The Whisper of the Rain.
This gentle sleep talkdown set in the haven will help you to relax and unwind as soft rain falls on a late winter evening at your home in the haven.
It has been a quiet day for you today in the haven.
In the morning,
You enjoyed a cup of tea at the old lady's cottage.
And a quiet talk.
Before both going to the village shop.
The day has been grey and quiet.
Making the lights from the cottages glow warmly.
As the afternoon advanced.
The clouds lowered and now it has begun to rain.
From the window of your lounge.
You watch the rain as it falls softly over the haven.
Over the silent woods and meadows.
You listen to the gentle patter against the windows.
And watch as the drops trace down the glass.
Outside.
The sky is a soft,
Muted grey.
As you walked back to your home this afternoon.
The moors were invisible in mist.
But the rain is gentle.
Whispering.
It seems to speak of the thaw as the land begins to warm in spring.
Of ice unlocking.
Of the earth slowly waking.
The daylight fades quickly this time of year.
Leaving the landscape veiled in cool mist and rain-dappled shadows.
The clumps of snowdrops in your garden glow white as the dusk softly falls.
You go around your home lighting lamps and candles.
Until everything is bathed in a comforting glow.
The fire behind its guard flickers softly.
Even the dance of flames seems quiet.
And the house feels as if it is resting within the soft song of the rain.
After a moment.
You go into the kitchen and dish up the meal that has been cooking slowly all day in the crockpot.
There is something simple and rewarding about sitting down in your peaceful,
Homely kitchen to nourish yourself.
Enjoying the taste of the food.
After there are cakes from the old lady who baked them fresh this afternoon when you have cleared away everything.
You go to the front door.
And look out at the soft night.
The light from your doorway gleams on the wet path.
Everything is still,
Sleeping under the soft murmur of the gentle rain.
The cool rain scented air is fresh and earthy.
Carrying the familiar scent of damp pine and moss from the nearby woods.
You decide to check on your log pile in the shed and slip on a waterproof coat,
Picking up a lamp from a table in the porch.
The land is melting into the night.
The bare branches of the trees glisten faintly.
Slender twigs running with rivulets of silver.
The meadows stretch out in quiet stillness.
Softened by drifting mist.
That blurs the line between land and sky.
Moss-covered stones gleam darkly beneath the rain.
And tiny ferns,
Still green despite the winter chill.
Nestled close to the base of the garden wall.
You pause for a moment,
Letting the peacefulness of the rain settle over you.
Its whisper is like a call into peace.
Opening the door to the shed.
You lift the lamp.
You make a mental note of the pile that has dwindled through the winter and needs replenishing.
Just as you are about to close the door.
You see something wedged in the kindling basket and pull it out.
It is a note written elegantly on creamy paper.
And says simply that there will be a delivery late tomorrow morning.
You smile.
Each year,
The orchard trees are pruned.
And dead wood taken from the woods and hedgerows.
Beginning in the autumn.
The pony-trapped driver brings the wood around the village.
At these times,
The trap is replaced by a small card.
Bearing the loads of wood.
The deliveries continue through the winter and no one goes without,
Even in deep snow.
Sometimes you have been here with the old lady,
When the pony and cart came.
And you made a hot drink for the driver.
And given a carrot or apple to the pony.
You are glad to know more wood will be coming.
Breathing the rainy air,
You sense that the land is beginning to wake after its winter sleep,
But you will still be glad of your fire for some time.
Closing the shed door.
You return to your home and hang up your code.
As always,
You feel that calmness is woven into these walls and it embraces you.
There is a deep and timeless reassurance that you are always safe.
There is no rush.
No pressing need.
Only the gentle rhythm of the rain.
And the soft warmth of home.
The sense of peace in the room seems deeper now.
Enriched by the contrast of the cool,
Damp world outside.
Night has closed in fully now and the lamplight and firelight is brighter.
Moving into the small kitchen.
You fill your kettle with fresh water.
And as it boils.
Choose from the labelled jars of dried herbs.
You and the old lady often gather these herbs when fresh from the lanes.
From her garden or yours.
Talking peacefully as you sort them and place them for drying.
There is lavender.
Chamomile.
And others.
Their scent,
As you open the jars,
Is delicate and calming.
You have a gentle little debate with yourself as to what to choose.
A soft knock sounds at your door.
You're not surprised or alarmed as visitors come and go in the haven.
Going to the door,
You open it.
And see the old lady.
She is wrapped in a beautifully woven shawl.
Its edges are a little damp,
But she looks unconcerned as she smiles.
You invite her in and offer her tea.
Her eyes sparkle as she hands you a little bag containing some hand-tied herbal teas.
She has her own special blends,
Which she is teaching you.
A pinch of this and that,
And all of them,
You think,
Seem quietly magical and healing.
You wonder sometimes.
If it is the herbs.
Or her that make them so effective.
Placing the bags in two mugs,
You pour over the boiling water and sit down.
Waiting for the teas to steep.
The old lady sits opposite you.
And you talk quietly until the tea is ready.
Your conversation is as steady and familiar and comforting.
As the gentle patter of the rain.
The village.
The weather.
The approach of spring.
And the first village market of the season.
An invite to both of you from the old gentleman at the manor for dinner one evening soon.
After you have finished your tea.
She rises from the table her smile as she bid you goodbye.
Is as timeless and kind.
And understanding.
As the haven itself.
She says she knows the pony trap driver will be delivering wood tomorrow.
And will probably pop along herself.
Perhaps you can all have a hot drink.
And fresh cookies.
You watch from the doorway as she makes her way down the path to the gate.
Her figure slowly fading into the misty night.
Closing the door gently.
You pause for a moment,
Letting the stillness of the cottage settle around you once more.
The rain continues its steady song against the windows.
Wrapping the cottage in its soft embrace.
The world beyond seems distant now.
Veiled in mist and gently falling rain.
As though time itself has slowed.
To match the peace of the night.
The day feels as if it begins to slip away.
Leaving only warmth,
Stillness and the gentle tiredness before a deep sleep.
The cottage seems to watch over you with gentle care,
As though offering its protection without a word.
Like the Haven.
Both hold you gently and now they invite you to rest.
You make sure the fire in the lounge is banked.
And you go to your bedroom.
This room is like a haven within the haven.
Always comforting.
Always smelling of the freshly laundered sheets and covers of your bed.
As you get ready for bed.
You think about the day just gone.
Undemanding and peaceful.
And tomorrow when you will see the old lady again and the pony trap will come with firewood.
Then there are the days after the kind ones.
And the more adventurous ones.
Where you will discover more about your home.
The Haven.
But each and every day you will be safe and always looked after.
Closing your eyes.
You stretch and let your muscles relax.
The rain whispers outside.
You begin to sink towards sleep.
Your body heavy.
All of you drifting into stillness.
Into rest.
Into the comforting embrace of sleep.
Sleep.
