In Rainbows: A Guided Sleep Meditation Through Color & Calm

Our story begins on a small Norwegian island after a long storm-heavy day.

You're inside a house near the shore.

The walls hold the sound of the weather.

Wind moving in long sighs around the corners.

Rain tapping against the glass.

The steady,

Patient breath of the sea beyond the rocks.

It's been like this for hours.

Grey sky,

Heavy air.

The kind of day where time feels thicker,

Slower.

You've spent most of it indoors.

At first,

You watched the rain streak in diagonal lines across the window.

You felt the rhythm of the storm echoing something inside you.

An untidy mix of thoughts.

Old worries,

Unanswered questions.

As the day progressed,

The storm receded into the background.

It became a kind of constant,

Like a drone echoing beneath everything else.

And you moved slowly,

Made tea,

Sat with your thoughts,

Watched the light shift in the room.

Now it's late in the day,

The quiet in between.

You notice it first in the change of sound.

The rain softening.

The wind,

Which has been pressing against the house,

Loosens its grip.

You place your hand on the windowsill and look outside.

The clouds are clearing like curtains being drawn back.

The distant edge of the sky rises,

And a pale,

Cold sunlight filters through,

Slanting in,

Low on the horizon.

The sea reflects that light in fractured,

Shifting fragments.

It gleams like dark glass.

Pools left by the tide mirror the sky.

Then you see it.

Initially,

Just a touch of color.

A faint arc.

Emerging from the rain-cleared air.

It becomes unmistakable.

A rainbow.

Not a washed-out band of color you have to squint to see,

But clear,

Vivid,

Almost startlingly bright.

It extends from somewhere behind the distant headland and curves down toward the rocky beach below the house.

So close that it looks as though it's touching the waterline.

You feel something lift inside you,

Just a little,

A gentle tug in your chest.

The old,

Childlike wonder at the sight of a rainbow.

That feeling that something rare is happening.

Even if just for a moment.

The worst of the storm has passed.

The sea remains restless,

But its movement is calmer.

You reach for your coat,

Slip your arms into the sleeves.

Feel the familiar weight settle over your shoulders.

Your fingers brush the worn fabric.

You open the door and step out into the lingering dampness of the late afternoon.

The air smells fresh,

Wet stone,

Salt,

And a faint hint of moss and soil stirred by rain.

The rainbow's even more vivid from here.

Red,

Orange,

Yellow,

Green,

Blue,

Indigo,

Violet.

Each band stands out,

Yet softly merges into the next.

It spans the sea like a bridge of light.

You walk along the narrow path that leads from the house down to the shoreline.

Small puddles gleam beneath your feet like fragments of sky.

The wind brushes past.

No longer fierce.

A moving presence as if the day is exhaling.

As you descend,

You can hear the sea more clearly.

Waves rolling in.

You notice how the light has transformed the world.

Everything appears outlined.

Edges sharper,

Colors deeper.

There,

Ahead of you,

The end of the rainbow seems to rest on the dark.

Kelp-streaked stones at the edge of the water,

Like a curtain of color drawn down to the earth.

The rainbow's base is just a short distance away now.

More like a glowing mist than a solid edge.

A gentle wall of shifting color and light,

Hovering above the shoreline.

You recall something you once heard.

Perhaps from a story.

Perhaps from someone who lived by the sea.

That if you ever found the place where a rainbow touched the ground,

You wouldn't find gold,

But yourself.

You feel that thought settle within you.

You walk toward the colors.

As you get closer,

The bands of light become broader and more defined.

They no longer appear flat.

They now resemble passages.

Soft,

Luminous corridors one might walk through.

The red band is nearest to you,

Glowing softly.

It feels like warmth,

Emanating from a stone that's absorbed sunlight all day.

You extend your hand as if to touch it.

Instead of resistance,

You feel the faintest tingle and then a gentle yielding.

As if the air is opening to welcome you.

You move forward.

You're now inside the red.

The world beyond is obscured,

Like looking through colored cloths.

The light's gentle.

Red evokes memories.

Not vivid images,

But emotions.

When you were held up and thought you might fall,

Yet somehow you kept going.

Perhaps you see yourself standing at a threshold in your life.

Uncertain,

Afraid,

And yet taking the next step anyway.

Red doesn't ask you to relive the pain.

It only shows you the strength that carried you through it.

You gently inhale.

You slowly exhale.

And with each breath in,

You quietly gather your scattered pieces.

And with each breath out,

You release the tension from your shoulders,

Your jaw,

And your belly.

The red light appears to pulse with your breath.

After a moment,

You feel prepared to move forward.

The red transitions to orange.

Warm and slightly lighter like the glow of a late afternoon sun on a wooden floor.

Orange evokes images of things you've created in your life.

Not just grand achievements,

But small,

Subtle masterpieces.

A time you cooked a meal for someone you care about.

A note you wrote that made someone feel seen.

The way you arranged a space to be more comforting.

The way you once followed a small idea.

These memories arrive to remind you.

You're more creative than you realize.

And you reshape the world in small ways each day with your choices,

Your words,

Your attention.

In the orange,

You feel a subtle spark of curiosity.

Not restless,

Not demanding,

Just a gentle question.

What if things could feel lighter?

What if there are still paths you haven't discovered?

Not big,

Dramatic changes.

But small shifts that make your days gentler.

You see in your mind's eye a path branching somewhere ahead of you.

Not to be chosen now,

Not in this moment,

But waiting.

Orange gently warms the area around your chest,

Softening any tightness there.

You allow your breath to deepen again.

Inhale.

Exhale,

Slow and easy.

The orange light thins into golden yellow.

You step forward.

Yellow surrounds you.

It's not sharp,

Not glaring.

More like the glow that comes through thin curtains in the morning.

Soft and hopeful.

Yellow restores moments of quiet happiness for you.

Not the loud thrill of unexpected good news,

But the subtler,

Gentler pleasures you might miss if you're not paying attention.

You remember a day when the weather surprised you with unexpected warmth.

A message from someone that arrived at just the right time.

A moment when you laughed so honestly you forgot to be self-conscious.

In yellow,

You observe even during busy times,

These tiny moments of brightness have been spread throughout your days like small points of light.

Yellow doesn't ask you to be happy on command.

It just reminds you that joy's visited before and it can visit again.

You stand in this golden light and allow yourself a small smile.

You breathe in,

Feeling your chest gently expand.

And you breathe out,

Releasing a layer of heaviness you no longer need.

Ahead,

The yellow deepens into green.

You walk forward.

The light shifts,

Cooler,

Deeper.

It feels like entering a forest after rain.

Green brings moments when something inside you healed,

Even if it took longer than you hoped.

A moment when a sharp pain softened into a dull ache.

Then,

Slowly,

Enters something more distant.

A moment when you realized you could think about a memory without it tightening your throat.

A conversation that didn't resolve everything,

But opened a small window of understanding.

In the green,

You notice that healing is messy.

It isn't straightforward.

It doesn't progress at a pace you might anticipate.

Sometimes,

It's like doing nothing,

Like lying still,

Like allowing yourself to rest when you feel you should be stronger.

You notice how your body supported you through sickness,

Exhaustion,

Loss.

And yet,

Here you are,

Breathing.

Green invites you to be patient with yourself.

To loosen the grip of harsh expectations.

To honor how far you've come,

Without feeling the need to rush what comes next.

You breathe in slowly.

You breathe out softly.

And with each exhale,

Your shoulders lower slightly.

The green light ahead begins to blend into a deep,

Calm blue.

The blue wraps around you like cool air by the sea at dusk.

And invites your mind to quiet.

The thoughts you carried with you.

The spinning,

Circling ones.

The questions that tug at you.

The conversations you replay.

They remain,

But they seem to drift further away,

As if born on the tide.

In the blue,

You can observe them from a distance.

You see the stories you tell yourself about who you are,

What you must do,

And what others expect.

Some of these stories are helpful.

They give shape to your days.

Others are heavy,

Old scripts that no longer fit.

You recognize,

Just for this breath,

That you are more than your worries.

More than your to-do lists.

More than the roles you play.

You're also this.

A person,

Standing on a rocky shore,

In a rainbow of light.

Listening to the sea.

Breathing.

You notice the space between your thoughts widen.

Little gaps of quiet appearing,

Like calm bays along a busy coastline.

You can rest there,

Still,

Slow and easy.

Exhale,

Long and unhurried.

The blue gradually deepens in front of you,

Blending into indigo.

The color of evening sky,

Just before night.

You step forward.

In the indigo,

Attention shifts inward.

You sense,

Not only your body,

But also the quiet voice beneath the noise.

The part of you that notices things you can't always explain.

You remember moments in your life,

When something within you instinctively knew the right direction,

Before your mind could rationalize it.

A decision that didn't seem entirely logical,

But felt right,

Deep within you.

A person you were instinctively inclined to trust.

A situation that made your stomach tighten,

Warning you to proceed with caution.

This inner knowing isn't always loud.

It doesn't shout over everything else.

Instead,

It waits,

Patiently,

For a quieter moment,

When you finally have space to listen.

Indigo is that space.

Here,

You don't need to analyze.

You don't need to decide anything.

You only need to listen,

To the feel of your own presence.

Your quiet center,

That's always been here,

Since the very beginning.

You might notice a subtle sense of yes,

Towards what supports you,

And no,

Towards what drains you.

Not in words,

But as felt impressions.

It's enough to notice.

You remain here for a few breaths,

Resting in the soft indigo.

Letting that inner stillness widen.

Like a calm lake,

A dusk.

Ahead,

The color shifts one last time,

Into gentle,

Luminous violet.

You step into it.

Violet,

Like standing at the edge of a dream.

The air is soft.

Time feels slower here,

Almost suspended.

Violet collects everything you've experienced.

The power of red.

The curiosity of orange.

The quiet happiness of yellow.

The healing touch of green.

The clarity of blue.

The inner wisdom of indigo.

This is the color of letting go.

Not forgetting.

Not erasing.

Just loosening your grip.

Violet envelops you like a gentle evening sky.

You notice the calm rhythm of your breath.

Inhale.

The rainbow around you starts to thin.

Not abruptly,

But gently.

Like a fog,

Dissolving.

The colors soften.

Their edges,

Blending into the dimming sky.

You take one last slow breath in the violet.

Feeling the calm you've gathered from each color.

With quiet steps,

You begin to walk back.

The way you came.