The hidden garden.
This is a gentle guided sleep meditation,
Set in the haven,
Where you will explore another place in the borderlands and return home to a restful sleep.
In the haven,
You are beginning to notice the first frail signs of spring.
On this blustery afternoon,
You have decided to visit one of the places on the map the old lady gave to you.
These places lie on the borderlands of the haven.
Yesterday the old lady came to tea and in your warm,
Cosy kitchen,
At her suggestion,
You brought out the map of the borderlands.
You are always aware that the map is there,
But in the haven,
With its gentleness and safety,
You do not always think of it.
The days pass in quiet tranquility.
The old lady set down her teacup with a decisive click and asked you if you had ever been to the hidden garden of the old manor and spring of the stone.
She had been smiling mischievously as if she knew you had not.
There is always a reason for her to mention these places that you have not yet seen.
You asked if the people who live there would mind you walking into their garden uninvited.
She laughed kindly and said that of course you are invited and explained that the old manor was the only house on the borderlands.
The garden is part of the manor,
She said,
But it is not private.
It lies behind the house and there is a gate in the wall where you can enter.
You will see the spring of the stone in the further wall and you need what is there.
Some people,
She adds,
Need more healing than others.
You always wonder how she knows,
But instead ask who lives there as you are sure you have met everyone in the village and roundabout.
An old fellow,
She tells you,
And not around very often,
But a very nice gentleman.
You thought about her words this morning as you went to the shop and had a hot drink at the inn.
This afternoon you decide to walk to the old manor.
It is not spring yet,
But you can feel its approach in the air.
Snowdrops are white drifts in the little wood opposite your house and grow in great splashes of white along the lane.
The blackthorn,
Too,
Is budding.
There could still be snow and storms,
As nature is very much a part of the haven,
But it is never dangerous.
The muted birdsong of winter is busier now and the dim green of the winter landscape looks brighter.
You take a deep breath and think you can almost smell the grass beginning to grow.
The day is not cold,
Though the old lady pretended it would be windy tonight,
But the wind is blowing from the sea and there is no chill in its breath.
You pass the old lady's rambling cottage and follow the lane as it curves down toward the village.
You think that the reason you have never seen the old manor is that it is situated in a part of the haven you rarely go.
It lies past the old station,
Where the dreamweaver arrives and departs.
Now the lane to Moorview Farm is on your left.
The fields are rich and the cattle here supply the delicious creamy milk for the haven.
Further away,
Where the hills begin to rise to the moors,
You can see the white dots of sheep and hear the call of the lambs.
You can see the farmer leaving his house for the outbuildings and you give a wave as you pass by.
They raise their hand in acknowledgement.
A little further on is the turning to the old station,
Set back among trees.
It is invisible from the lane,
But soon it comes into view looking like something from an old book.
There is the rustic signal box and the covered platform and there,
Too,
Lies the dreamweaver in all its splendour,
But quiet today.
There seems to be no one around,
But the small station's green and white paint is fresh and cheerful.
The station master's cottage has bright curtains at the window and a hint of warm lamps lit inside.
The lane you follow takes you past the station between an avenue of lovely old trees.
Their branches are bare now,
But in the summer this would be a delightfully shaded walk.
On each side of the lane are wooden gates and finger signposts pointing left and right.
You pause to lean on one of the gates and see a small path winding through the fields.
It leads in the direction of the sea and the other path probably winds up toward the moors.
They are paved,
Easy to travel even in muddy weather and you imagine that in the spring and summer wildflowers will bloom alongside them in the rich grass.
One day you will explore them,
You think,
But today you have a different destination.
You continue on down the lane,
Listening to the bluster of the wind in the treetops.
The lane opens out and you see before you white painted gates and beyond the mellow red brick of a large house.
It has tall chimneys and smoke drifts from them,
Drawn away by the wind so someone is at home.
The gardens beyond the gates are large and in the spring will be a mass of daffodils and tree blossoms,
But this is not a walled garden and not the one the old lady described.
There is an old man pottering around,
Digging with his walking stick into flowerbeds as if testing the soil.
He wears a cap and scarf and a warm coat.
He raises his head and sees you,
Then amiably points with his stick,
Saying that the place you want is just around the corner.
You see a pathway circling around the side of the house and you follow it.
Soon you come to a high wall,
Old and festooned with ivy and moss.
There is a little gate,
Closed but not locked,
At least not from the outside.
The path leads onto a wood of tall trees where rooks call.
You can see their nests tossing against the grey sky.
As you lower your eyes,
You see there the great shining figure of the white stag,
Standing at the edge of the trees.
It is as still as a carving.
Seeing the stag is always a sign of some sort for you and you nod your head.
It bows its own toward the ground and then melts away into the shadow of the trees.
After a moment,
You softly push the gate inward and step into the garden.
Now in the time between winter and spring,
It is a place of moss and grass and the stems of flowers spiking from their beds.
There are fruit trees against the walls,
Arches of roses and vines and stone seats against the walls.
The walls provide a bulwark against the strengthening wind and it feels warmer here.
Apart from the sound of wind in the tall trees,
It is silent,
A quiet,
Green,
Calm place.
You follow a winding path to the furthest wall and stop.
There,
The wall built around it is a tall standing stone,
Like the ones in the circle by the village and the monolith on the headland.
It is streaked with white cords which forms the shape of a profiled head.
The shape is familiar.
You think of your times in the fairy wood and the fae with their long,
Glimmering hair and brilliant eyes.
You understand now why you saw the white stag.
Below the profile,
A freshet of water wells from the stones into a naturally formed little trough from which it overflows.
The ground at the base of the stone is rich with ferns from the moisture but someone has laid paving stones around it so that you can easily stand there.
You cup your hands under the flow of the water and raise it to your lips.
It tastes faintly of the stone and something you cannot identify but it makes you think of cold starlight,
But when you swallow it is not as you suspected it would be,
Icy cold.
It warms you and there is an immediate feeling of being uplifted,
Of well being.
You feel as if your feet are at one with the earth and can feel the deep magic and protection of the haven.
You shake the water from your hands and for a moment simply stand watching the gleam of the water as it falls from the stone.
Then you retrace your steps to the gate and close it quietly behind you.
The wind is definitely stronger now.
It moans in the bare branches of the trees as you walk back along the lane.
Imperceptibly the light is fading toward dusk.
It is an evening to sit beside the fire and muse upon these half hidden places in the haven that you are beginning to discover.
Past years fallen leaves blow past you and the clouds race across the sky but you do not feel cold.
The warmth of the water you drank seems to have flowed into every limb.
The warm lights are on in the old lady's cottage and you imagine her bustling about the kitchen,
Cooking or sitting beside her own fire.
You know that tomorrow she will visit and talk to you about the old garden and the spring of the stone.
But now you are ready to go home.
Your house always seems to welcome you as if it hugs you and looks after you.
Your dinner is ready and after you have eaten you watch the fire and listen to the wind.
You think to yourself that some of the experiences of the gentle but potent power in the haven make you sleepy.
It is as if they are like a kind of strong,
Effective medicine and today is another example of that.
At last you make your way to bed,
Relaxing under the clean sheets and covers and close your eyes.
The wind roars in the trees of the small wood and blows across the dark land and you feel yourself enclosed by peace as you drift into sleep.
