Christmas In The Haven: Full Immersion Guided Sleep Story

This guided meditation for the Christmas season is set in the safety and peace of the Haven. The inhabitants will be gathering for a quiet meal in the village hall. The Haven is already a place of magic, but something even more special may happen this year.

This guided story for Christmas is a soothing and immersive sleep talk-down story that will relax and induce sleep. It's perfect for all ages, for insomnia, over-hyped kids, for general stress relief and for people with overactive minds, especially during the festive season.

Transcript

Christmas in the Haven This Christmas story is set in a mythical village known as the Haven and is one of many stories you can find in our Haven series.

In a few moments you will embark on a pleasant and gentle journey of visualisation that will take place within your mind.

To begin your journey,

Find a comfortable place where you will not be disturbed and sit or lie down.

Close your eyes and take a few long,

Deep breaths,

Allowing yourself to relax.

Now just fall into a natural breathing pattern and enjoy this immersive experience.

You have stopped at the old inn in the village for a hot drink today.

Outside,

The waters of the little harbour are grey and choppy.

Some fishing boats bob at anchor,

While others have been hauled in for work.

Over the sea scent there is a familiar cold,

Dusty smell that could mean snow later in the day.

The inn is,

As always,

Cheerful.

It looks more like someone's large front room than a public house,

Which the owners have said is how they wanted it.

They like people to feel relaxed.

The fire crackles comfortingly and from the kitchens you can smell food,

But you are not here to eat.

Everyone in the Haven is making dishes for the Christmas meal at the old village hall.

It has been a few weeks now since the word went around asking if everyone would like to spend Christmas in the Haven,

Rather than away like other years.

Since then,

Cakes and puddings have been made,

Gifts wrapped,

And the tree outside the village hall strung with lights.

You have just bought a few last-minute purchases at the shop.

The chill wind blowing the brown leaves along the street made you decide to stop to warm up.

The landlady brings you your hot drink or tea.

She and the shopkeeper have both been extremely busy these last few days,

Ensuring that the different diets that people need are catered for.

You've never discovered how people know.

It all seems to be a game to you.

It's also so reassuring and relaxing that the how and the why are unimportant.

When the landlady has gone,

You can't help but wonder why she's gone.

The inn is strung with tinsel,

Holly,

Ivy,

And pine boughs that smell resin.

You can't help but wonder why she's gone.

The inn is strung with tinsel,

Holly,

Ivy,

And pine boughs that smell resinous and clean.

Decorations gleam softly in the firelight.

Your own tree was delivered by the pony and trap driver,

But this time the pony was harnessed to a small cart.

One of the farmers grows a few trees every year,

And this one still has its roots so it can be replanted.

And this one still has its roots so it can be replanted.

The driver even helped you to place it in a pot of earth and carried it into your cottage.

All the while,

You never actually saw his face.

You never have,

And it does not worry you.

You have been on the pony and trap many times.

It's just another facet of the magic and mystery and safety of the haven.

It is so cosy here that you are tempted to stay longer,

But you have things to do back at home.

Outside,

The wind blusters and clouds stream across the sky out to sea away beyond the headland.

Despite the chill,

There are quite a few people about.

The haven is never busy,

There's simply too much to do.

The haven is never busy,

There simply aren't enough inhabitants.

You always think there are just enough people here.

The shop window,

Garlanded with lights and tinsel,

Glows warmly as you pass it.

And the village hall,

Too,

Is decorated.

Further up the lane,

You come to the gate into the field that separates the small wood from the fairy wood.

You have come this way so many times,

And as you usually do,

You pause a moment by the standing stones.

Taking your glove off,

You touch the surface.

It seems warmer than usual in the cold day,

Imparting a feeling of comfort and tingling power.

The old track takes you through your small wood.

Now all bare of leaves,

Save for those like the great oak,

Which will hold its bronze-coloured leaves.

It will hold its dead leaves until spring.

The sound of the wind in the branches and the dead leaves is so different from the rich rustle of summer.

It is a lonely sound that makes you think of being indoors beside a warm fire.

But the wood is still friendly.

The great oak watches with an ancient benevolence,

Half-sleeping.

The little stream you cross over chuckles loudly.

It has rained upon the moors and the waters are tumbling down.

In the lane,

You see your home,

The lamp over the porch welcoming you,

But before you go in,

You see the old lady coming toward you from her own cottage.

She is carrying a big wicker basket on one arm,

And her cheeks are rosy with the cold.

She stops for a moment,

Saying she's taking a few things down to the village hall,

But if you want,

Later on,

You can both walk down together.

You agree and remark that it looks as if it might snow,

And she asks if you want it to.

You laugh and say that it makes things more festive,

And she turns her head and looks up toward the moors,

Now shrouded by the low cloud.

She says she has no doubt the snow will come,

But not until later on tonight.

For the rest of the afternoon,

You relax.

There is not much to do,

And you don't want a big meal before the party.

You change your clothes and make sure the fires are banked to slowly burn until you come back again.

The tinsel and fairy lights twinkle,

And everything is ready to welcome you back.

When your neighbour arrives,

She is carrying two old-fashioned lamps for you to light your way.

There is no snow yet,

But the wind is icy,

Yet it never seems absolutely dark in the haven,

No matter how heavy the cloud and moonless the night.

You doubt you would have needed the lanterns.

You take the way through the wood,

The sound of dead leaves scrunching.

The light makes the shadows darker,

But illuminates the pale coat of the white stag as it moves out of the trees.

It regards you both with huge,

Fathomless eyes,

Before turning and asking ahead,

As if leading you.

It seems to glow with a moonlit radiance.

You follow the stag out of the wood and onto the meadow,

Where it walks calmly down to the standing stones.

There,

It lowers its great head and waits.

As you pass it,

You reach out and,

Even through your glove,

Feel the heat of its body beneath the soft fur.

Close to,

You realise how huge it is,

Standing as high as a shire horse at the shoulders.

The branching antlers glow golden and are a fitting crown.

The old lady opens the gate into the village street.

She whispers that it's nice to have an escort,

As if to see the stag is quite a normal occurrence,

Like meeting an old friend.

And maybe it is to her.

There are a lot of things you wonder about your friendly old neighbour.

Nothing disturbing,

Of course,

But entwined with the haven.

The village hall is strung with lights outside and the tree glitters softly.

Warm air wafts out of it as you enter the doors.

Like the inn and the shop,

It is not a big place.

The floors are wooden and its rafters above also twinkle with soft fairy lights.

At one end,

A large fire heats the room.

Rather than a large table,

There are several,

And from the serving hatch,

The shopkeeper and owner of the inn ask you to sit down.

Rather than a large table,

There are several,

And from the serving hatch,

The shopkeeper and owner of the inn ask you to sit down.

You smell spices,

Cinnamon,

Cloves,

Savoury scents mingled with the sharp,

Clean scent of pine.

There is also another scent that seems familiar,

Cool and strange.

Gentle,

Old-fashioned Christmas carols play as background music.

The shopkeepers and the couple who own the inn are sitting nearby as you eat.

They exchange remarks with you and the old lady.

The atmosphere is friendly and relaxed.

You've never seen all the villagers together before.

The few fishermen,

The two farmers,

The people who lived in the picturesque cottages that line the village street.

All are here.

You have spoken to them all at one time or another,

And if they catch your eye,

They wave and smile.

It is a community of kindness,

Acceptance and safety.

The food is cleared away cheerfully,

And the old lady gets up and vanishes into the kitchen.

She returns with a tray holding small crystal glasses.

Going around the tables,

She offers everyone a drink,

Then brings two glasses back to your table.

You wonder what it is.

The liquid is clear as water,

But steams slightly,

And the scent is wonderful and complex.

The old lady says that it's her own recipe,

And she doesn't often make it.

The ingredients are rare.

She tells you not to worry,

It is healthy and very special.

It will also help you to sleep well later.

You take a sip and feel the warmth slide down your throat.

It feels like the times you have touched the standing stones,

Or sat within the embrace of the great oak,

Or the ancient yew.

It doesn't taste alcoholic,

And there is no feeling of it.

You feel both utterly relaxed and yet energised.

The soft light seems more radiant,

And the air seems to glimmer as if with starlight.

Everyone in the hall seems to glow with it.

Then the door opens.

Snow swells in on a gust of frosty air,

And with it comes an unmistakable figure,

All in red and white,

A long glossy white beard and a wide smile.

No one seems surprised.

There is a chorus of welcomes.

Santa Claus waves back,

Tossing greetings back.

He also tosses back a glass of the clear liquor,

Then goes around the hall handing out gifts.

Coming to your table,

He places a brightly wrapped package on the table before you,

Then sits down.

He smells of snow and the high airs of the sky,

And something much deeper,

An old magic,

But his face and bright eyes are kind and very wise.

The people settle down again,

Chatting quietly,

As the old songs sound softly and the big fire crackles.

Over it all,

You can hear the plagiant sounds of the wind outside,

Driving the snow.

Santa remarks that it's a busy night,

And he's glad to have a break.

The old lady grins at him in a friendly way.

They look as if they are old acquaintances.

He asks how you are and that you have been in the haven for quite a while now.

You suppose you have,

Although you tell him that time here seems different from the outside world.

The seasons pass,

But there is no sense of rush or the need to hurry.

He nods and says that it is true,

The haven is half in the world and half on the edge,

But that you must know that by now.

You agree,

And,

Santa adds,

In a place of magic,

Magic happens all the time.

He says he'll show you what he means,

And the old lady chuckles.

Getting up,

Santa invites everyone to step outside.

There is a concerted pushing bag of chairs.

You all get your coats and hats,

And make your way to the doors.

Santa throws them open,

And you step outside.

It is snowy,

But not snowing,

And it is a village,

But not the haven.

All around the pretty houses,

Their roofs moulded with snow,

Like icing,

Rise high mountains.

Overhead,

The aurora borealis shimmers and flashes,

More beautiful than any decorative light.

Before you are numerous little market stalls,

Cosily glowing orange by the hung lanterns everywhere.

It is like a Norwegian or Lapland Christmas market.

Looking around,

Santa nods and says who needs trains or planes?

He indicates that you look around,

And enjoy yourself for a few minutes.

The air is crisp,

But with a dry cold,

And you are warm enough in your coat and gloves.

The villagers wander around,

And the old lady walks with you.

You pause at a stall,

Where steaming hot drinks are set out.

The smell is enticing in the chill air,

And you stop to drink.

The old lady,

Muffled almost to the eyebrows in hat and scarf,

Says with good humour,

That Santa Claus has always been a show off.

You laugh.

On one of the stalls,

You see a little snow globe.

It looks like a tiny miniature of the village,

Done in such detail that you imagine you could almost walk into it.

It will make a wonderful memento,

You think,

An offer to buy it.

But the friendly stall holder waves that away.

They say it is a gift,

And that they hope you are enjoying yourself.

Eventually,

You make your way back to the village hall.

For a while,

You stand and look at the incredible display of the aurora overhead.

Then you go inside.

It is warm in the hall.

It is warm in the hall.

Everyone sits down,

And you yawn.

The walk in the cold air has made you more tired than you realise,

But it is a pleasant tiredness.

You listen to Santa and the old lady quietly conversing,

And you close your eyes.

You think you are just resting for a moment,

But when you open them,

You are sitting in your cottage.

The banked fire still radiates warmth from the deep glowing coals at its heart,

And the festive lights twinkle softly.

You stretch as the dream comes back to you with complete clarity.

Or was it a dream?

It is late now,

And outside you can hear the whine of the wind.

Going to the window,

You draw back the curtains and see the snow flickering past.

Turning back,

Something catches your eye.

On the coffee table is the snow globe that you were given.

Smiling,

You pick it up and look at it.

The perfect tiny houses,

And the streets and the stalls,

With pine trees and mountains around it.

Shaking it,

A blizzard whirls and floats down.

The house is warm and quiet as you make your way to bed.

You realise that you have brought in with you that scent of magic,

Of enchantment.

It is like the old lady's drink,

Powerful and cool,

And whispering of deep secrets.

The wind lashes snow against the bedroom window and howls across the chimney tops.

You relax into bed,

Every muscle unlocking.

You are lapped in peace,

Safe and warm.

It is time to sleep.

You close your eyes and the sound of the storm grows fainter as you drift into sleep.

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