"The Great Yew" A Guided Deep Sleep Faerie Story

Continuing our "Haven" series. In this deeply relaxing guided sleep meditation story, you take up the invitation to enter the Faerie Wood and visit the most ancient living thing in the Haven. A tree of eternity and of deep magic and healing, the Great Yew has stood since the most ancient times and will welcome your presence deep within the Wood.

This is the sequel video to "The Faerie Wood".

Transcript

The Great You,

From the Haven series.

This guided audio recording will help to gently guide you into a deep state of relaxation,

From where you will have the option to drift off to sleep.

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.

It has been a still,

Quiet day of frost,

With the sky a high,

Wintery blue.

The sound of the robins twittering in your little wood echo through the bare branches of the trees.

This morning,

You had a hot drink at the old ladies house down the lane.

It is a warm,

Cosy place,

Very much like you imagined,

Cottagey and comfortable,

With vases of dried flowers and leaves,

And chintz sofas and cushions.

She didn't exactly remind you of your invitation back to the fairy wood,

But she did talk to you about yew trees.

She said that many people believe them to be associated with churchyards and death,

But that was a recent belief.

In very ancient times,

They were known as the tree of life.

She told you that yew wood can regenerate almost miraculously,

That even roof beams and walking sticks made of yew have been known to sprout new growth.

Some of them are very much more ancient than people know.

You spent a pleasant time in her cottage,

She showed you her beds of herbs or where they will be in the spring,

And there were bunches of dried herbs and lavender in her warm kitchen.

Back at your own home,

You spend a relaxing day,

The old lady made you a dinner which you took home and now heat up.

The food is excellent,

And after,

You relax before your crackling fire.

You think about what she talked about,

And your eyes fall on the yew sprig that you found,

Or perhaps were given in the autumn.

You reach out your hand to pick it up.

The flames of the fire seem to slow,

Weaving a dance in the hearth.

You watch a spark drift up the chimney quite quickly.

You make the decision to go out to the porch,

Putting on a hat,

Coat and gloves.

The sun is sinking,

And the tree branches look like line drawings against a sky burning red as cinder.

The air is absolutely still,

With a bite of frost.

You cross the lane into your small wood.

The world seems so quiet.

You hear the quietest sound,

The rustle of a mouse or shrew in the hedge,

The flutter of a bird going to roost for the night,

And the falling of a twig.

The chatter of the stream over its stony bed seems loud.

The air smells of frost and the dead leaves,

And there is the trace of wood smoke.

Under the trees,

You see that the snowdrops are almost ready to bloom.

The cold weather will ease soon,

You think,

And the land will stir from its winter sleep.

The field beyond the wood is silvered with frost.

The standing stones cast long black shadows before the setting sun falls below the rim of the world.

The stars claim the sky.

You never mind being alone in the haven,

Not even at night.

It may be a place of magic,

But that magic is ultimately protective of you.

You stand for a moment.

The moon,

Hidden by the fairy wood,

Is just climbing above it and silvers the tops of the windless trees.

The frost on the grass catches the light.

The edge of the fairy wood is dark,

But then a white shape moves,

And you see the stag.

It seems luminous under the starry sky.

Warm breath rises as it breathes.

It stands quite still,

As if waiting for you,

And slowly you cross the field,

The frost crunching.

The shape of the stag is luminous,

And it paces before you and disappears into the trees.

The wood closes around you.

The path that winds into it looks pale and gleaming,

As if touched by frost,

But it becomes warmer.

It feels as if the wood has held on to the sunshine of summer and autumn,

Despite the fallen leaves.

They fringe the edges of the path in crisp drifts.

A dreamlike feeling settles gently on you,

Yet at the same time,

You feel more awake than ever.

There is a sense of being drawn along that path,

Without moving,

Following the white glimmer of the stag.

You remember coming this way on that magical summer night.

You remember the way the tree branches arch overhead,

And then how the trees drew back like dancers at the fairy mound.

And there is the fairy mound before you,

With the natural grown steps leading up.

It glows under the moon and stars,

But tonight there is nothing here save the stag.

Yet the mound seems warm and bright,

A place where magic always lingers.

The stag takes a path around the mound and back into the wood.

You follow.

This is further than you went before.

You don't know if it is starlight or moonlight,

But the woods now seem luminous.

You can see quite clearly as the trees draw back again.

The clearing is much larger.

In its centre stands a tree.

Its gnarled roots and branches look like lava flow that has been cooled into its shape over thousands of years.

The leaves are green and spiny.

It is not as tall as the great oak in your own wood,

But far more immense.

The trunk seems to have split and grown again,

Filling the interior with hollows from which new branches spring,

While the branches have dipped towards the ground,

Taken root and forming new saplings.

There is something incredibly vividly alive about it.

And an oldness more ancient than a mountain.

The stag stops.

It shimmers and the form frays away.

It changes before your eyes to the ruler of the fairies you saw before at midsummer.

Their crown glints silver sparks,

And their long hair flows like running water.

Their eyes,

As they look into yours,

Are filled with light.

They put out a hand,

And you move forward to take it.

You are never sure,

Now or after,

If they speak into your mind,

Showing you images,

Or with their mouth.

It really doesn't matter.

They tell you that this great yew tree holds incredible power,

Not of death,

But of new life.

The wood can look dead,

And then grow again,

Even after hundreds of years.

It is a healer,

And sometimes a portal to other worlds.

It has been here almost since the last ice age drew back,

And came from a parent tree far away from there,

From the old world of the fae,

And of magic.

Back then,

The two worlds were the same.

Now,

They exist apart,

Except for in some places,

And at certain times of the year.

They ask if you have the sprig of yew that was left for you in the fairy ring,

And you take it out of your pocket.

With a nod,

The ruler of the fae motions that you should go to the tree.

You make your way toward it,

Through the low sweeping branches,

Breathing in the scent.

The inner trunk has formed what seems to be a kind of chair,

And you ease yourself into it.

Although the wood is smooth and cool,

It feels as if it gives a little to support you as you sit,

Like a comfortable sofa.

There is a moment of stillness,

And then,

A sense of building energy.

It begins small and far away,

As if something from deep in the centre of the earth begins to reach upward toward the tree and the night.

You close your eyes,

And see or imagine a spear point of white light rushing up.

The soles of your feet begin to tingle,

And then,

You are engulfed by energy.

It passes through you,

And you open your eyes to brilliance.

It is like starlight,

Radiant and powerful.

It flows through you,

And into the sky overhead.

You can feel its bright and ancient power in every cell of your body.

The energy grows gentler,

Begins to sink back down through the tree,

Into the earth.

The ruler of the fae comes forward and takes your hand as you slide from the seat and stand up.

For a moment,

The night still seems bright,

As if you can see in the dark.

You are led away from the great you,

But then the fae stops,

And you both look back.

You open your free hand,

And see you are still holding the spring of you.

Its edges sparkle like a holiday decoration frosted with glitter.

The fae bows their head to the tree,

And then to you.

They tell you that the sprig will never fade.

You are silent as you return to the faerie mound,

And pass it,

Retracing your path back towards the edge of the wood.

The field is silver under the moon and stars.

You begin to feel drowsy.

The fae stops and says that you will sleep well tonight.

They smile a little as they speak,

Then tell you more seriously that it is extremely rare for any human to experience what you have.

The effects on you will be beneficial,

But only you will know what they are,

Now and in years to come.

When the fae ruler walks into the field,

His shape shimmers once more into the shape of the great white stag.

It leads you home through the quiet starlit night.

It is silent,

But from the plumes of warm breath from its nostrils,

You might think it's just a vision.

As you reach your house,

Seeing the mellow light at the windows,

It bows its head to you,

And waits while you open the door.

All at once,

You just want to sleep.

Still holding the you sprig,

You go to your bedroom and get ready for bed.

You place the sprig next to you on your bedside table,

And sink into the warmth and comfort of your bed.

Drawing the covers up,

You let your head relax on the pillow,

And close your eyes.

Perhaps great magic has this effect.

You can still feel an echo of the energy you experienced,

And you think you always will.

You think of the embrace of the great you.

The protection of the haven and its mysteries,

And feel privileged and safe.

Slowly,

You begin to sink in to sleep.

Reviews

A new listen to a new fairie tale by The Honest Guys to fall asleep. Always love it when I remember nothing about the story the next morning. Allows me to look forward to going to sleep while trying to hear the story again, a treat even if I don’t fall asleep.

Incredible ❤️🙏🌻

I loved this. Listening to it again tonight. Thank you.

Thanks