The Lantern Cottage

Read along

Settle into your bed in whatever way feels easiest tonight.

There is nothing you need to do well here. Nothing to get right.

Let the mattress take a little more of your weight… and then a little more.

Notice where your head meets the pillow. The cool side of the fabric, or the warm one.

Notice your hands. Wherever they are resting, let them be heavy and still.

Your breath can stay exactly as it is. You don't have to change it.

You might only notice that it comes in by itself… and leaves by itself.

Now, in your mind, picture a small stone cottage at the edge of a quiet lake.

It is late evening. The last blue light is fading behind the hills.

A single lantern hangs by the cottage door, glowing amber against the stone.

You walk slowly along a gravel path towards it. Each step is soft and unhurried.

The gravel gives a small, gentle sound under your feet.

The air smells of pine and of rain that has not quite arrived.

At the door, you lift the latch. It is old and smooth from many hands.

Inside, the room is warm. A low fire is settling into embers in the hearth.

There is a wide armchair beside it, with a wool blanket folded over one arm.

You sit down. The chair seems to know the shape of you.

You draw the blanket over your knees. It is heavier than you expected, and the weight feels good.

Outside, the first drops of rain begin to tap on the roof.

Slow… scattered… one, and then another.

The sound gathers into a soft, steady hush.

As you listen, let your forehead loosen, the way warm wax softens.

Let the small muscles around your eyes go quiet.

Let your jaw hang a little open, so your teeth are not touching.

The warmth from the fire reaches your shoulders now.

They drift down, away from your ears, one breath at a time.

The warmth moves into your arms, your elbows, your wrists… all the way to your fingertips.

It spreads across your chest, which rises and falls on its own, like the surface of the lake outside.

Into your belly, soft and unguarded.

Down through your hips, your thighs, your knees.

Into your calves, your ankles, and the soles of your feet, where it pools like still water.

The rain is steady now. It has nowhere to be, and neither do you.

On the windowsill, the lantern light is reflected in the dark glass.

Beyond it, the lake is a wide, calm darkness, holding the sound of the rain.

If a thought arrives, you can set it on the windowsill beside the lantern.

It will still be there in the morning, if you need it. For now, it can rest too.

The embers shift and settle with a small sigh.

Your breathing has slowed by itself… longer… quieter.

The armchair holds you.

The blanket holds you.

The cottage holds the warmth around you.

Somewhere out on the lake, the rain is falling on the water in thousands of tiny circles.

Each circle opens… widens… and disappears into stillness.

You don't need to follow my voice anymore.

You can let it fade into the rain, like everything else.

The fire is low.

The lantern glows.

And the rain keeps falling, soft and steady, all through the night.