rather than petals.
And they smell incredible.
Each one different.
One like warm vanilla.
One like rain.
One like the very first morning of spring.
You breathe them in as you walk.
Slowly.
Gratefully.
And then from somewhere above you comes a sound.
Very soft.
Very still.
A single long note held perfectly in the air.
You look up.
And there.
Sitting on a branch just above the path,
Close enough that you can see every detail of it.
Is a noun.
But not an ordinary owl.
This owl is the colour of moonlight.
Its feathers are silver white with the faintest traces of gold.
And its eyes,
Large and round and completely calm,
Are the deep,
Warm amber of autumn leaves in afternoon sun.
It sits completely still,
Completely at ease.
As if it has been sitting on this branch for a very long time and is in absolutely no hurry to be anywhere else.
It looks at you.
And you look at it.
And for a moment,
Just a moment,
You feel what it would be like to be that still.
Dot com They're completely,
Utterly unhurried.
The owl blinks,
Slowly,
Like sunlight moving across a wall.
And then it speaks.
Its voice is low and warm and very,
Very calm.
Like the sound of a fire in a quiet room.
You are safe,
It says.
I want you to know that.
Completely and utterly safe.
Nothing in this forest will harm you.
Nothing in the night will reach you here.
You are held by the trees.
By the path beneath your feet.
By the forest itself.
It has always held you.
Even when you didn't know it.
Even on the nights when you lay awake and the dark felt very large and very close.
The forest was here.
And you were held.
You feel something in your chest,
Something warm and tight begin to soften.
You don't have to be on guard tonight,
The owl says.
You don't have to watch for anything.
You don't have to be ready for anything.
You can simply rest.
You can simply let go.
The night will take care of itself,
And you can rest.
You can sleep.
It blinks again,
That long,
Slow,
Moonlit blink.
You are safe,
It says again.
Remember that.
Whatever the night brings,
You are safe.
And the forest is watching.
And everything is going to be alright.
And then,
With one great silent sweep of its silver wings,
The owl lifts from the branch and rises up into the canopy above,
Disappearing between the leaves like a thought you were just about to have,
But let drift away instead.
And you stand there in the soft forest light,
Feeling the truth of those words settling into you.
Safe.
You are safe.
You breathe it in.
You let it reach all the way down.
Into the parts of you that have been quietly tense and quietly watchful without you even realizing.
And you let those parts soften just a little.
Just enough.
And you walk on.
The path curves now,
Gently,
Unhurriedly,
Around the base of the greatest tree you have ever seen.
It is enormous.
Ancient beyond imagining.
Its trunk is so wide that you could walk around it for a full minute and not come back to where you started.
Its bark is the colour of warm silver and deep gold,
Smooth in some places,
Beautifully textured in others.
Covered in the most extraordinary patterns that look almost like writing,
Though not in any language you know.
The patterns seem to shift very slightly as you look at them,
As if the tree is breathing.
As if it is alive in a way that goes far deeper than just the roots and the sap and the growing.
And dare.
Set into the bark.
At exactly your height,
Perfectly placed as if someone put it there knowing exactly where your eyes would fall.
Is a door.
It is small,
Just a little taller than you,
Made of wood so old it has gone almost black,
With grain that spirals like water,
And a handle made of something that glows,
Faintly,
Warmly,
Like the last ember in a fire.
You stop.
You look at the door.
And you know with absolute certainty,
With a knowing that comes from somewhere deep in your bones,
That this door is for you.
Not for everyone.
The tiny glowing creature told you the forest reveals itself only to those who are ready.
And the owl told you,
You are held,
You are safe.
And now.
.
.
Here is the door.
Here is the proof that the forest has been waiting for you,
That you are one of the chosen ones.
One of the people who can see what others cannot.
One of the people for whom the forest has been keeping this secret patiently.
Lovingly.
For as long as it is taken.
You reach out your hand.
The handle is warm beneath your fingers.
Warmer than you expected.
Warm like a held hand.
Warm like a hug.
Warm like coming home.
You turn it and the door opens.
Beyond the door is light.
Warm,
Golden,
Completely welcoming light.
You step through and the door closes softly behind you.
And you find yourself standing in a small clearing inside the heart of the tree.
Except it is not quite inside the tree.
It is somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere that could not possibly fit inside any tree,
And yet here it is,
Perfectly real.
Perfectly solid.
Perfectly.
Completely.
Incredible.
A path of smooth round stones leads from where you are standing,
Each stone glowing very softly.
Like moonlight stored in rocks.
Toward a small cottage.
The cottage is small and perfectly shaped.
The kind of cottage that looks as if it grew here rather than being built.
Its walls are made of warm,
Pale stone covered in something that might be ivy,
But glows softly silver in the evening light.
Its roof is deep and mossy,
And a thin thread of smoke rises from its chimney into the clear night sky above.
Because here,
Inside the tree,
The sky is full of stars,
More stars than you have ever seen,
So many that the night itself seems to glow.
The windows of the cottage are lit from within.
A warm amber light that spills out across the stone path and reaches towards you like a welcome.
And standing at the door of the cottage.
Waiting.
Completely still.
Completely calm.
Is a figure.
They are neither old nor young.
Neither tall nor small.
They are simply kind.
That is the only word.
Everything about them.
The set of their face.
The way they stand.
The way their eyes find yours across the distance between you.
Speaks of a kindness so deep and so uncomplicated.
And sew completely without condition.
That you feel for a moment that you might cry.
Not from sadness.
From relief.
From the feeling of being expected.
Of being waited for.
Of arriving somewhere that has always known you were coming.
They raise one hand in greeting.
And you walk toward them.
Down the glowing path.
Between the softly lit stones toward the warmth and the light and the smell of something wonderful drifting from the cottage.
Warm bread perhaps,
Or honey,
Or something that has no name but smells exactly like safety.
When you reach the door,
The figure smiles at you,
And it is the most peaceful smile you have ever seen.
They reach inside the door and bring out a lantern.
It is small and perfectly round and made of something clear as glass.
And inside it.
Glowing steadily and warmly.
Like a captured piece of starlight.
Is aflame.
Not a fierce flame.
A quiet one.
A gentle one.
The kind of flame that does not flicker.
The kind that simply glows.
Steadily and surely and without any fuss.
They hold it out to you.
You take it.
And the moment it is in your hands you feel it.
The warmth of it moving through your palms and up your arms and spreading through your whole body.
Like the first sip of something warm on a cold evening.
Like the feeling of lying down after a very long day.
Like the feeling of arriving at last somewhere you have been walking toward for a very long time.
The figure looks at you for one long moment.
And their eyes say something that their voice does not need to.
This place is yours.
It has always been yours.
And you can come back here anytime.
Any night.
Any moment when the dark feels too large or sleep feels too far away.
Just close your eyes and find the path.
Find the door.
Come back to this light.
This warm.
This cottage,
It will always be here.
You will always be welcome.
This is your safe space.
And it belongs to you completely.
And forever.
And then,
With the quietest,
Most peaceful nod,
They turn.
And walk back into the forest.
You watch them go,
Their figure growing smaller between the trees until all you can see is a suggestion of them between the roots and the shadows.
And then,
Nothing.
Just the forest.
Just the trees.
Just the soft,
Steady,
Ancient breathing of a world that is completely at peace.
You turn back to the cottage.
The door is open.
The light is warm.
The smell of safety drifts out to meet you.
You step inside.
The cottage is small and perfect.
A fire burns in the grate,
Low and steady and completely contented,
The flames moving slowly,
Almost lazily,
As if they too were thinking about sleep.
Before the fire are two chairs,
Deep and soft.
And covered in something warm.
Beside one of the chairs is a small table with a cup of something steaming gently on it.
Something warm and sweet and good.
The walls of the cottage are lined with shelves,
And on the shelves are things that make you feel calm just to look at them.
Smooth stones and small bottles of colored glass and bundles of dried flowers that smell of lavender and something else.
Something richer and sweeter and completely soothing.
There is a bed.
It is the most comfortable looking bed you have ever seen.
Deep and soft and covered in the warmest,
Most perfectly weighted blankets.
The pillows are fat and cool and perfectly shaped.
And the sheets,
Crisp and clean in the colour of the palest cream,
Are turned down just for you.
Just waiting.
You set your lantern on the small table beside the bed.
Its light fills the room with a warm golden glow,
Steady and quiet and completely without fuss.
You sit on the edge of the bed.
And you feel it immediately,
The way the mattress receives you.
The way everything about this bed says,
Yes,
You,
Here,
Now,
This is where you were meant to be.
You lie down.
The pillows are exactly right.
The blankets are exactly the right weight.
The temperature of the room,
Warmed by the fire,
Cooled just slightly by the night air from the stars above,
Is exactly,
Perfectly right.
You look at the lantern.
At its quiet,
Steady,
Golden flame.
And you remember what the keeper said.
Without words but with perfect clarity.
This place is yours.
Anytime.
Any night.
Just close your eyes and find the door.
You close your eyes.
The warmth of the blankets wraps around you.
The fire settles in the grate.
One soft,
Comfortable sound.
The lantern glows beside you.
The forest breathes outside,
Ancient and vast and completely safe.
And you breathe with it.
In,
Slow and deep.
Out,
Long and easy,
In,
Out.
Out.
The thoughts of the day are very far away now.
Left on the path at the edge of the forest where the tiny glowing creature asked you to set them down.
They will be there if you need them.
But tonight.
.
.
You don't.
The worries are very far away,
Left somewhere between the roots and the flowers and the silver light.
The owl is watching.
The forest is holding.
Everything is going to be alright.
And you are here.
In your cottage.
In your safe place.
With your lantern glowing quietly beside you and the fire breathing softly in the grate and the stars,
So many stars,
Keeping watch above.
There is nothing you need to do.
Nothing you need to solve.
Nothing you need to be or become.
Or a member.
Or figure out.
Just this.
Just the breath.
Just the warmth.
Adjust the light.
Breathing in slowly.
Breathing out all the way.
Breathing in.
Breathing out.
The fire settles again,
A soft,
Sleepy sound.
Your body is very heavy now.
Very warm.
Very still.
Your mind is very quiet.
Very soft.
Very far from the ordinary world and everything it asks of you.
You are at the edge of something.
The edge between waking and sleeping.
That soft,
Warm,
Beautiful place where the world becomes gentle.
And the thoughts become like clouds and everything,
Everything is safe.
And warm.
And well.
Let yourself drift there.
Just breathe.
Just be here.
In your cottage.
In your forest.
At the edge of the world.
Where the ordinary ends.
And the magical begins.
And you,
You are right here.
Right at that edge.
Warm and held.
And completely at peace.
Breathing in.
Breathing out.
The lantern glows.
The fire breathes.
The stars keep watch.
And you.
You are already almost there.
Just let go.
Just let the breath carry you.
Just drift.
Into the warmth.
Into the quiet.
Into the deep.
Beautiful restorative dark of a night that holds you completely.
You are safe.
You are held.
You are home.
Sleep now.
And whenever you wake in the night if sleep feels far away.
Just close your eyes and find the path.
Find the moth beneath your feet.
Find the door in the ancient tree.
Turn the handle.
Warm as a held hand.
And step inside.
Your cottage is always there.
Your lantern is always glowing.
And you are always,
Always.
Welcome.
Good night.
You you
