Good evening,
My friends.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
If this is your first time,
You're so welcome.
And if you're a regular listener,
I'm so happy to have you back.
In tonight's story,
We'll be visiting a very special bookshop.
The Bookshop of Sleep.
A magical place that looks small and uneventful on the outside,
But is in fact an amazing sleep haven on the inside.
A place filled with stories and coziness.
But as always,
Before we get to the story,
It's time for you to unwind.
So let's do a little relaxation exercise.
This exercise will enable you to be open and relaxed enough to really enjoy tonight's story as it brings you closer and closer to sleep.
It's time to let go.
Now,
Take a few conscious breaths.
Just inhale deeply.
And exhale when you're ready.
And inhale deeply.
And exhale.
And exhale.
As you remain conscious of your breathing,
Try to pause briefly between the inhale and the exhale.
And just notice this stillness very mindfully.
Allow this stillness to spread through your body.
This sense of peace.
Allow it to sink deeper.
Feel this stillness flow from left to right.
Give it the space it needs.
And feel the relaxation of your limbs,
Your legs and arms.
Becoming heavy.
And now your neck muscles relax.
Your shoulders become warm and soft.
Your back sinks into your support.
And as you relax,
Your imagination opens up.
I'd like you now to give your breath a color.
It can be any color.
And as it enters your body,
See that color spread throughout your body.
And nourish every cell and every part of your body with new and calming energy.
And now with each exhale,
Allow yourself to see another color.
And on the exhale,
Release the tensions and stresses of the day.
Inhale,
Calm,
Life-giving energy.
Exhale,
All tension,
Stresses,
And anything about the day melts away now.
And now,
Give yourself over to this cozy moment.
You are safe.
I am here to guide you to a deep,
Peaceful,
Nourishing sleep.
Allow your breath to return to normal now,
As I take you to the bookshop of sleep.
There once was a little bookshop.
This little bookshop was situated in a little village,
In a little area of a little region of a little country.
It was run by a little woman who,
Like most people in the village,
Was completely obsessed with stories.
My,
Did she love anything and everything to do with stories.
Now,
The little woman had lived in the little village all of her life.
And she had opened her little bookshop when she was,
Well,
Very little.
And now,
She was very,
Very old.
People of all ages would frequent the bookshop,
And each person would often enter feeling a little stressed or out of sorts.
But after spending some time soaking up the deeply calming atmosphere of the little bookshop,
Well,
They would feel deeply serene and peaceful.
Oh,
Did I mention,
The little bookshop was only open from 8pm in the evening until 8am in the morning.
And that,
If one desired,
One could sleep the night in the bookshop.
There were 17 beds,
17 deeply comfortable beds,
All in different places in the bookshop.
Some were atop bookshelves,
Some were in the back,
In the conservatory under the stars.
Some were in the garden,
Some were hammocks that swung high above the books.
Oh,
And some were in the tree.
Yes,
There was a giant tree in the bookshop.
So,
When I say that the bookshop was little,
Well,
I mean,
It looked little from the front.
But inside,
Well,
It was basically another world,
A magical world that had pretty much all of the best books that had ever been written.
People would come to get their bedtime books and either stay the night,
Or go back to their little houses in the little village.
Each villager would go to the bookshop to get the book that they wanted to read before sleep.
Did I mention the bookshop's name?
It was called the Bookshop of Sleep.
One stormy night,
As the villagers all walked towards the bookshop to get their bedtime books,
It was raining heavily.
This was the villagers' favorite kind of night,
Because they all slept even deeper when the cozy sound of rain would come and lull them into even deeper sleep.
And on this stormy night,
Something unusual happened.
The little old woman,
Who was always there to greet the villagers with a warm smile and a hand-picked book,
Was not behind the counter.
Instead,
A note was placed there.
It read,
Tonight,
The Bookshop of Sleep chooses your books.
The villagers were surprised,
But they all knew that the old woman wouldn't let them down.
And this was going to be very interesting and cozy and comforting and fun.
They drifted into the bookshop,
And the smell of old paper and ink,
Mixed with the subtle scent of rain-soaked earth,
Filled the air.
Each villager made their way to their favorite spots,
Each claiming a cozy bed or chair or hammock in a nook or cranny.
Some would even sit on a branch up on the tree.
As the night died,
The rain started to fall harder,
A soothing rhythm against the roof.
As the villagers settled into their spots,
The books around them started to softly glow.
The little bookshop was always enchanting in some way or another.
But tonight,
It seemed especially interesting,
Humming with anticipation and the mystery of the stormy night.
Soon,
Each villager found a glowing book near their chosen bed.
The Bookshop of Sleep had indeed chosen a book for them.
Some books were old,
Their covers worn and pages yellowed,
But still filled with wisdom.
Some books were brand new,
Their spines uncracked.
The smell of fresh ink emanating from the pages.
Each book was perfect,
Not just in the story it told,
But in the comfort it offered.
Almost as if the bookshop had known exactly what each villager needed.
As they opened their books and began to read,
A sense of tranquility washed over them.
The soft glow of the books illuminating their faces in the dim light.
The sound of the rain.
The warmth of the shop.
The comfort of their chosen beds.
And the magic of the stories being read,
All combined into a powerful lullaby.
John,
Who was new to the village after walking many days to find the little bookshop,
Had been given withering heights.
As he sat there,
He heard the words of the book in his mind.
I lingered round them,
Under that benign sky.
Watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hair-bells.
Listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass.
And wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
As John continued to read,
His mind was steeped in the beautiful prose.
And I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society.
A perfect misanthropist's heaven.
And Mr.
Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us.
A capital fellow.
We little imagined how my heart warmed towards him,
When I beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows as I rode up.
And when his fingers sheltered themselves with a jealous resolution,
Still further in his waistcoat,
As I announced my name.
Mr.
Heathcliff,
I said.
John was enthralled.
He could almost feel the wind on the Yorkshire moors.
The texture of the old stone houses.
He could picture Heathcliff and the curious Lockwood.
Their words spoken in hushed whispers that blended seamlessly with the rhythmic patter of the rain outside.
Mary,
A young and deeply thoughtful woman,
Lay in one of the hammocks hanging from the giant tree.
The bookshop had chosen for her the secret garden.
From which she joyfully read.
Her eyes wandered over each word.
And she found herself absorbed in the soothing narrative.
One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever.
One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvellous unknown things happening until the east almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising sun.
Which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years.
One knows it then for a moment or so.
And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear.
However much one tries,
The immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars makes one sure.
And sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true.
And sometimes a look in someone's eyes Mary's hammock swayed gently as she read and the words of the secret garden blended with the rustle of leaves in the giant tree and the rhythmic drumming of the rain.
And she could almost smell the damp earth of the secret garden.
She could almost see the pale sky of dawn and the dark blue of night.
The bookshop,
The storm,
And the story all conspired to bring her peace.
A soothing balm that coaxed her closer to the land of dreams.
There was Morris,
The oldest man in the whole village,
Who lay back comfortably in the giant bed that lay under the roof of the conservatory.
The bookshop had chosen for Morris the great classic,
Treasure Island.
Morris opened his chosen book,
A tale that reminded him of his youthful adventures.
The book glowed warmly as he turned to a passage rich with captivating prose.
From outside the house,
There came the soft sound of the tide.
A sound that seemed to whisper of peace and tranquility.
Looking out of the window,
I saw the clear sky reflected in the still water of the bay and the trees swaying gently in the morning breeze.
There was not a breath of wind this morning,
And everything was strangely quiet.
The song of a distant bird reached my ears,
And I found myself lost in the beauty of the moment,
The simple tranquility of the morning.
The peaceful waves,
The melodious song of the bird,
It all contributed to a sense of calm that settled over me like a comforting blanket.
The world of the book came alive around Morris.
He could hear the soft sound of the tide.
He could see the clear sky reflected in the water.
He could feel the gentle morning breeze.
Now,
The whole village was asleep,
Deep in slumber.
Some in their little houses,
But most in the little bookshop.
Each one in their chosen spot within the bookshop of sleep.
The rhythm of the rain playing softly against the window panes.
The rustle of pages slowly coming to a halt.
The symphony of tranquility now echoed through the night.
In the warmth of their individual dreams,
Each villager was able to walk into their books and experience firsthand the world created by the authors.
They felt peaceful.
They felt safe.
And they all slept deep,
Where the books told them stories in the bookshop of sleep.
