You wake from a gentle sleep and open your eyes to your quiet cosy bedroom.
For a moment,
You simply lay and enjoy the sensation of being warm and relaxed.
Then you stretch.
You get up and cross to the window.
Outside is the still time before dawn.
In the light from your bedroom lamp.
You see that a patina of frost glitters across your garden.
And the meadow beyond.
After getting dressed.
You go downstairs.
Passing from one room to another to draw back the drapes.
You pause in the lounge where the banked fire casts a warm golden light across the familiar room.
As you add fuel to the slumbering fire.
The flames crackle softly and the fire weaves new warmth into the quiet.
Creating a steady,
Comforting rhythm.
The room feels peaceful.
Holding the same stillness as the winter morning beyond the windows.
A small vase on the wooden table holds sprigs of evergreen and winter berries.
A well-worn book rests nearby,
Its pages slightly faded from the many peaceful winter evenings spent by the fire.
You head toward the kitchen.
But pause as you pass the front door.
There is a letter on the doormat.
Post in the haven.
Is common enough.
But quite different from the outside world.
Some people.
Will post their own letters.
They might be village matters,
Like when the little market will be held.
Or invites for a craft evening.
Afternoon tea.
A mill at the old inn.
Or sometimes the pony trap delivers them,
And any parcels that might be sent.
Picking up the letter,
You recognize the flowing,
Familiar script of the old lady.
Inside,
A message is simple yet warm,
Written with thoughtful care.
You can almost see her smile as you read.
Go for a walk this morning under the late stars.
Your steps will be led where you need to go.
I think you'll find something in the quiet that speaks to you.
The words settle gently in your mind.
Sparking a quiet sense of curiosity.
First you have breakfast and a hot drink then put on your outdoor clothes and head outside.
The air is crisp and clear,
Carrying the clean,
Refreshing scent of winter's breath.
The frost-covered ground sparkles under the last light of the stars as dawn approaches.
The world feels hushed,
Not quite awake.
Resting under winter's quiet touch.
You take the path through the small wood,
Which lies quiet.
You can see your way quite clearly in the pre-dawn greyness.
And have gone this way many times.
The winding path seems to have a faint radiance.
Directing your way.
You come to the clearing where the great oak grows,
Its huge and ancient branches standing wide and steadfast against the winter.
You wonder how many winters it has stood here,
Sleeping,
Dreaming,
Roots deep in the earth,
Waiting for the spring.
And you leave the track to approach.
As you draw nearer,
You notice something unusual small tokens placed gently among its roots.
Evergreen sprigs tied with ribbons.
Smooth stones etched with symbols.
And a simple wreath of woven twigs.
Adorned with winter berries.
You pause.
Touched by the quiet thoughtfulness behind these offerings.
They seem to hum faintly with meaning.
Left not for recognition but as quiet symbols of hope and strength.
You take a deep breath.
Feeling something inside you ease.
As though the great oak itself.
Is offering comfort without a word.
You linger there for a moment,
Breathing in the cold,
Dry freshness of the winter air.
Letting the stillness settle over you.
Then continuing on.
You come out into the field of the standing stones.
Where the frost gleams silver.
And beyond,
The fairy wood lies,
Still and deep and mysterious.
Or perhaps not so mysterious to you,
For you have entered it.
When you go through the gate onto the village street you pause and think of what the old lady wrote in her note.
Ordinarily.
You would turn right into the village street.
But this time you choose to go left.
Following the lane that curves upward toward the cliffs.
You take your time looking back on occasion to see the lights from the village windows as people get up and prepare to go about their peaceful day.
It looks like a scene from a gentle painting or card.
Reaching the top of the hill.
You turn toward the cliffs.
There is a faint breeze up here.
And the salt scent of the ocean is stronger.
The sound of the waves meeting the rocky shore below blends with the soft rustling of winter dried grass on the clifftops.
As you look out.
The winter sun suddenly rises from beyond the moors in the east.
Glancing radiant golden light across the sea.
Even though it is winter.
There is a warmth to the sun's touch.
And its light transforms the grayness of the water,
Which now flashes and glints,
Jewel-toned blue and green.
The colours ever-changing.
Reminding you that even in winter's quiet stillness,
Life continues to move forward.
The light seems to speak in its own silent language.
Not in words.
But in something deeper.
Something felt rather than heard.
It reminds you that the seasons will change.
The frost will melt.
And brighter days will return.
When the time is right.
There is no rush.
No need to push against time.
Only the quiet promise that light always follows the dark.
As surely as winter yields to spring.
Breathing deeply,
You let the sight fill your heart with a sense of quiet possibility.
There for a long moment.
Feeling connected to the endless rhythm of the world around you.
Steady and enduring.
To the safety and tranquility of the haven itself.
You remember the dawn singer.
And can almost sense them.
Invisible thou.
But their presence is there.
Bright and ancient.
Heralding another dawn.
You gaze across the water to where you can see the pine-clad headland that shelters the bay.
Then turn to your right.
Where the village scatters into a few little cottages.
You can just glimpse the roof of the manor house.
The little train station and the artisan's workshop are hidden within the trees beyond.
When you finally turn back toward the path,
You feel lighter.
As if the sun's radiance has entered your spirit.
The frosted fields seem less still now.
As though breathing quietly beneath winter's cover.
Resting but alive.
Your journey home is peaceful and unhurried.
Sometimes you pause to appreciate what is around you A cobweb.
Frost is like a silk ornament.
A bright bird,
A lighting on a bare branch.
The glittering edges of a dead leaf.
By the time you enter your cottage.
You are ready for a hot drink and to sit down by the fire.
You take your cup into the lounge and sit down in the welcoming warmth,
Settling into your chair and drawing a soft throw over your knees.
You said bye.
The quiet beauty of your walk to the clifftop.
Lingers in your mind.
Autism memory.
But as a gentle reassurance that the world is still filled with light,
Even in winter's quietest moments.
The haven has a way of offering its gifts when they're needed the most.
Asking nothing in return.
The soft light of the fire flickers across the room.
And you finish your drink and put it on the table.
You won't.
And the fresh air has made you quite sleepy.
And you decide to nap before you'll get on with the rest of your day.
It will be a quiet,
Unhurried day.
So you allow your eyes to close.
You are safe.
At peace.
And exactly where you're meant to be.
Let yourself drift now.
Into stillness.
It is warm.
