Hibernate and get cozy,
And fall asleep with the Snowy Sanctuary Collection,
Featuring nine snowy bedtime stories for grown-ups,
From a blizzard-swept cabin,
To the lavender slush of a seaside cottage,
From the indigo stillness of an ice castle,
To the amber glow of a nostalgic depot cafe.
These sleepy tales will blend into one another like a canvas of winter watercolors,
Softening the night as you drift across the delicate bridge between wakefulness and slumber.
You may tune in and out,
Surrendering to deep sleep whenever you like.
It's time to dream away.
But before you settle completely,
You may wish to take a moment to subscribe now.
Ensuring the Sanctuary is always here when you need to return.
And if there's anything you'd like to request,
Leave it in the comments.
I truly appreciate the chance to connect.
Okay with that.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I am Michelle and as you listen to my voice.
Think of it as the voice of an old trusted friend.
A long-time winter companion who wants to remind you that you deserve to feel safe and relaxed.
You are empowered to use your imagination to self-soothe and get cozy.
Night.
Winter is our keeper of sleep.
Wrapping the world in a quiet crystal protection so that you may finally rest.
The beloved author Lewis Carroll once wrote.
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields,
That it kisses them so gently.
And then it covers them up snug,
You know.
With a white quilt.
Perhaps it says,
Go to sleep,
Darlings,
Till the summer comes again.
With that white quilt in mind.
Snuggle up and sink deeply into your bed.
In the sanctuary of your room and mind.
You let down your guard.
You are free to be all versions of yourself.
Cloaked in self-love.
And appreciation.
That you have made it through another day.
Signal to your body that you're ready to stand down as I count us down to this collection of stories.
5 Take a deep,
Slow breath in.
Notice the crisp,
Sharp scent of pine and frozen cedar filling your lungs,
As if you've just stepped out onto a porch at twilight.
It is clean,
Cold,
And refreshing.
At the very top of your breath.
Allow a wide,
Generous yawn to overtake you.
Stretch the breath into that yarn.
And as you finally exhale.
Feel your shoulders drop away from your ears.
Four,
Breathe in again.
And imagine the soft blue light of a winter evening.
Filling the room.
Feel the muscles in your face and your jaw.
Simply dissolve.
As if they are melting like a single snowflake.
And a warm palm.
You are letting go of the day's expressions.
Three.
.
.
Exhale a long,
Slow breath through pursed lips.
Visualize your breath condensing in the air.
Tiny cloud of silver mist.
That carries away the to-do lists and the noise of the day.
Watch it dance into the darkness.
Leaving your mind clear.
To.
Feel the weight of your body.
Pressing upon whatever supports you now.
You're becoming heavy.
Anchored by the winter peace.
And comforted by the deep velvet quiet of the night.
All the world is tucked in tight.
And you are warm and you are exactly where you need to be.
One.
Your breath returns to its natural effortless rhythm.
You are submerged in the softness of the winter quilt.
Frost grows on the glass.
And you feel the sense of coziness the season brings.
As we leave the waking world behind.
Allow my voice to lead the way through the drifts of your imagination.
It's time to journey into the heart of the winter night.
Blizzard at the cabin.
Edith Sitwell wrote.
Winter is the time for comfort.
For good food and warmth.
For the touch of a friendly hand.
For a talk beside the fire.
It is the time.
For home.
The anticipation of a storm is often as delightful as its arrival.
Carrying a promise of change in the air.
How often have you experienced the relief of a storm?
Giving you a chance to lay low and unwind in its fury.
There's a certain type of disappointment that comes.
When a perfect snowstorm changes its path.
Leaving only a dusting for those who wished for an excuse to hibernate.
But when you step out of your cabin into the late winter morning air,
You can feel in your bones.
That this storm will deliver.
The light is thick,
Muffled,
And entirely silver.
Making it quite impossible to place the time.
Without a watch or clock nearby.
The sharp,
Piercing,
White-gold sunlight of a standard winter morning.
Has been replaced with a soft glowing luminescence.
That rises to meet the heavy,
Dark,
Gray belly of the clouds halfway.
Standing on the porch,
The air feels different.
It has a physical weight to it.
A dense and electric pressure.
That you can feel deep in your lungs.
And against your exposed cheeks.
The metallic scent of incoming snow.
There's a sharp and mineral tang.
Forest simply waits for the temperature to drop.
To final decisive degree.
You let out a sigh.
Taking in the beauty of the frosted trees.
And the fat icicles dangling from the edge of your room.
Your breath condenses.
And you can taste the incoming snow.
You lean against the railing of the porch.
Your gloved hands landing on the thin layer of ice that crunches beneath their weight.
Your palms fall into the powdery mounds of snow below.
Left over from the last storm.
The beams of the porch groan and creak slightly.
But otherwise the snow has absorbed all sounds.
The silence is profound.
Usually even in the deep woods.
You can hear the distant ghostly drone of the highway.
Or the sound of your fellow forest friends.
Deer,
The rabbits,
And the foxes.
But today,
The world is hushed.
Even the birds have retreated.
Into the deep,
Sheltering evergreens.
Their songs replaced.
By the occasional creep.
Of a frozen branch.
Earlier you awoke and turned on your radio.
It's steady hum,
Offering tunes from your childhood.
Interrupted by a special weather briefing.
The announcer's voice filled your kitchen with a rare yet professional excitement.
A tone usually reserved for breaking news.
They are calling it the Big One.
The blizzard of the century.
A massive system swirling up from the coast.
Collide with the Arctic air sitting right over your room.
There is an absolute festive certainty to the announcement.
And your heart did a little dance of anticipation.
Surprisingly childlike and gleeful.
As if you are about to receive a snow day from school.
But to do this.
Digital notifications.
And the endless obligations of the outside world.
Will soon be rendered obsolete by the clouds.
For the next 48 hours.
Your only job.
Your only responsibility.
Is to stay safe.
Stay warm.
And stay put.
Like many other souls,
Anticipating the weather.
You choose to enjoy the calm before the storm.
With some limited time outdoors.
As you walk into the village for provisions.
To enjoy a sense of community.
As you walk the path that leads out of the deep timber.
The woods begin to thin.
Giving way to the outskirts of the small town.
The landscape changes.
Becoming more dense with charm.
As you pass old Victorian homes with steep gables and wraparound porches.
In rich pastel shades.
And cozy stone cottages tucked behind fences.
And old melting snow banks.
Now dirtied with time.
But soon they will be white once more.
Main Street is a timeless picture.
Of small-town resilience and charm.
At its heart sits the general store.
A centuries-old clapboard building.
Painted a cheerful yet weathered yellow.
It's slightly sagging porch and the screen door that hasn't closed quite right since the 60s.
Are familiar landmarks of comfort.
Day,
The gravel lot is packed with heavy trucks.
And the air is filled with the metallic clink,
Clink,
Clink.
Tire chains being adjusted by gloved hands.
The sturdy,
Industrious sound speaks of grit and a trustworthy readiness.
The town mayor makes his presence known.
Letting passers-by know they should prepare to hunker down.
Warning that soon the roads will be closed for precautions.
You step inside the store,
And the bell over the door rings with a brassy chime.
That hasn't stopped sounding all morning.
A gust of warm,
Dry air wraps around you.
And the energy inside is electric.
Like a scene from another era.
Time long ago.
Before the simple anonymity of internet shopping.
When the locals store.
Was the social center of the village.
Neighbors who usually only exchange a quick wave.
Are lingering in the narrow aisle.
Leaning against the worn wooden counters.
To trade weather reports and woodpile logistics.
The earthy,
Sweet aroma of root vegetables piled in wooden bins.
Meets the sharp,
Clean scent of pine-scented floor wax.
And the buttery cloud of cinnamon and sugar wafting from the bakery counter.
You move through the aisles with your heavy canvas bag.
Feeling a sense of deep,
Simple purpose.
You find the jars of local wildflower honey.
Their amber depths glowing like captured sunlight.
Against the store's dim lighting.
You grab a bag of hard peppermint candies.
And a tin of dark cocoa that smells of rich fudge.
Is like the heavy loaf of sourdough bread.
Still warm from the oven.
Radiating a comforting yeasty heat.
Through the brown paper bag.
At the counter.
The talk is all about the big one.
The radio behind the register.
Is turned up loud.
And the same station you played this morning is on.
The announcer's voice has grown even more theatrical.
Dipping and rising over the sound.
Of the wind whistling outside.
He repeats the phrase,
Blizzard of the century,
The sense of awe.
If there is a shared sense of anticipation.
Between everyone in the room.
Tomorrow,
The worlds will belong to the silence.
And everyone will be perfectly prepared.
You pay for your goods.
Feeling the satisfying weight of the bag.
And step back out into the sharpening coal.
You look toward the edge of town.
Knowing that in just 20 minutes.
You'll escape the communal bustle.
And return to the sweet,
Absolute seclusion of your cabin.
Where the snow drifts will arrive to form protective walls of white.
Your walk home conjures thoughts of fairy tales.
As you dip beneath the canopy of spruce trees.
It appears like a gateway through a cathedral.
Thick branches are already heavy with tufts of snow and frozen needles.
You are part of the landscape now.
As the first snow starts to fall.
Big wet lazy flakes.
That drift down like festive confetti.
From a purple-gray sky.
They do not know the power they have.
Especially when they come together.
Snowflakes land on your eyelashes.
And stay there for a heartbeat.
Cold and refreshing.
Before they melt into tiny droplets.
You look up.
And the jagged peaks of the mountains.
Already disappearing.
Kind and ethereal white.
Tapestry of snow.
You taste the melting snow on your lips.
Subtle notes like a metal spoon.
Joining the flavor of your favorite lip balm.
As you get deeper into the woods.
The world simplifies into a palette of spruce green.
Tawny Brown and Moonstone White.
A fresh frosting dusts the dark,
Resinous greens of cedars and firs.
And the air smells of crushed balsam and distant wood smoke.
Your furry neighbors hunker down with a primal focus.
A white-tailed deer stands in a thicket of birch.
Her ears twitching as she watches you pass.
She stays regally still.
Watching you with a calm intuitive knowing.
Sensing that you,
Too,
Or a creature seeking shelter.
Squirrels frantically slip across the snow.
With their final caches.
Her tails twitching in the grey light.
Your own instincts buzz in response.
Your sense is in tune.
With every subtle shift of air.
Every smell.
And every sound.
You feel the barometric pressure drop in your ears.
A physical signal from the Earth itself.
That the world will be cloaked in heavy snow by nightfall.
You feel a profound shared sense of belonging with the wild things.
A realization that we are all one.
Our own way.
Instinctively able to prepare for winter.
Your early footsteps are now concealed with fresh snow.
Crunches beneath your boots.
A spiral of black wood smoke.
Swirls with a large snowflake.
Dance of hot and cold.
And the perpetual winter grays.
Before you go inside.
You make one final stop at the woodpile.
The wind is picking up now.
Swirling the falling snow into dizzying patterns.
You gather an arm load.
Of dense dry logs,
Of oak and birch.
They have been aging for quite a few seasons.
And been kept dry.
And their storage location.
You feel the rub.
Papery bark of the birch.
And the reliable weight of the oak in your arms.
The pressure against your chest is comforting.
Reminding you of your strength.
You walk through the snow.
And stack the logs on the porch.
Feeling the intense,
Quiet pride.
Good job,
Well done.
As you push open the heavy wooden door to your log cabin,
You are greeted by the best sound there is.
The frantic,
Happy sound of your pet's paws on the wood floor.
And the immediate enveloping dry warmth of your home.
A dear human companion is there as well.
Their face lighting up as you enter.
They are just as eager as you are.
Lean into the storm.
Disappear into the cozy rhythm of the cabin.
Your companion takes the heavy canvas bag from your shoulder.
Touch warm and grounding.
You are met with a hug that smells of the wood fire they've already started.
A scent of safety and wood smoke.
You feel so deeply loved.
So incredibly homey.
And so ready for the world to shut down.
The cabin smells of seasoned cedar,
Baking spices.
Beloved old books.
Together,
You unload the bag.
As your pet wraps around your leg.
The kitchen table becomes a mosaic.
Sourdough.
Cocoa peppermint,
And candles.
You feel a deep primal satisfaction.
In looking at the pantry and knowing We have enough.
They are safe.
We are together.
You open the door and allow your pet to dash outside once more before the storm arrives.
And you and your companion gather the logs from the porch.
And bring them indoors.
Your snow-dusted pet trailing behind.
As the afternoon unfolds.
You stand side by side.
The floor to ceiling window.
Watching the storm shift gears.
It moves with an incredible speed.
A raw display of Mother Nature's power.
The snow accumulates in inches by the hour.
Falling in fierce,
Short bursts.
That erase the trees.
In the path you just walked.
Until the woods are nothing.
But a swirling white crystalline mystery.
We're the earth and the sky.
Become a blanket of white.
It is a true whiteout.
Magnificent wall of silence.
That seals you into your sanctuary.
Darkness takes hold.
And once more,
It's hard to tell the time.
The power flickers once.
The lights dimming to a faint pulsing gold.
And then it goes out.
With a song.
Final click.
The modern world has officially signed off.
The blizzard offers a reprieve.
And tethering you from the grid for a little while.
You light the beeswax candles you brought from town.
The room is instantly transformed.
The orange marmalade light of the flames.
Much softer.
Much more honest than any light bulb.
The light dances against the cedar planked wall.
Catching the lustrous grains of wood.
It makes the shadows in the corners.
Healthy.
Velvety and protective.
You decide right then.
Camp out in the living room.
Directly in front of the massive stone fireplace.
Though a practical decision to keep warm through the night.
Also rooted.
Childlike sense of fun.
Brings the same thrill.
Creating a pillow fort in the middle of the floor.
Or building tents with sheets.
And creating a living room for it.
But before you set out on this mission.
You change into your warmest pajamas.
Then you and your companion work together.
As your pet tries to playfully interfere.
Dragging the plushest cushions from the sofa.
Layering the rug with a mountain of the heaviest and plushest blankets.
The blankets and fixtures offer textures and colors that bring you the most peace.
Thick quilted duvets.
And soft hand-woven throws.
Feel like a warm,
Heavy embrace.
Is a fluffy landscape of fabric and comfort.
A nest built for the storm.
For cuddling.
You and your loved one head to the kitchen together.
To prepare hot cocoa.
Whisking the dark chocolate and sugar.
Your chosen water or milk or heavy cream or oat milk.
In a saucepan that you bring over the heart.
You add a few peppermint candies.
And the rich scent of fudge and peppermint rises to the rafters.
Mingling with the honeyed aroma of the candles.
You pour the steamy liquid.
Into whimsical oversized muffs.
And your companion passes a few treats to your pet.
So they don't feel left out.
You return to the living room once more.
Settle into your camp.
Pulling the blankets up to your chins.
As you lean back against the cushions.
Snow continues to fall outside.
Your pet snuggles in between you.
Their head resting heavily on your foot.
They're breathing rhythmic.
And calm.
You hold the warm mug against your heart.
The feeling is warm.
Savoring its aroma.
As you sip the thick,
Soothing liquid.
As you watch the flames dance in the fireplace.
Memories play out in the metallic orange glow.
Flickering scenes of your own resilience.
Stories of other storms you've weathered.
And the simple,
Quiet joy.
Of having nowhere to be.
These memories bring a sense of profound joy.
And a reminder that the world is changing.
It's a magical place.
When you finally give yourself permission to be still beyond the glass panes.
Blizzard reveals itself to be the greatest showman tonight.
Snow piles up against the windows.
Reaching the cells.
And the lower parts of the pain.
Until the bottom half of your view.
Is a solid wall of white.
The wind causes the drifts to form and undulate like ocean waves.
As you settle and sigh.
Connect with the present moment.
You wish this feeling would never go away.
He wished the snow would keep falling.
Protecting this cozy pocket of peace forever.
This is the ultimate soul rest.
Do you feel it take hold?
As waves of sleepiness.
Come in with the storm.
You add two more heavy logs of oak to the fire.
The sparks exploding to flying up the chimney.
Tiny glowing stars against the sun.
You prepare your bed for the night.
Smoothing out the quill.
And adjusting the pillows.
Until the nest is perfect.
Deep heavy tiredness.
Begins to settle over you.
Not the tired of a long work day.
The wonderful,
Conked-out exhaustion child feels.
After a long day of playing in the deep snow.
The blankets protect you.
With a physical way.
It feels as natural as the snow on the roof.
Ears sink into the cushion.
Feeling the dry,
Radiant heat of the fire on your skin.
A reassuring maternal touch.
You feel the weight and the sleepy breath of your pet.
Curled up by your side.
You listen to the muffled,
Distant whistle of the wind.
Crackles and pops of the fire.
And the soft sound of snow accumulating.
The orchestra of the winter rising outside.
As a comfort.
A reminder of the strength.
Your log and stone.
Sanctuary in the woods.
Your muscles turn to jelly.
Your eyelids are too heavy to hold up.
Falling shut.
With a finality.
Feels like coming home.
You feel the presence of your companions.
Warmth of the cabin.
In a deep restorative hibernation.
Brought on by the blizzard.
You are safe.
You are war.
You are love as you hear the last crackles of the fire.
Now,
As this journey concludes,
You may choose to drift like gently falling snow into the embrace of slumber.
Or if you are still awake.
Find comfort in the next sleepy tale.
As we venture further into the winter night.
The Snowy Sea Cottage.
Nantucket in the Heart of Winter The world transformed.
The quiet frozen oasis.
With few souls from its high season remaining.
You've come here for a weekend getaway.
A choice that some might find unusual.
Leaving the mainland behind.
For an island anchored 30 miles deep into the restless Atlantic.
During its most unforgiving months.
But her journey here was born of questions that linger through the harshest moments of the winter season.
A lot of your heart and mind became open enough to fall in love with every season.
What if,
Instead of bracing against the cold,
You chose to celebrate its stark beauty.
What if you embraced the challenge to adapt to its unique demands?
Rather than rushing toward the promise of spring.
For getting lost in the golden memories.
Of summers gone by.
The getaway to Nantucket.
Is all about drawing inward.
Hunkering down.
It's about learning to be present in the now of winter.
Honoring its silence and its strength.
As you walk toward the frozen shore.
The air in your lungs is sharp and frosty,
A bracing reminder of your own aliveness.
It's visible with every exhalation.
As a swirling,
Magical cloud of condensation escapes your lips that have been soothed with a favorite balm.
Every detail was considered for this walk.
Ensuring your comfort and protection.
You pull your thick,
Hand-knitted wool scarf higher.
Tucking it just beneath the bridge of your nose.
Until the only parts of you exposed to the elements.
Are your eyes and the tip of your nose.
Which the North Atlantic wind nips with a playful,
Persistent chill.
A faux fur hat is pulled low.
Its warmth pressing against your temples.
Creating a private,
Quiet world.
Within the layers of fleas.
That wrap around your ears and neck.
You begin your walk at the edge of the dunes.
The tall beech grass is no longer green or golden.
It is as delicate as the finest silver bracelets.
Dangling from a display.
Dazzled with a fine coating.
Tiny ice crystals.
Prismatic in the fading Sun.
They remind you of sun catchers.
Dangling in the window of a cozy room.
You feel more in tune with the textures of the world around you.
And you often are.
And the sounds so unique.
To this February day.
Beneath the thick rubber soles of your sturdy boots.
The mixture of frozen sand and fresh snowfall.
Creates an ear-tingling crunch crinkle crunch,
Crinkle.
It is a sound so specific to the deep winter.
And it somehow seems to massage your brain.
In a calming way.
The musicality of each step.
Joined by the soft,
Yet thunderous sound of crashing waves.
Brings your attention fully to the shoreline.
Grounding you in the physical reality.
Of the frozen earth beneath your feet.
As you crest the first snowdrift.
The view stops you in your tracks.
The Atlantic is not the blue-green of summer.
Or the charcoal grey of a storm.
The waves are quite unlike anything you've ever seen.
The deep freeze has transformed the incoming tide.
Into a vast undulating sea of lavender gray slush.
The waves do not quite break.
And their lacy edges are hard to find.
They roll and fold with a viscous,
Heavy grace.
Like velour comforters tumbling in a dryer.
As the sun descends.
Departs the beach with a final kiss of warmth.
Painting the slushy sea in a shifting gradient.
Of rose gold.
Soft peach.
And a glowing luminous magenta.
The ice fragments.
Suspended in the salt water.
Catch the fading light.
Sparkling like a million tiny raw amethysts.
At times it feels otherworldly.
With no other witness to this beauty.
In the cold salty breeze.
And the taste of the Atlantic on your lips.
Brings a reminder.
That no matter how dreamlike this feels,
It is all very real.
It's winter's secret gift.
To those who are brave enough.
Or stubborn enough.
Dredged through the coal.
Hoping to reconnect with the season's beauty.
The cold is easy to adapt to.
When you're well-dressed for the temperature.
You know in the back of your mind.
Jacuzzi sea cottage.
It's toasty and warm.
Waiting for your return.
You continue your walk toward the shoreline.
And this island often referred to as the Grey Lady.
Shows her most beautiful February face.
Nantucket in Winter is a place of profound remoteness.
Makes it quite hard to imagine this place could ever be a bustling hub.
Frantic pace of the modern world.
Simply cannot reach you here today.
Like a time hop to an era long before you felt tethered to modern devices.
Where the only sounds are the crinkling ice,
The hush of the surf,
And the whistling wind.
Fiery orange sun slips away.
Washing the frozen island.
With even more variations.
In pinks,
Oranges,
Purples,
And golds.
Than you have ever seen before.
And the rolling snow-coated dunes and slushy waves.
Are the perfect palette for these reflections.
As you inhale deeply.
Once more feeling and tasting the briny air.
You dig your gloved hands.
Deeper into the downy warmth of your pocket.
This mental health walk.
With each breath.
And each moment.
To be a necessary pilgrimage.
As you remember what it feels like.
Be fully present.
You look back at your trail.
Seeing your deep solitary footsteps.
Etched into the rose gold glow of the snowy sand.
They are the only marks on the beach.
A fleeting record of your presence.
In this vast,
Frozen sanctuary.
Distant hint of wood smoke.
Joins the metallic tang of the frosty salt spray.
A reminder of the warm fireplace.
Waiting for you at home.
Your legs feel a delightful tiredness.
This walk has cleansed you of the boredom and restlessness that comes when too much time.
Has been spent indoors.
You feel a sense of accomplishment.
Be so insignificant in warmer months.
Today's walk has lit a fire of appreciation within you.
You did it.
You moved your body.
Even when it wanted to stay still and draw in words.
And now every moment of peace and coziness to follow.
Feels like an earned gift.
As the sky deepens into bands of ruby and deep purple.
The sound of the surf lulls you.
With a heavy whisper.
It's rhythmic,
Shh.
Followed by the delicate glass-like tinkling of ice discs colliding.
It is a tranquilizing.
Low frequency sounds.
That invites your heart to slow down.
To match its soothing tempo.
To your left.
Dunes rise like white sleeping giants.
You decide to climb over one of the larger snow mounds.
Your breath blooming in white clouds before you.
At the top,
You gain a new perspective.
The island stretches out.
In a mosaic of cedar shingles.
And white patches.
In the distance a lighthouse appears.
Red and white stripes.
Glowing softly in the fading light.
As wisps of clouds that resemble cotton candy float through the sky.
The lighthouse's golden beam.
Begins its first slow rhythmic sweep of the evening.
A steady pulse of light.
Cutting through the lavender mist.
From this height.
The contrast is breathtaking.
The world is divided.
Into the deep indigo of the calming night.
The fiery oranges of the retreating sun.
You feel the immense weight of the island's history.
Generations of whalers and weavers.
Sat by their hearths while the same wind howled against the glass.
You are part of that lineage now.
A seeker of warmth.
An observer of the quiet.
The cold quickly begins to deepen.
And the sand seems to firm up beneath you.
I wonder to you of how something could become even more frozen.
You take it as a signal to return to your cottage.
Walking along the dunes with precision.
As visions of home dance in your mind.
This night is yours for snuggling.
And catching up on all the simple pleasures you desire.
Your cottage appears in the near distance.
A modest historic home with cedar-shake siding and mullioned windows.
That offer perfect views of the Atlantic and the snowy dunes.
From every room.
You feel inspired by the ocean's ability.
Change its form.
It remains so powerfully itself.
As you get closer.
He recognized once more that this walk was a necessity.
It has glared the cobwebs of the digital world.
And replace them with the shimmer of the frozen Atlantic.
An image that will forever stay with you.
From the vast lavender gray shoreline.
The dusky blue cast on the sheltered path through the doom.
Everything rises.
And recedes around you.
An elegant curve.
The wind.
That was a constant howling companion at the water's edge.
Now filters through the frozen,
Brittle stalks of beech grass.
Creating a low,
Hollow whisper.
And your boots continue to fly.
Familiar grounding crunch of the frozen sand.
Many of the cottages in the distance are shuttered for the winter.
But there are a few that offer the golden promise of warmth within.
But your cottage is now the closest.
Emanating a soft light.
Spills out onto the snow with a wash of honeyed coal.
You follow your private path to the cottage.
Now covered with the soft patches of dusty snow that the wind brought in.
And ascend the steps to your wraparound porch.
You reach the heavy cedar door.
Your fingers tucked inside your warm gloves.
Grasp the frosty,
Substantial weight.
The wrought iron handle.
As you pull it open.
And step inside.
Door clicks shut.
With a solid,
Airtight thud.
In the world of the Atlantic Freeze.
Disappears behind you.
Softened by the winterized dwelling.
You enter the mud room.
A small wood panel transition space.
Smells of aged pine,
Dried salt,
And beeswax.
The air is dry,
Warm,
And welcoming.
The combination of its aromas.
Is the most familiar.
And homey sense.
A cottage could offer.
You begin the slow,
Detailed process.
Of shedding the day's journey.
And removing your many layers.
Part of your mind flickers back to the ease of throwing on sandals.
Walking outside without a coat.
But the winter ritual.
Lets you know sometimes it's not only okay to slow down.
It's required.
First you untie the frosty laces of your salt-crusted boots.
Setting them aside on a stone tray.
Then you peel off your heavy coat.
Which feels stiff.
With a North Atlantic chill.
And smells of cold ozone.
And salt water spray.
You hang it on a nautical wooden hook.
Along with your head and your thick knitted scarf.
You reach into.
A weathered wicker basket by the door.
And pull out a pear.
Of thick cream-colored fuzzy slipper socks.
As you slide them on.
You feel the house's best modern updates.
The wide plank floorboards have radiant heat.
Every soft step you take.
Lands on a gentle rising warmth.
Travels from the soles of your feet.
All the way to your heart.
You walk through the cottage.
Noticing how the architecture holds you.
Above the exposed wooden beams.
Dark and hand-hewn.
Across the ceiling like the ribs of an old ship.
Turned upside down to protect you.
Cottage is a book and board game lover's haven.
There is no television here.
And that is intentional.
The room is instead silent.
Filled with high,
Overflowing bookshelves.
Stacks of linen-bound journals.
And wooden board games with edges softened by years of play.
You start by the wood box.
Gathering a few logs of fragrant cedar.
And kneel by the stone hearth.
You draw some matches.
And as the flame catches,
The room begins to dance with orange gold lights.
The firelight reflects off the ripples of hand-blown glass vessels that contain decades of collected sea glass.
You take a moment to appreciate the winterizing of the space.
The heavy velvet curtains.
That may be drawn tight.
Keep the cold at bay.
And the way the furniture made of dark cherry wood.
Seems to glow in the firelight.
With a pang of hunger.
Longing for something warming.
You walk to the kitchen.
Space is defined by a rustic farmhouse table.
That bears the marks of a century of shared meals.
You move to the pantry.
Cool dark room lined with sturdy shelves.
It is stocked with a mindful abundance.
Colorful delights.
Rows of glass mason jars.
Contain the translucent jewel.
Of the summer's harvest.
From tomatoes to beets.
Peaches and apples.
You peruse the well-organized shelves.
Until you come upon a row of soup.
You select one.
That was prepared and preserved.
Just before the first cold snap of autumn.
Clink of the glass jar opening.
And the sound of the wooden spoon.
Against the ceramic pot.
The soup heats up on the stove.
Join the faint music of the winter wind and the incoming dive.
Once the soup comes to a simmer,
You pour the steamy liquid into an oversized mug that also serves as a bowl.
It requires two hands to carry.
But you find your balance.
Walking across the warm floorboards.
Back to the living room.
You retreat to a wingback chair by the fire.
Draped in a silvery blue chenille throw.
Contours of the chair.
Support you as you settle.
You savor each spoonful.
Taking your time.
To revel in the gentle,
Familiar creaks of the cottage.
The crackles and pops of the fire.
Once done.
You set the mug on a nearby antique table.
And pick up the leather-bound book.
That was left as a gift to the cottage.
Many years ago.
By a house guest.
The History of Nantucket.
Tonight is the night to get lost in Nantucket's stories.
He draves the island's tail back to its very beginning.
Reading How Nantucket.
Comes from a Wampanoag word.
Meaning the faraway lands.
Perhaps,
Land beside the water.
A name that feels particularly apt tonight.
As the Atlantic miles stretched between you.
And the mainland.
You read about the Wampanoag people.
The people of the first light.
Who lived on these windswept dunes for thousands of years.
Thriving in the delicate,
Shifting balance of the island's ecosystem.
You read of how sailors called the island the Gray Lady.
A name born from the way she would wrap herself.
In a thick,
Haunting cloak of Atlantic fog.
And vanish from sight.
It's a name that lives in the wood grains of the cottage.
Where the salt air has softened,
The red cedar shingles.
Into a silvery-gray patina.
And the first European families arrive.
Names like Macy and Starbucks.
Is not a life defined by its own rules.
Far from the rigid constraints of the mainland.
By the mid-1700s.
This tiny sandbar.
Had grown into the wailing capital of the world.
Global Hub.
That kept the lamps of London and Paris ablaze.
The book describes the year-round residence of that era.
The islanders whose lives were tethered to the tide.
While the men were away at sea for years.
The Women of Nantucket.
Build a society.
Independence.
They were the shopkeepers and the bookkeepers.
Running petticoat roll.
With a perseverance that defined the island's character.
You learn that these saltbox homes were built with a lean-to design.
To conserve precious wood.
Often using timber salvaged from the shipwrecks.
That met their end on the shoals of Nantucket.
And as even more decades pass.
The Industry of the Whale.
Give way to the industry of R&R.
The island transformed once more.
To a beloved vacation destination.
A place where people came to escape.
Into its bucolic beauty.
You think about the contrast.
How in July these cobblestone streets are a kaleidoscope of bicycles and sundresses.
Buzzing with a vibrant.
Chaotic energy of summer.
But as you look up from the page,
And see the firelight flickering against the dark cedar beams.
You realize you are witnessing.
The islands.
Two things.
Stay here in the winter.
Is to be part of the quiet lineage of those.
Who understood the island in its darkest form.
You close the book slowly.
Cover cool against your skin.
And let the ease of the present moment wash over you.
A heavy wave of contentment.
Is followed by a sense of drowsiness.
You slowly stand.
To stoke the fire once more.
And tidy up before retreating to the bathroom.
A white clawfoot tub stands on polished brass feet.
Promising one last warm indulgence.
You turn the brass tabs.
A cloud of steam rises to meet you.
You reach for a glass bottle of bubble bath.
Bought at the end of the summer season.
From a Quirky General store.
On the main drag.
The store is bolted shut for the season now.
But as you pull out the cork.
And the silky liquid hits the water.
The scent of wild beech rose.
Fills the room.
A fragrant ghost of summer.
Carried on the blooming bubbles.
As you step into the water.
You appreciate this gift of hibernation.
The release you feel is instantaneous.
The muscles in your shoulders.
Which had been gripping the tension.
Of the A.
C.
War.
Now melt with ease.
The water holds you weightless.
While the wind outside gives a low mournful whistle against the eaves.
You listen to the occasional crack of the house door.
Contracting in the snow.
The softest tinkling are the icicles that dangle.
Beyond the window.
You take as long as you like.
Enjoying the warm.
And watching as the bubbles pop and dissolve.
Eventually you rise.
And dry off with a plush towel.
Changing into pajamas that have been draped over the heater.
And are now warm and soft against your skin.
You walk slowly down the narrow hallway.
Glancing out the windows at the dark beach.
The snow spirals in a frantic,
Beautiful ballet in the wind.
White streaks of light.
Crossing the dark void of the dunes.
The hallway reminds you.
The companionway of a whaling ship.
It's adorned with framed maritime charts from the 1800s.
As you arrive in the bedroom.
The air is cool and crisp.
Through the frosted windowpane.
Timed sweep of the lighthouse beam.
Passes by.
Golden.
All is well.
Brushes the wall every few seconds.
One.
Too.
Than a flash of gold.
It is a celestial metronome.
Shines a spotlight.
And the dancing snowflakes.
You draw the thick velvet drapes closed.
And walk to the four-poster bed.
You peel back a heavy patch or quilt.
That offers the blues of Nantucket.
And nocturnal scenes of the Atlantic.
Over crisp,
Freshly laundered sheets.
You climb under the covers.
Feeling the weight of the quilt.
Pressing you down into the mattress.
Giving you permission.
To find stillness.
And completely surrender.
To your left,
The bedside lamp is a simple glass vase.
Filled with tiny bleached scallop shells.
Topped with a linen shade.
Diffuses the light.
To a deep pink glow.
Reminding you of the magnificent sunset.
You witnessed today.
You click it all.
And the room is plunged into a beautiful darkness.
That promises a perfect sleep.
The sound of the snow against the glass.
Is a final rose and lullaby.
Your breathing slows.
Coming deep and regular.
Mimicking the slow,
Heavy roll of the slushy wave.
You can still hear.
Ever so faintly.
Now,
In the heart of the Grey Lady You are tucked safely into the heart of the island.
Drifting on the delicate waves of sleep.
At the rhythmic pulse of the winter sea.
Carry your worries away into the dark.
You may sink into a deep,
Dreamless rest now.
Or continue on.
As we follow the shoreline.
To a new sanctuary.
Scottish Bothy,
Snowy evening in the Highlands,
The poet Robert Burns once penned.
Wherever I wander,
Wherever I roam.
The hills of the highland,
Forever I love.
Quite easy to tap into this love as the highlands unfold before you.
With its dreamy,
Cinematic beauty.
Rugged yet soft.
A landscape of contradictions.
Seemed to complement one another with grace and mystique.
Your feet land on the half-frozen earth.
Protected in boots that form around your arches.
And help you stand.
Tall and supported.
As you inhale deeply.
You notice the air is now crisp.
A sunset and soon the blue hour approached.
The morning rain gave way to an afternoon freeze,
And it's only getting colder.
In the distance,
The high monroes are perpetually crowned this time of year.
With a heavy,
Brilliant white frosting.
Their jagged reflective peaks contrasting a sky the shade of a robin's egg.
Over 238 monroes,
Or mountains,
Guard the highlands.
Sentinels that mountain climbers dare to track.
In what is referred to as Monroe Bagging.
The peaks were named after an avid mountaineer.
He hiked their steep inclines and published a list of the 3,
000-foot peaks he explored.
It down in the glen.
Where you enjoy an extended holiday with your pup in tow.
The morning's brisk rain washed the landscape clean.
Imbuing the air with a sense of wet stone and cold moss.
As the freezing air came in with the afternoon.
The moss and carpet of heather became crunchy with prismatic frost and ice crystals.
That now capture the pinks of a setting sun.
You can feel the atmosphere tightening.
Thickening with a promise of incoming snow.
Patches of old crusted snow still linger in the valleys.
Like abandoned lace doilies that add a white softness to the tawny winter grass that ripples through the glens.
Your pup circles around you.
Running with enthusiasm in anticipation of the storm.
With pent-up energy from being kept inside during the rain.
A burst of freedom rises in you as well.
And you quicken your pace.
And encourage your pup's fervor.
Happy to enjoy this escape from your cabin,
Or rather,
Bothy fever.
Sunset pinks reflect on the snow-capped monroes and clouds.
Transforming them into visions of tufts of cotton candy and layers of strawberry icing.
The visions of fantastical storybook settings.
Snow clouds roll in.
Their dull greys enlivened by these pops of raspberry pinks.
And yet another contrast of gloom and vibrant splendor.
As you walk on the quiet road.
You catch sight of a field of sheep being gathered.
And led to a stone dwelling for shelter from the incoming snow.
Brilliant,
Unique snow crystals.
Huge and intricate with lacy designs.
Languidly tumble from the pastel canvas overhead.
They land with a feather-light arrival.
On your textured earth-toned plaid winter overcoat.
Snowflakes dust your beloved companion's fur.
Resting from your seconds.
Before your dog dashes off and shakes them free.
A snowflake or two lands on your lips.
Invigorating sensation before they melt and leave the taste of the freshest water from a cold water tap.
You're not far from your body.
Take this time to revel in the far-reaching expanse of rolling meadows.
Than otherworldly green in summer.
They are now a unique patchwork.
A sunset rose,
Reflecting off the snow and ice.
Muted winter brown.
And fresh,
Pearly white snow crystals.
You inhale.
Taking in the aroma of distant peat smoke.
Feeling how deliciously the air warms in your nose.
Your pup leads just ahead of you.
You come upon an ancient fairy bridge.
A small humped stone arch.
Over a babbling burn.
Also known as a gurgling stream.
The steely silver water.
Weaves beneath a shelf of delicate ice along its banks.
That reflects and captures the pinks and purples of sunset.
Or the incoming snow's wall.
Softly whistling winds.
Patter of snow landing on the earth and your person.
Joined by the distant bass of sheaths.
And the musical serenade of the burn.
Centuries ago.
The land was the home of shepherds.
Seeking shelter in humble bare stone huts from the gale force winds.
Move in.
Perhaps beggars were best to not be choosers.
And the shepherds were used to both these.
That we're damned?
Humble.
Merely functional.
But with a loving restoration.
Of creative souls these dwellings now offer.
Warm,
Charming refuge.
With an elevated interior design.
No longer drab huts for rugged necessity.
The restored ones offer coziness and whimsy.
Though the stone walls still retain the memory of a time long ago.
They are now kept warm.
With roaring fires and the soothing hues of overstuffed chairs and plush blankets.
Despite the curiosity you may feel about the highlands of long ago.
For something so deeply satisfying.
And knowing that even the most frigid winter days over a safe,
Beloved haven.
Where you may hunger down for the night.
Even for the season,
If you desire.
As you turn back toward the bathi.
The snow accumulates with haste.
So eager to paint the world.
In a velvety soft coating of white.
Bleak winter greys have lost their hold and their power.
You find yourself feeling lighter and more playful as you continue on the path.
You follow the footsteps of your pup.
Bending down to gather some snow in your bare hands.
Your furry companion suddenly halts.
Turning at you with a cocked head and a glint of curiosity.
The snow feels nice.
A reminder that you are still here.
Alive.
And vibrant.
You pack the snow together with ease.
Forming a small ball.
And throwing it overhead.
And towards your pup.
Your dog leaps to catch it.
Almost missing it.
But surprising you with a recovery.
As their teeth chomp on the snowball.
And it breaks back into bits and powder,
Scattering the path.
You laugh at their confusion.
And they look to you as you offer a playful shrug.
Before running to your side once more.
Ready to return to your Scottish home.
As you ascend a snowy knoll.
Kabathi emerges.
Beyond the curtain of white.
Glowing faintly like the setting from a beloved folktale.
Its low,
Sturdy profile.
Hunkers deep into the earth.
With the snow drifts like waves cresting against the dry stone walls.
The small,
Deep-set windows.
Glow with a warm,
Buttery light.
That spills out onto the pristine snow of the garden.
A wild patch of silver birch and sleeping foxgloves.
Now transformed into a forest of white coral.
Peru.
Thick with heavy slate tiles.
Where's a cap of snow?
Deeply muffles the outside noise.
To create a pocket of peace and quiet.
In the restored bothy.
Every step you take toward the door feels lighter.
The Winter Highland Air.
Gently against your back.
Pushing you toward your home.
As you reach the heavy stone steps.
You notice a woven wicker basket resting on the doormat.
Protected from the drift by the overhanging eaves.
It's a gift from your neighbor from the craft.
Or small farm down the glen.
Who has a legendary intuition for the weather.
She is a perpetual baker on gloomy days.
Kneading the dough in the mornings and experimenting with soups in the afternoon.
Cooking offers the kind of nurturing for the soul she requires during these leaker seasons.
She often has an abundance to share.
Your pup's nose twitches with sudden intense interest.
Their snow-dusted tail thumping against the stone.
Freeing any remaining frozen crystals and melted drops.
As they sniff at the linen cloth covering the bounty.
You find yourself smiling.
As you gently shoo your pup away.
And promise a treat indoors.
A buttery,
Toasted aroma rises from Empire biscuits and Scottish shortbread within.
Which still hold a subtle phantom heat from the oven.
Tucked beneath the linen are Selkirk bannocks.
Those rich fruit-filled bread rolls that are a staple of Highland comfort.
You lift the basket.
And can feel the weight and warmth.
Of your neighbor's love and kindness in your hands.
A reminder of the community spirit.
Defines life in these mystical glens.
With a basket tucked under one arm.
And your pup waiting eagerly by your side.
You press your thumb to the cold iron ledge.
The door yields with a familiar welcoming creak.
And as you step across the threshold,
The scent of fading wood smoke and dried lavender rushes out to meet you.
Pulling you finally and fully into the sanctuary of the heart.
As the door clicks shut.
The Highland winter is transformed into a cinematic film.
Playing in dashes of swirling white behind the deep-set windows.
You move through the bothy with a slow,
Deliberate grace.
Savoring the transition from the rugged wild.
To this refined,
Cozy interior.
The space is a masterclass.
In the unique use of small-scale design.
Every corner has a purpose or two.
Every stone seems to hold the secret.
The walls.
Three feet thick.
And built of rugged gneiss,
Are softened by a creamy lime wash.
That catches the flickering candlelight.
High above.
The Dark Oak Rafters.
Rescued from an old shipwreck centuries ago.
Crisscross the ceiling.
Creating a rich chocolate canopy of wood.
Airpop takes off to their bed.
Diving and spinning to dry off and work out the sudden burst of energy.
That accompanies every return to your warm home.
You approach the fireplace.
For an evening ritual.
That always brings a sense of radiating peace.
You comfortably kneel on a thick,
Hand-woven rug.
Reaching for the basket of bogwood.
And dark rectangular bricks of peace.
The peat feels dense and organic in your hands.
A dry,
Concentrated peace.
Of the Highlands history.
As you strike a long wooden match.
Sulfurous spark gives way to a small blue flame that licks the edges of the peach.
The smell is instantaneous.
Earthy,
Sweet,
And ancient.
Of the Scottish soil itself.
Coming to life in a new way.
Eileen Bath.
Watching the fire find a mesmerizing rhythm.
As the flames rock and rise.
And the heat instantly warms your face and hands.
Beside you.
Your loyal companion.
Another constant warm presence.
Your dog settles with a heavy,
Contented thump against your leg.
Their fur still holding the faint,
Cool aroma of the highlands.
Your age down.
Your fingers disappearing into their soft ears.
Feeling the sleepy rise and fall of your pup's ribs.
Before they sigh.
This is the silent language of your furry best friend.
No words needed.
Just the shared understanding.
You are both safe.
Both warm.
And to both exactly where you are meant to be.
And a successful fire casting the room in honeyed light.
You can't resist delving into the warm baked goods from your neighbor's kindness.
A move toward a small vintage-style stove.
Place a heavy copper kettle on the gas range.
You stand for a moment.
Listening as the water begins to thrum.
Then rise into a cheerful,
Strong whistle.
A stronger,
More persistent sound than the winds whipping outside.
Your pup stands at attention.
Now curious about what treats are in store for them.
You repair a pot of strong Highland tea.
The steam rising in thick,
Fragrant plumes.
That carry comforting notes of malt and wildflower honey.
As the tea steeps.
You offer your pup their dinner in a ceramic bowl on a mat.
As they scurry and enjoy their kibble.
You feel a heady contentment.
Coming in with a storm.
As snow taps the panes,
You take a deep breath.
Truly appreciate the sanctuary you've cultivated here.
The restoration has honored the Bothy's rugged security.
But the soul of the room.
Is now defined by vibrant jewel-toned pops of warmth.
That were entirely absent.
In the building's original.
Yuletarian Incarnation and rustic wood shelves.
You've arranged a collection of vintage translucent purple and teal glass vases.
That catch the firelight.
Glowing like gems.
Against the creamy,
Lime-washed stone.
Within them.
Bundles of dried heather and lavender lean softly their muted purples and greens.
Offering a permanent memory.
Of Summer in the Glen.
Your most beloved books.
Are carefully stowed with antique bookends alongside them.
Their weathered paper and cloth bindings.
Showing the gentle wear of many wreaths.
Interspersed among the titles.
Are framed photographs.
Of you and your pup throughout the seasons.
Capturing a laughing moment.
In a field of spring bluebells.
Or a quiet afternoon by a sun-drenched loft.
These images are anchors of happiness.
Proof of a life lived in harmony with this wild land.
And its seasons.
The jewel-toned color palette.
Offers a sense of luxuriousness.
Opulent deep emerald velvet curtains frame the windows.
And a rich ruby-toned rug covers the flagstone floor.
Cushioning your footsteps with warmth.
You select an empire biscuit from the basket.
To thick,
Buttery shortbreads.
Held together by a layer of tart raspberry jam.
Topped with a pristine layer.
Of smooth white icing.
And a single ruby-red glazed cherry.
The first bite.
It's truly the perfect tonic.
For a cold winter eve.
Gentle crinkle of the icing.
The melts away crumble of the short breath.
In the sweet sharpness of the fruit.
All melt on your tongue.
You sink into the golden velvet.
Of your favorite armchair.
The high back supporting you perfectly.
You break off the tiniest morsel of a plain shortbread for your pup,
Who takes it with a gentle,
Polite lick.
Before resting their chin back on your feet.
You're amidst the scent of lavender.
The glow of glass faces.
And I ate the tea.
The frantic pace of the modern world.
Feels not just miles away.
But centuries away.
The snow squalls outside.
And the crackling fire endure.
Place any need for modern distractions.
As you plug into every sensory experience.
In your Scottish Bothy.
While just a hideout shelter.
During its first years of youth.
It is now a cherished home.
That values the slow life.
The thoughtful life.
As the last buttery crumbs melt on your tongue.
And the silky tea.
Blows down your throat.
The storm reaches its crescendo.
The wind begins to howl.
In a high,
Melodic soprano.
Pipes of the north.
As it whistles across the chimney top.
It as quickly as it arrives.
The squall begins to taper off.
The frantic drumming of snow against the stone.
Subsides into a profound nocturnal silence.
Your eyes to tidy up the kitchen and clean your dishes.
As they dry.
Reach out to the window over the sink.
Wiping a small circle in the condensation.
With the palm of your hand.
See that the world outside has transformed once more.
The clouds of Pardis.
Revealing an indigo sky so deep.
It looks like velvet.
And the moon.
Huge and silver.
Rising over the snow-capped Monroe's.
The stars are no longer concealed or distant.
They are brilliant icy diamonds.
Scattered across the glen.
Your calm meditative state.
You realize more time has passed than you considered.
Your pup is near your shins.
Eagerly requesting one final night walk.
You slip back into your coat.
And step out in two.
Quiet Winter Wonderland.
The air is so crisp.
It feels like drinking cold water.
The snow is pristine.
A smooth,
Unblemished sheet of white.
That sparkles under the moonlight.
As of millions of tiny crystals.
Have been zoned into the earth.
Your dog leaps into the drifts.
Their joy a silent explosion of energy in the still night.
You take a few steps.
Reveling in that satisfying dry crunch of fresh snow.
Looking back to see the orange gold glow of the bothy windows.
Serving as your personal lantern.
On this quiet night.
You take one deep purifying breath of the air.
Feeling your spirit expand with gratitude.
Before retreating back to the warp.
Inside.
You prepare for the final descent into sleep.
You retreat to the small stone-walled bathroom.
Where a deep,
Clawfoot-soaking tub awaits.
You turn the brass taps.
Watching the steam rise and swirl in the candlelight.
You use a bar of heather honey soap.
The lather rich and floral.
Smelling of summer moorlands.
And golden nectar.
The warm water and curls.
Every remaining knot of tension in your shoulders.
You're back.
Interlay.
Earpup softly snores from the bathmat.
As you sink into the pleasures of the hot water.
And the heady waves of tired return.
Slowly but with persistence.
Heavier with each breath.
A sleep beckons.
Your eyes and towel off.
Wrapping yourself in a plush floor-length robe.
Fabric thick and soft against your skin.
As you move into the bedroom.
This room is the heart of this fairytale renovation.
Offering softness.
Feathery ivory throw pillows.
And blankets.
Its soothing beauty almost feels like the room was designed by the spirit of feminine fairies.
The bed is massive.
A kingdom of comfort.
Layered in a heavy comforter.
And topped with a thick hand-woven blanket.
And your favorite soothing hues.
Lavender sachets tucked under pillows release a calming scent.
You light a few beeswax candles on the nightstand.
Their golden lei.
Dancing on the creamy stone wall.
You pick up your journal.
Your pen gliding across the paper.
As you capture the day's magic.
The raspberry pink clouds.
The Fairy Bridge.
The smell of the peat.
And the kindness of a neighbor's basket.
You write your gratitude for this sanctuary.
A single wish.
For soft,
Healing dreams.
As your pup has already fallen into a dream-filled sleep beside you.
With a gentle breath.
You blow out the candles.
Watching the thin ribbon of smoke.
Vanish into the dark.
The room plunges.
Into a soft amber twilight.
Provided from the dying embers of the fire in the next room.
Changed into your pajamas.
You slide under the heavy layers.
Feeling the immediate comforting weight.
Press you into the mattress Your pup lets out a soft,
Sleepy huff.
To join their sounds.
With their own yawn and sigh.
Feeling safe?
Warm and at home the waves of sleep arise.
As the wind continues to howl.
As the warmth of this moment settles around you.
Might surrender now to the soft pull of sleep.
Stay with me a while longer.
As we find another flickering fire to sit beside.
The winter fairies.
As cozy as the comforts of home can be.
On a dreary winter day.
There's a moment when it becomes a bit too enclosed.
When the heart yearns for a bit more freedom and fresh air.
And to remember what it's like to spend a night beneath the stars.
The breath of winter comes in sharp.
But its softness may be found in both the snow and the inventive ways we bundle and hunker down.
Your home is quiet.
But for the occasional creaks and groans of its settling structure.
It's deep into the night.
As you linger in the liminal space before sleep.
A mind wanders in this time.
And when infused with a positive spirit.
And may begin to wander.
In a childlike way.
Memories stir to life.
What it felt like to see the world as a magical place waiting to be discovered.
You lie in the quiet dark.
Watching the frost coat your windowpane.
Gradually,
It persistently grows.
Lacy and delicate.
Yet so intent on consuming the glass.
Just a few breaths ago.
It occupied the lower left corner.
And now it has risen halfway up the pane.
The author Vera Nazarian once wrote.
Across rows on the window glass.
Forming whorl patterns of lovely translucent geometry.
Breathe on the glass.
And you give Frost more ammunition.
Now it can build castles and cities and whole ice continents with your breath's vapor.
A few blinks.
You can almost see the winter fairies moving in.
But first you hear the crackle of their wings.
And indeed,
You do hear it.
Delicate crystalline sound that vibrates through the glass.
The frost begins to knit together.
A majestic scene.
A portrait of you illuminated by moonlight.
Standing at the edge of a great white snowy expanse.
The fairy's glow illuminates icy lanterns etched in the frost with soft rose pink,
Violet,
And light blue.
The window artwork is an invitation.
A glimpse into a world where the malaise of the indoors is suddenly replaced.
The beauty of a winter night.
One of the three fairy sisters taps the glass.
Her eyes sparkling like starlight.
And together,
They unlatch the window from the outside.
With beguiling smiles and secretive winks.
They pushed the pane open.
And as they beckon you into the silver night,
The air instantly changes.
Well,
It's quite an odd occurrence indeed.
You don't dare to overthink it.
That part of your mind.
Is shut off for the night.
And instead you revel in the way you feel.
As if in a dream.
Where everything feels safe and right.
You welcome this unexpected invitation.
Cheerily tag along.
Flying comes easier.
Than one might imagine.
As if gravity decided to give up on you.
Let your arms and legs flutter in a way that feels natural.
And you swim through the winter night air.
Trailing just behind the three fairies.
You are soon suspended in the midnight sky.
You are instantly adorned in heavy ivory faux fur.
And thick pearly blue layers that are lined with comforting fleas.
On your feet.
You notice the incredible comfort.
Of snow-white,
Marshmallow-thick soled boots.
Cushioning your feet.
All these layers have self-warming features.
The radiant heat traveling around your face.
To leave a deep sense of comfort.
Suddenly,
The winters frost.
Is no longer a hindrance.
And the season's beauty may be enjoyed with nary a shiver.
The three sisters bank left.
Their wings leaving trails of diamond dust in the moonlight.
Their dulcet tones are reserved for a soft melody.
That guides you through the night.
And once more.
Like in a dream.
They convey ideas telepathically.
They speak to you with a resonance of their spirits.
Unquestioningly.
You find their guidance comes.
In a simple knowing and understanding.
Making it so easy to unwind and enjoy the winter skate.
Ira leads the trio of fairies.
She is the oldest sister,
With hair as white as a fresh snowfall and as sparkly as moon dust.
She reaches out a tiny hand bejeweled with ornate rings of bezel-set ice gemstones.
And as she sweeps her fluttering fingers across the horizon,
You notice the world below.
Swaying trees.
A distant owl.
Even the smoke rising from a chimney.
Suddenly halts.
This is our healing gift.
Stillness.
She has frozen time.
Giving your mind a chance.
To finally walk.
Or fly.
Through a world in suspended animation.
For nothing moves unless you wish it to.
And with an easy sleight of hand.
The world is back in motion.
And the icy wings of your new friends and guides.
Flutter fast in an iridescent blur.
Aspen comes around to the right.
Sister with the eyes the color of a frozen mountain lake.
And long lavender curls.
Her touch is the remedy.
For all burdens.
She playfully brushes your shoulder.
You feel her power to transform discomfort.
Her miniature fingers bring.
A cold release any lingering physical discomfort.
Mental weight.
Simply evaporate replaced by a deep,
Numbed tranquility.
Her work is magical.
A single touch.
Sends healing energy throughout every cell.
Suddenly protected.
By an orb of coolness.
In this unexpected moment.
You find your muscles are as relaxed as jelly.
The fairies revel in this moment of small introduction.
So gleeful as they share their naturally born talents.
And fair.
They always get excited to have guests like you for this very opportunity.
Third sister,
Neva,
Flutters above you.
She is the spark.
Her wings glowing with the shifting greens and purples of the aurora.
Her gift is the luminescent insight.
She clears the winter blues.
And the fog of the mind.
Lighting up the beauty of the landscape below.
So you can see it with the wonder of a child.
She reminds us.
That wherever there is dark.
There is also light.
The world begins to shift beneath you.
Suburban rooftops.
Give way to jagged snow-covered mountains.
That pierce the snow clouds.
That hang heavy in the celestial expanse.
You fly above these clouds.
And begin a dreamy descent through them.
You drift into the heart.
Of these floating snow factories.
Magically churning millions of snowflakes.
Not one the same.
You connect with a sense of your own uniqueness.
As you watch the fairies gift.
And the iridescent flakes.
Travel leisurely to the fairies home below.
The fairies are eager to introduce you to playful winter pastimes.
With their guidance.
You glide down the mountain peaks.
Without the need for skis.
Your pillowy boots barely grazing the powder.
Sending up tiny plumes of white glitter as you soar.
The speed is exhilarating.
And the sense of safety and trust you feel is profound.
Fairies start to tug playfully at your sleeves.
Their laughter sounding like frozen wind chimes and colliding icicles.
They move with incredible grace and purpose.
Pirouettes in the air.
As they spiral through valleys or ice sculptures of fairies.
And snow-coated evergreens with dangling icicles.
Rise naturally from the snowy earth.
Handwritten messages.
In the pristine fields of white rain.
Always believe.
Remember your magic.
And embrace your gifts.
Perhaps it's been some time.
Since you last even considered your gifts or talents.
Those you've honed.
Those you were born with.
Those you still wish to explore.
The snowy valley opens up.
To reveal an expansive glacial lake.
Frozen solid.
And resembling an aquamarine gemstone.
You descend toward it.
Your boots touching the surface.
As you slide across the glassy ice.
You move with the speed of the gentle breeze.
All the while feeling perfectly balanced.
The sisters dart around you.
Pulling you faster.
Showing you that winter is not a season of hiding.
But a season of magnificent play.
Like them.
You have the freedom to hover over the ice.
Flying and touching back down effortlessly.
In this wintry paradise.
Saw.
Silvery rays of moonlight.
Slip through the lavender gray snow clouds.
And the ice crystals refract.
Into tiny,
Mesmerizing rainbows.
You glide and skirt from the farthest edge of the lake.
Deep in the wilderness.
To the opposite side.
Where an ice castle rises from the frozen shore.
The castle features spectacular geometry and angles.
Spires,
And columns.
And turrets that glow from icy blue lights.
Illuminating the dark winter night.
The snow falls with more passion.
As flakes swirl around you.
And the three fairies at a touch of fairy dust.
That instantly lightens your mood.
You come to Ace Bridges.
With carvings of fairy wings in the columns and rails.
And an ethereal rendering of their castle.
Depicted along the floorboards.
Your blushed snow boots land with ease.
As you glide across the curved ice bridge.
Looking down on the patterns of snow.
And swirls in the ice.
Pine needles settled within the ice.
Sparkle in deep green.
There isn't a smell conjured in your mind.
Aspen circles you.
Her wings fluttering faster.
And with a brighter illumination than the others.
That only becomes brighter the more her excitement grows.
The fairies encourage you to follow them to the castle's entrance.
Their tiny hands gripping the downy fabric of your coat.
As you soar through the air.
A laugh rising in your throat.
The design of this castle.
Makes it quite clear.
That is here to welcome human souls like you.
Wide double doors of the castle.
Massive slabs.
Pressure-cleared glacial ice.
So pure.
They have a deep electric blue transparency.
These doors are polished.
To a brilliant shine.
And pivot on silent hinges.
Made of smooth,
Rounded,
White river stones.
As they open.
A foyer,
A faceted crystal greets you.
The icy walls are carved into thousands of diamond-shaped planes.
Designed to catch the natural moonlight.
And bounce it into every corner of the hall.
In a dazzling display of light.
The floor is a solid sheet.
The frosted sapphire ice.
Texture just enough.
To provide a secure,
Sparkling path.
For your marshmallow-thick souls.
As you are.
The light from above catches the tiny air bubbles.
Trapped deep within the eyes.
Making it look as though You're stepping across a galaxy of frozen stars.
The iciness of the palace.
Softened by the fairy's botanical alchemy.
The sisters flit through the foyer.
With every beat of their wings.
They release the faint,
Sweet perfume of winter jasmine and crushed silver needles.
Ira and Aspen zip and whirl.
Toward the ceiling.
Their movements as effortless as light reflecting off a prism.
You feel the radiant heat of your ivory coat.
A private pocket of dry warmth.
That follows you through these magnificent frozen halls.
The sisters beckon you into a towering conservatory.
Where the interior design is a tribute.
To the geometry of a snowflake.
Columns are made of translucent white quartz.
Looking like pillars of salt.
The support of vaulted ceiling,
Of interlocking ice panes.
Thousands of icy flowers rise from the floor.
As unique as snowflakes.
They have been carved into shapes of delicate ferns.
Lilies and wide-petaled roses.
The mineral-rich ice creates a pale metallic silver shimmer.
As you walk past.
The heat from your coat causes the air around the frost to shimmer.
Making the petals look as if they are trembling.
Or unfurling in slow motion around you.
In the center of the hall.
Ira hovers near a basin.
Carved from a single block.
Of aquamarine stone.
A slow drip of mineral water.
Falls from a stalactite above.
She holds out a hand.
And as the drop falls,
It hits the sub-zero air.
Flash freezes into a perfect clear sphere of ice.
Like a crystal ball.
You lean in and see a joyous moment from your life.
Etched inside the sphere.
Microscopic white frost needles.
It's a scene from a day.
Where everything felt easy.
Full of hope for more days like it to come.
You extend your palm.
And with a small gesture from Ira.
Motion returns.
And the small ice lands atop your hands.
Tactile sensations.
A feeling of aliveness.
Neighbor flits down to join you.
Her wings shedding a fine mist,
A viridescent fairy dust.
That settles on the frozen sphere.
Making the memory glow.
With us all.
Internal amber light.
The sisters zip around the basin.
Creating a swirling current of air.
That makes the icy lilies nearby sway.
Chime like tiny silver bells.
The fairies enjoy guests so much.
That you notice how each sister tries to capture your attention.
To share her talents.
Aspen guides you into a long gallery.
Where the walls are lined with sheets of mica.
Minerals that glow with a natural pearly luminescence.
The floor transitions.
Into a path of combed white sand.
That has been frozen into soft rippling waves.
Mimicking the surface.
Of a fresh snowdrift.
As Aspen moves,
She stirs the air.
Creating a localized thermal shift.
You get lost in the transformation.
Experiencing a cool release.
A physical sensation of the air pressure dropping just enough.
To make your body feel buoyant and light.
You feel the weight of the day's fatigue.
Physically lifting off your joints.
The self-warming blue silks of your sleeves hug your wrists with a soothing pulse.
And a way of healing energy.
Circulates through your body.
The sisters flutter between the pillars.
Their movements full of speed,
Grace.
Intense.
They show you how to slide across the ripples of frozen sand.
Your boots gliding with the speed.
Of a gentle breeze.
You feel a deep grounding sense of ease.
As if you have become a part.
Of the mountain itself.
Solve it.
And moving.
Peaceful.
You think to yourself.
Laughing in this spontaneous party.
Understand.
What wintering feels like.
When it's done right.
The room takes on an easy silence.
And Maeve leads you up a spiral staircase.
Frosted turquoise glass.
She hovers above each step.
Her wings lighting the way with a soft violet glow.
Under her influence.
The glass becomes as clear as a lens.
Revealing ancient,
Frozen constellations.
Trapped deep within the spiral.
Guiding your ascent.
With a map of contained stars.
At the top,
You emerge onto a balcony of white granite.
Heavy.
And ancient.
Neighbor steps to the edge.
And raises her hands toward the horizon.
As she dies.
She showcases her mastery over the light.
With a sweeping motion of her arms.
Neva pulls the Aurora down from the high atmosphere.
The curtains of neon green and violet.
Descend until they are swirling just above the balcony railings.
Wrapping the spire.
And a vibrant pulsing cocoon.
Celestial energy.
Through this veil.
Neva's power shifts your perspective.
You see the deep blue crevices.
And the fine powdered glare of the snow-capped mountains.
With an almost supernatural sharpness.
This is her true gift.
She strips away the fog of the world.
And brings sweet clarity.
Maeve helps you understand.
The most important thing.
Is not what happens to you.
But how you respond.
And what lens you choose to examine this world.
Find your clarity.
For some,
The mountains.
May seem to be cold barriers.
Through the lens you choose right now.
Udain them to be protective walls.
Built to shield your rest.
The light is so vivid.
It reflects off your ivory coat.
Turning you into a part.
Of the shimmering landscape.
Watching the sisters drift out over the edge.
Their wings catching the emerald light of the aurora.
You feel a resounding sense of contentment.
Maeve has shown you the world.
In a beautiful,
Honest state.
You understand now that wintering is a physical necessity.
Time for the world to go dormant.
For you to hunker down in a structure built to withstand the ages.
Sensing the waves of tiredness arriving.
Neva dims her radiance.
Your soft,
Comforting goal.
Signaling that the time for exploring is over.
And the time for dreaming has begun.
Your new friends.
As well now experience.
Waves of incoming sleepiness.
As they lead you to your chamber.
Located in the castle's core.
The walls here are the thickest.
They're made of polished white quartz.
That have been insulated with layers of thick ivory tapestry.
And faux fur hangings.
The floor is covered in fluffy rugs.
Their fibers long,
White,
And dense.
The sisters lead you to an ensuite.
Where you prepare for bed.
More tired with each passing moment.
While you settle into warm pajamas.
The sisters fly around the room.
Pacing much slower.
As they perform a final check of your sanctuary.
Ira hovers over the bed.
Massive frame of pale birch wood.
And uses her touch.
To ensure the internal heating within the mattress.
Is at the perfect temperature.
When you climb in,
The heat is immediate.
It seeps through the quilted silk sheets.
And relaxes your muscles.
Aspen and Neva flit toward the fireplace.
Built from orange salt bricks.
Which provides a steady,
Dry warmth.
A smokeless spectacle leaves only the scent of dried pine needles and beeswax.
You are protected by meters of ice and stone.
As you sink deeper into the heated bed.
And the fairy stuck you in with maternal grace.
You reach out and place the small glowing sphere of ice.
The physical record of your warmest memory.
On the bedside table.
Pulses with a soft,
Gilded light.
Tiny sun kept safe within the frost.
To watch over your rest.
You are wintery and the most secure.
Most beautiful fortress of light ever built.
The sisters hover.
In a final protective circle above you.
Their wings slowing.
To a gentle,
Soporific pause.
You feel a resounding sense of ease.
As sleepiness takes hold.
Carrying you into a slumber.
As deep and peaceful as the heart of the mountains.
The fairies flit away to their hidden chambers.
But their kindness and hospitality remain as you drift into a deep sleep.
Slumber.
Feel the vast,
Quiet stillness of the night.
Inviting you to let go.
You may choose to dream here in the silence.
Or follow me across the frosty landscape of our next destination.
Cozy night at Brimstone Haven.
Since the 19th century,
Sleepy Pines Hollow has been a quiet hamlet and refuge for those escaping the bustle of industrialized living.
A landscape renowned for horse farms,
Where New York City's finest carriage horses were raised before heading to the chaotic streets of Manhattan.
It now serves as a quiet getaway,
Nestled in the protective embrace.
Of the Xuangang and Catskill Mountains.
Though the world has changed,
The land remains much the same.
Its open fields stretching wide beneath an endless sky,
Its barns still echoing with the stories of its origins.
Many horse sanctuaries and farms remain.
But the quiet valley is also home to many temples and resorts,
Offering a meditative landscape.
Where the stars seem to shine brighter at night.
A postcard-worthy winding road offers a sense of timelessness.
It's just as easy to imagine traveling by horse and carriage.
Through the storied region.
With no need to rush,
Visitors linger.
To observe the abundant deer in winter and the occasional bear once winter's grip has softened.
You take this winter sojourn through sleepy pines hollow.
Traveling past sleepy farms and historic stone houses.
The temperature hovers just above the teens.
And the world outside glistens under a mesmerizing sheet of ice.
A premature taste of spring had softened the snow just days ago,
But a sudden cold snap transformed the landscape into a glassy wonderland.
Rolling hills shimmer like moonstone in frozen waves.
The untouched fields reflect the warm glow of the late afternoon sun,
Which dances across the snow in glittering shards,
Its beauty magnified by the deep chill.
Every surface catches the light.
And for a moment,
The world feels alive with a magic of winter's embrace.
The barren trees,
Skeletal and reaching.
Reveal vistas often hidden in the lushness of summer.
In quiet vineyards,
Icicles dangle like delicate bells from dormant vines,
And age-old farmhouses stand silent and resilient.
The stillness of the world outside seems to hold its breath.
As though waiting for something to happen,
Yet nothing disturbs the perfect quiet.
As you drive the warmth of your car and heated seat.
Contrast the crisp cold outside,
Making each mile a comforting passage.
You feel grateful for the ease of travel on the clear roads.
As a favorite song plays on the car's speakers.
Perhaps you travel with a faithful pup curled up in the passenger seat.
Their companionship adding to the peace of the journey.
Or maybe an old friend sits beside you.
Wrapped in easy conversation.
Perhaps a few loved ones come on this journey.
Souls you've longed to reconnect with.
The miles bringing you closer in more ways than one.
This journey is one of your design.
And you've invited all who may help you reconnect.
With parts you may have missed about yourself.
As well as your favorite memories as new ones unfold.
Brimstone Road leads you further from the quaint village and deeper into a landscape where time slows and the world softens.
Horses peak out of stables,
Basking in the intense white gold sunlight that rebelliously melts the snow,
Defying the frigid air and below freezing temperatures.
You pass stone cottages and sprawling estates where lights twinkle in windows and the faint scent of wood smoke drifts on the breeze,
Traveling in spirals toward the crystal blue sky.
Even with great attention.
It's too easy to accidentally pass the private road that leads to Brimstone Haven.
A snow-dusted sign that hangs from twine above a wooden swing that dangles from a tree is the only marker to guide you.
As the car turns down the pebbled lane,
The tires crunch over the ice,
Its delicate,
Doily-like beauty cracking beneath its weight.
After a few winding turns over icy puddles,
Brimstone Haven comes into view.
Three-story A-frame farmhouse that is as white as the snow.
Glows in the lush orange gold and scarlet rays of a lowering Sun.
The light dances on the wraparound deck.
Reflecting our frozen patches and gasting long shadows across the glossy white earth.
The house with its steep roof and wide welcoming windows radiates warmth.
The windows reflect the dying light of the sunset.
Flowing softly like the embers of a fire.
Offering the promise of comfort within.
A crimson red barn stands in the near distance,
Just beyond the house.
The brightest pop of color.
In a landscape of shimmering white.
As you come into the driveway and park,
The sun filters through the trees.
And warms your face.
Casting finger-like shadows from the leafless branches.
You step out into the cool.
Your breath rising in silvery white clouds as you are welcomed in the stillness.
Without wind,
The air is refreshing.
But not biting.
And the quiet sharpness of winter settles into your lungs.
The icy snow crunches beneath your feet.
As you unload the car,
You feel a sense of ease here with each step.
Finding your balance with grace.
Your intuition becomes sharper in the winter chill.
Every movement requires a bit of concentration.
It feels so nice to be someplace new.
A blank canvas for memories.
And new experiences.
As you leave your worries behind.
This is your winter retreat.
A place to warm yourself by the fire.
Linger over a slow meal.
Or take a moonlit walk through the snow-draped fields.
The storybook setting shines in each season,
But frigid days like this Bring an invitation to rest.
To hibernate.
To simply be.
Days like this relieve you of any pressure to be productive or overdo it.
Every moment of your escape.
Is a chance to savor the peace of the sanctuary.
Where the world can slip away and you can focus on quality time.
Spent with yourself.
And whomever you bring along.
Unpacking the car.
Brings a mixture of relief and eagerness.
After the drive,
It feels good to stretch your arms and legs.
Every item was packed with a joyful anticipation.
Of how the time here may unfold.
You can feel the contentment.
Of a new adventure.
Bubbling up.
As you gather bags of food and your belongings.
With careful steps,
You lead the way up the path,
Avoiding patches of ice.
Your travel mates are close behind.
Each of you balancing the task of carrying bags and making sure none of you slip on the slick,
Frozen ground.
There's a shared sense of wonder in the air as you approach the A-frame,
Knowing that this retreat will be unlike any other.
Once you reach the door,
You open it and feel the burst of warmth come towards you.
Like warm fingers wrapping around you.
And inviting you in with a comforting hug.
The immediate contrast makes winter feel a world away.
The home is so spacious,
Open and airy.
That it gives a sense of still being outside.
And connected with nature.
The main room of the A-frame glows with the last rays of sunlight.
Casting a luxurious golden hue through the four sliding glass doors triangular windows above.
The light is rich and honeyed.
And almost too toasty to take in.
The windows have clean lines.
And are without coverings to frame the outside world.
You remove your boots.
And place them on a rack in the mudroom.
Hanging your heavy parka on an antique coat tree in the corner.
Your feet feel warm against the sun-drenched wooden floors.
The polished wood boards creak softly with each step as you explore and smile at the beauty of this home.
It's heartwarming comfort settles deep in your bones.
As you notice the kind touches left by its owner.
From handwritten notes to small baskets of treats and toiletries.
Your companions unpack the groceries.
And encourage you to settle upstairs.
You take a deep breath.
And begin the ascent up the white stairs to the law.
As you climb.
You feel that recurring sense of contentment.
Knowing that this space is yours for the night.
The decor is modern yet elegant.
Tasteful blend of comfort and style.
Wooden crates.
Have been cleverly transformed into rustic shelves on the walls.
Holding vases with dried flowers,
Candles,
And small decorative objects.
There's an effortlessly chic vibe to it all.
At the top of the stairs.
You find a cozy reading nook.
Next to an antique desk.
Perfectly positioned to overlook the living room below.
And the windows bearing out on the snowy world.
Piles of velvety floor cushions and oversized corduroy beanbag chairs in the loft.
Fill two corners.
To form a welcoming bed of pillows.
Where you can curl up with a novel or take a winter's nap.
A hammock chair hangs from the slanted ceiling.
There is no shortage of plush ivory and earth-toned blankets.
French doors lead to the main bedroom.
And the space is so expansive,
It feels like a dance studio with its gleaming wooden floors and framed mirrors.
Skylights above allow a view of the transition from saturated sunset hues into the deep soothing blues of night.
Already,
You notice the moon is rising.
The ceilings are lofty and high.
The low-to-ground king-sized bed is surrounded by a fluffy beige rug.
The room exudes a rustic,
Chic atmosphere with soft,
Neutral tones and touches of natural wood and terracotta planters with snake plants and a palmetto tree.
You unpack your things and settle into the room.
The feeling of relaxation creeping over you.
As you explore every corner.
The bathroom,
Just off to the side.
It features a black and white clawfoot soaking tub.
The panoramic view of the mountains and rolling fields where horses once roamed.
After you've settled in and changed into comfortable loungewear,
You wash your face,
Refreshing yourself for a relaxing night in.
It feels like a reset.
Chance to leave the travel behind.
Descending the stairs.
You feel the shift in the atmosphere as the house begins to embrace the evening.
You fill the wood stove with splintering dry wood.
The crackle of the fire soon filling the space.
Cold air outside.
Has now crept into the open space.
With an innocuous draft.
Quickly replaced.
By the hot air of the fire.
The familiar voices of your travel companions fill the air.
As you move together in the kitchen.
Each of you participating in the steady,
Soothing rhythm of preparing dinner.
The Industrial Chic Kitchen.
Is bathed in the soft golden glow of lights,
Suspended in bubble-shaped sconces with Edison bulbs.
As dinner sizzles,
In cast iron pans filling the kitchen with rich savory aromas,
You step over to a vintage 1980s stereo console,
Seamlessly upgraded with a modern mixer,
With a satisfying swipe,
You queue up your favorite playlist for chilling out.
The warm tones of music weaving into the cozy atmosphere of the evening.
The kitchen is alive with the sounds of cooking,
Laughter,
And music.
Outside,
The sky has darkened into a rich blue-black canvas and the stars begin to twinkle in a crystal clear sky.
Through the wall of windows and skylight,
Nights like these allow a million stars to be seen in the vastness of space.
Inside the fire glows with a lush marigold light.
As shadows dance across the hardwood floors and fluffy area rocks.
You settle into the moment.
Knowing that this peaceful evening has just begun.
Every detail.
The warmth of the fire,
The familiar loving voices engaged in conversation,
The delicious smells Feels like the perfect reminder of the joy of being here,
Together,
In this tranquil,
Beautiful place.
You sat at the rustic farmhouse table,
A unique piece fashioned out of an antique door.
It's amazing to feel perfectly at home in a place you'd never seen until hours ago.
As you arrange the cobalt blue dishware on rattan placemats,
You marvel at how the vibrant colors pop against the rustic textures of the table.
The house feels alive,
Colorful,
And homey.
It actually feels like you've stepped into the pages of an architectural digest spread,
To try on a different life for a while.
Stepping into a story.
That resonates with tranquil elegance.
The moon rises high.
Casting its ethereal light.
To the triangular skylights above.
As you settle in for dinner.
Meals rarely last for hours.
But on this special night.
Conversations flow and you lose track of time.
Each bite of the meal nourishes and satiates you.
As easy conversation.
Drifts like the soft crackle of the logs in the wood stove.
You savor these simple pleasures.
The sound of laughter.
The soft glow of candlelight.
And the warmth of the food shared with loved ones.
It's a moment to feel grounded in the present.
Yet connected to something bigger.
As a sense of timelessness fills the room.
After dinner,
You clean up together.
There's something satisfying in the rhythm of working as a team.
The clink of dishes.
And the friendly chatter.
The scent of wood burning fills the air as the heat from the stove continues to warm the room.
You and your companions share quiet smiles.
Comfortable in the ease of being together.
Once finished.
Curiosity and wonder inspire a nighttime walk to the barn and stables.
You bundle up and layer.
Adding a cable knit sweater beneath your parka,
You slip on gloves and wrap a heavy scarf tightly around your neck.
The icy path is glistening underfoot,
Each step crunching softly on the frozen ground.
A brave companion goes first.
Stamping their boots into the snow,
Making tracks for you to follow.
At times,
You glide effortlessly across the ice,
The surface smooth and slick like a frozen pond.
You laugh as you balance yourself carefully.
Taking turns,
Gliding and walking.
Your breath visible with each chuckle.
The sound of cracking ice punctuates the stillness.
The barn looms ahead.
Standing proud against the dark sky.
Its crimson red paint.
Glowing softly under the moonlight.
The stables,
Though empty now.
Give glimpses of the history of the horses.
That once called them home.
The smell of hay,
Old and sweet,
Lingers in the dwelling.
You ascend the creaking wooden stairs.
To a storage loft space and stare down at your companions and the glossy cherry wood stable doors.
You pause for a moment.
Sensing the weight of the past.
Days when horses ran freely across the land,
Vital to the livelihoods of those who needed them.
Long before automobiles.
Without questioning it,
You tune into the energy of these stables.
You can feel the untamed spirit of horses.
That remains in these walls,
Basking in moonlight.
And the dreamy light.
You can see the horses running through the rolling hills.
And you smile as you imagine all the stories this land could tell.
Despite the biting cold.
There's a warmth in your heart that spreads throughout your body and the moonlit walk back to the A-frame.
When you return to the house,
You find the fire has burned into embers.
And you add a few more dry,
Splintered logs that soon catch.
Tasks are divvied up once again.
Someone lights the candles.
Someone else begins to prepare a soothing nightcap.
And another sets up a game for the evening.
You all gather around the fire,
Settling into the plush sofa and overstuffed chairs,
Sharing stories,
Laughing together,
Relishing the comfort.
Of being in each other's company.
The house feels full,
Not just with warmth and light,
But with love.
And a sense of camaraderie that fills the space.
You feel the pull of sleepiness.
And so do your companions.
Conversation slows.
And if everyone were to stay put,
Sleep would surely take hold.
But slowly.
With tired smiles.
Everyone heads to their rooms.
You climb the white stairs to the law.
And indulge in a steaming bath in the clawfoot tub.
You lean your head back onto the thick,
Round sills.
Letting the warmth of the water Loosen the tension.
From the cold.
That lingers in your body.
Through the windows of our heads.
You can see the night sky.
A deep indigo blue,
Freckled with stars.
The moon glows softly.
Casting its light over the slick snow-covered field.
You soak in the peace of the moment.
Letting your thoughts drift.
As your body relaxes.
The night outside is still and quiet.
A kind of silence that feels sacred.
In this frozen world.
The only sound is the occasional clank of the heating system coming on.
When you finally step out of the tub.
Your skin tingles from the warmth.
In the soft cotton of your sleepwear.
Feels delicate against your skin.
You make your way back to the bed lower yourself atop the plush pillow top mattress.
With half a dozen pillows scattered about.
Beneath the heavy duvet,
You welcome the waves of slumber that beckon to you.
Your eyelids become so heavy.
They betray your attempts to peer at the moon.
One last time.
Effectively fighting off sleep like a wonder-filled kid.
Your eyelids fall upon your eyes like heavy drapes.
The comforts of Brimstone Haven avail themselves to you.
A winter sanctuary.
Of deep restorative rest.
You may fall into a heavy,
Healing sleep now.
Or keep me company.
As we seek out.
One more cozy corner of the world.
A Magical Snowy City,
" playwright and author Warren Adler declared.
New York is where you go to become the person you've always dreamed of being.
So imagine,
If you will,
A six-year-old girl named Isabella,
Cuddling alongside her mother,
Aboard a train chugging along the grey Hudson River.
Snowflakes dance and dash,
Some finding homes atop twisted barren branches,
While others land on the waterway to melt and become one with the river.
Mountain views and cozy suburbs fade into the city.
Isabella's heart is alight,
As this is the first time she rides the train with her mom for an overdue visit with me,
Her tia,
Her auntie,
Her godmother.
My sister,
A mother of two.
And a devoted advocate for children by profession.
Is very much in need of a reminder.
Of who she once was.
Back to when she was a college student,
Living out her urban dreams.
Her heart is filled with the secrets of a city she once knew and the identity she cherished.
Long before she was a mother.
My gift to them could not have come at a better time.
When I surprised my niece with a hand-crafted symbolic train ticket,
Announcing that our unexpected holiday separation would be more than made up for.
A trip to New York City was my gift to her and her mother.
Now the phrase,
The gift that keeps on giving,
Is often used sarcastically by New Yorkers,
But this time it is far from the case.
My gift to her is one I will receive back.
Tenfold.
And now,
My friend,
You get to receive it as well.
There's a distinct beauty in being an adult.
It affords us the privilege of showering upon children all the things we were deprived of or yearned for when we were their age.
And that act of giving.
Helps heal the child within us all.
Our adventures begin.
At the brand-spanking-new-and-modern Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station.
Just moments before my sister and niece arrive,
Gilded light streams through the wafting snow clouds overhead and glass ceiling warming the space.
Like airport gates long ago,
The terminal offers a cinematic view of loving reunions,
Of family and friends.
There's a silvery neutrality to the space.
We could honestly be in any metropolis train station.
The city outside feels distant.
The hum of uptown buses and honks of yellow cabs are muffled by the looming hall.
The air full of the energy of people coming together.
A couple embraces across the space.
A grandmother reunites with her granddaughter.
It's a scene of pure joy and quiet connection.
That makes the moment feel a little magical.
We sip the last of our warm,
Festive drinks as we pass a newsstand and scan the arrivals board.
Noting their train is due in minutes.
On the approaching train.
Isabella,
With all her six-year-old energy,
Can't contain her bouncing.
She stands the moment the train enters the tunnel,
Her legs jittering as my sister takes her hand to lead her down the aisle.
Her sparkly pink backpack bobs up and down as if it has a life of its own.
It's too big for her,
But she insists on carrying it.
Visiting the city and her Tia tends to fuel her independence.
We approach the escalator to their arrival track.
As my sister and niece come into view,
Their faces light up as they catch sight of us.
Isabella's eyes lock on me.
And in a moment of pure enthusiasm,
She starts running up the last few steps.
Her purple parka flaps open in the warm terminal air,
Swinging behind her like a cape.
Beneath it,
Her pink sweatshirt,
Bedazzled with a crown,
Reads Future Queen.
It makes her look like she could rule this world.
And she's glowing.
Her oversized backpack thumps against her,
But she's too excited to care about how awkward it feels or looks.
Her sing-song laughter fills the terminal as she bolts into my arms with a hug.
Though this is the first time you've met her,
There's no hesitation when she greets you with a fierce hug too.
Her heart is wide open,
And since you accompany her Tia,
There's no doubt that you're part of her family already.
That's just how it works with Isabella.
I help my sister with her bag.
And guide us all through a lesser-known passageway,
Avoiding the crowds,
To make our way to the uptown subway.
We enter the older,
Darker sections of Penn Station,
Where fluorescent lights buzz and flicker with a soft yellow tint.
The air becomes thicker.
And the walls have seen better days.
But to Isabella.
Everything is magical and beautiful as she picks up on the only in New York smells of subway tunnels and popcorn wafting from the main corridor.
Raw and unfiltered.
This underground world feeds the work of poets and writers.
It's deeper and edgier.
It's a place where all walks of humanity converge,
Beneath the city.
To Isabella,
The turnstile to the Uptown 2 train comes with as much joy as the entryway to Disney World.
The subway winds rush across the platform.
As the train pulls in to take us away.
From the bustle of Midtown.
To the quieter neighborhood.
The Upper West Side.
Everyone takes a seat but for my niece as she's happiest hanging on to the silver subway pole and spinning around.
Finding her balance as the brakes softly squeal and the train leaves the station.
She proudly shows off her new math skills,
Whispering to you almost conspiratorially,
How many blocks we have to go.
Just to be sure you're not embarrassed.
And in case you didn't know,
She explains that if the numbers go up,
Then you're going uptown.
At Times Square,
A 60-something subway busker joins the car with his alto saxophone,
Finding his balance as his lips and fingers Fill the space with the melody of New York,
New York.
As the train barrels uptown,
Isabella stops counting,
Her mouth agape.
You can always find good music wherever you go in New York City,
" she says with that knowing smile.
This young keeper of the city's wonders.
Other strap hangers can't help but smile and chuckle along.
Happily taken out of the doldrums of a routine commute.
The saxophonist tips his fedora in her direction,
And I hand Isabella a folded dollar bill from my winter coat.
Reserved for moments like this,
To drop atop the blue velvet cushion of his open case.
He thanks her as we arrive at our stop.
With a mittened hand,
She gives a thumbs up as her other hand struggles to adjust her cumbersome bag.
A wintry breeze meets us with a welcome rush of fresh air as we step onto the street.
Snow flurries slowly fall on the brief walk from the station to a row of old townhouses.
And we enter the walk-up I call home.
From the age of two and a half.
Isabella practiced climbing stairs.
With a promise that once she mastered the skill,
She could visit her Tia in the city.
As she races up the three flights ahead,
She excitedly boasts to you that her legs are now strong enough for New York City.
She arrives at the landing first.
Eagerly awaiting for me to unlock the door as Ike,
My long-haired chihuahua puppy,
Softly whimpers upon hearing her voice.
I open the door.
And the Chocolate and Caramel Brown Pup.
Runs into the hall.
As Isabella crouches down to tug off her boots and looks at Ike with a mix of seriousness and delight.
You have to wait before you get any pets,
She tells him,
Her voice carrying the kind of authority only a child can muster.
Ike pauses mid-spin and obeys.
His silky fur shimmering in the light of the hall.
We do our best to remove our shoes and keep them away from his curious and mischievous mouth.
From the shadowy foyer.
Lowenstein.
The much older Torbie cat makes her appearance,
Peering around the door frame.
She regards Ike's excitable antics with a slow,
Deliberate disdain reserved for a middle-aged queen.
Her tail twitches with a reminder that she is in charge.
Even Isabella knows that.
The radiator hisses,
Delivering a wave of dry warmth as we huddle inside.
Colorful glass lamps scatter vibrant hues across the living room.
As Isabella settles in the center of an area rugged.
Giving Ike's pink tongue access to her giggling face as he lays on the kisses.
Tall windows expand to the high ceilings.
The golden Moroccan patterned curtains drawn open.
Snow falls on a city held in January's sleepy embrace.
Where everything feels a little slower.
A little quieter Purple and magenta orchids bloom on the windowsills,
Their vibrant petals contrasting the cold gray world outside.
Purple and green vines and leaves of a spiderwort plant dangle from a hanging wicker basket.
So lush and curly that I've named the plant Cher.
Isabella removes a new plush toy for Ike from her backpack,
Using it to distract him.
Her eyes widen with excitement.
As she pulls out a tattered sheet of paper,
Folded many times,
Crinkling it as she carefully opens it.
Written in her large handwriting,
Is a list of everything she wants to do during this brief visit.
Starting with a dog park.
She gleefully reads through the activities,
Confident we will all agree to her carefully planned agenda.
I ask her to help pick out clothing for Ike,
And she selects a plush lavender sweater to match our purple coats.
She turns to the eager chihuahua.
Helping me slip a tiny sweater over his harness.
Witnessing her make each choice fills your heart.
Reminding you of the exhilarating power you once felt as a child.
Whenever decisions were left to you.
You reveled in that simple joy.
The joy of discovering what each choice could bring.
You see her value,
How much her opinions matter.
The four of us bundle once more and return to the street.
As Isabella directs us westerly to a park she's frequented on every visit.
Patches of exposed mica and snow shimmer along the way.
And she can't help but exclaim,
Everything is so sparkly here.
Mom,
You just wait until nighttime,
When all the buildings sparkle too.
My sister nods knowingly.
With a distant longing in her eyes.
As she remembers a time long ago.
It's hard to tell who is more eager for the dog park.
Isabella or A.
Both in a race as all our breaths condense in the air.
Once we arrive.
Ike runs free in circles.
His little legs carrying him with endless energy.
As we get comfortable on benches overlooking the river below.
We all pull our scarves tighter and burrow our hands into our pockets until both child and pup tire and sit beside us.
" Ike and Isabella's laugh.
Without missing a beat.
Isabella announces.
Next stop,
My favorite museum.
I drop Ike off along the way.
He's more than happy to nap with the cat to the persistent clanks of the radiator while our adventures ensue.
We continue uptown,
The cold air nipping at our noses,
As we head toward the Museum of Natural History.
Just an hour before closing.
Admission becomes free.
And we arrive just in time.
Isabella grabs your hand.
Her voice full of excitement.
This is my favorite museum in the world.
There's dinosaurs.
And you can learn about science.
I lead the way toward her special spot.
Beneath the suspended blue whale in the hall of ocean life.
The room is cast in deep blue hues.
And we spread out our winter coats like sleeping bags on the floor.
Joining other visitors.
Who have gathered in the hall.
From traveling from parts around the world.
The wooden planks serve as a dance floor when the museum hosts fancy charity balls,
And a camping spot for museum sleepovers.
We lie down and peer up at the massive,
Suspended blue whale.
Isabella's voice rings out with her usual curiosity,
Telling us what it would be like to live under the sea.
We can all be different sea animals.
Of course,
I'm a mermaid.
I know they're not real,
But we can just pretend.
After some consideration.
My sister decides to be a sea turtle while I settle on being a dolphin.
And you are encouraged by my niece to be the sea animal you love the most.
We all feel a sense of being grounded.
Our hearts slowing at the bottom of this make-believe sea.
Where Isabella explains.
Bioluminescence.
A word she manages to get out better than most adults can.
Makes the deep sea sparkle.
Just like New York City.
This thought stays with you.
So many beautiful places exist simultaneously,
Sparkling in your mind.
Closing time looms and we exit the museum.
The city has transformed with nightfall.
The dark,
Snow-coated expanse of Central Park to the east,
And dowering historic buildings along Central Park West.
Guide us downtown.
Isabella's eyes bulge when I mention visiting an Asian market.
Another wish on her list.
We walk and turn past the Dakota.
Its flickering gas lanterns.
Casting a fiery glow on the snowy sidewalks.
Lacy white flakes.
Fall thickly around us.
As we walk past glowing,
Sharp windows.
And Art Deco and Beaux Art Buildings.
Isabella insists on saying hello to each uniformed doorman as she skips beside me.
Clutching my hand and reaching for yours.
We are amazed at how warm her tiny hands stay,
Despite the frigid coal.
A neon orange sign glows above the Asian market.
Welcoming us to explore rows of snacks in brightly colored packaging with playful mascots and unique flavors.
Aisles of neatly stacked instant noodles,
Most dozens of flavors.
Or the fresh produce section.
Offers exotic fruits.
With spiky,
Waxy,
And speckled skins.
A refrigerated aisle of blue and red sparkling drinks.
And milky teas.
And shades of pastel pink.
Mint green,
And banana yellow.
Catches Isabella's eye.
We encourage her.
To add a few drinks to the basket.
And she swirls a bottle.
Watching tiny tapioca pearls form a cyclone within.
After everyone has grabbed something for dinner.
And a treat or two.
We make our way back to the checkout.
And bring our flavorful whole back to my apartment.
Outside,
The snow falls harder.
Coating the tops of yellow calves.
Street Lamps and blue awnings.
Strung over fruit stands on the corners.
As we round the block to my apartment.
Isabella comes to a sudden halt in front of a dumpster outside a nearby grocery store.
Her little face is in shock.
As she points to the contents.
Inside,
There's a jumble of small potted evergreen trees.
Their needles still fresh and green.
Tia,
She says.
Her voice full of heartbreak.
We need more forests.
People shouldn't throw out trees.
My sister mischievously smiles,
Reminding us all that Isabella had dumpster diving on her list.
And we can help her check off another goal.
By each carrying a tree home.
I glanced down at her.
Thanking her for finding these magical discards.
While I secretly wonder where they could possibly fit in my small apartment.
But I needn't worry for too long,
As this mighty kid always has a plan.
Back at the apartment.
I light a small fire.
In an indoor fire pit.
Nestled in what once was a fully functioning fireplace.
When the building was first erected in the 1890s.
Barely free of her winter layers.
That you and my sister help hang in the closet.
Along with our own heavy garments.
Isabella springs into action.
Producing yet another surprise from her backpack.
A little packet.
Of edible gold glitter.
Fancy drink time,
She announces triumphantly.
She asks you to help her decorate the rims of champagne flutes.
With honey.
And a shimmering halo of glitter.
Her little hands working diligently.
Under your guidance.
I give you the ingredients.
And you create Shirley Temples,
Complete with Amarena cherries.
Stowed in my cabinet.
For whenever she visits.
The Simple Act.
Fills you with a sense of bliss and purpose.
Feeding off her sweet enthusiasm.
And desire to make sure you feel included.
In the kitchen.
I assemble our impromptu feast.
A buffet of dishes,
Rich with umami and spice.
I heat dumplings until their edges crisp to a golden brown.
I stir-fry soba noodles with dark sauces and fresh vegetables,
As my sister sets out plates of mochi,
Tiny cakes,
And Pocky sticks,
And flavors of strawberry and matcha.
Lowenstein and Ike.
Weave between our legs.
Their noses tilted up.
To sniff the new aromas.
As I plate our dinner,
You set the table with Isabella.
My sister sits on the sofa with Ike to FaceTime with her toddler son,
Left home with his dad.
Ike interrupts.
Just as boisterous as my nephew as he licks the phone.
I turn on some elegant jazz for dinner,
As Isabella calls Ike and feeds him.
Yet another task from her list.
We gather around the table.
I ask Isabella to make the toast,
And she raises her flute high.
The wobbling slightly in her tiny hands.
To New York City,
Glitter and family,
" she declares,
Her tiny voice ringing out with conviction.
We all echo her toast.
Clinking our glasses and making eye contact.
As we savor the delicious meal.
And each other's company.
The meal is a voyage of contrasting textures and flavors.
We have playful moments with some winners and some unanimously disliked losers.
Satiated.
And after cleaning up.
We move to the living room and sit by the fire as the wind whistles outside.
I gather piles of old magazines,
Save just for tonight.
A few pairs of scissors and glue sticks for vision board making.
Though it's her first time.
Isabella dives in with unbridled energy.
Cutting out pictures of things she loves.
And dreams of.
I'm finding so much inspiration.
That I'm going to run out of room.
She exclaims,
Her tired eyes suddenly wide with a second wave of excitement,
Even though it's much past her bedtime.
You take your time.
Pouring over breathtaking landscapes and editorials.
Being drawn to words that awaken a yearning for more.
There's still so much of this life to explore.
For all of us.
The room fills with laughter,
The sound of scissors snipping,
And the rustle of paper.
Ike and Lowenstein chase each scrap until they tire.
And curl up together on the rug to sleep.
Outside,
The snow continues to fall.
Muffling the world in a soft,
Wintry silence as we dream together.
Of the years ahead.
Once completed,
We line our boards on the table to admire them and let them influence the night of sleep ahead.
With sleeping bags and plush blankets,
Air mattresses,
A sofa,
And a bed.
Everyone negotiates.
Their own place to settle for the slumber party.
You and I venture out into the quiet,
Snowy city for Ike's final walks.
As he happily leaves fresh tracks in the snow.
From the street,
We peer up into the apartment.
It's golden light illuminating my plants and spilling out the window.
And there's Isabella,
In her fuzzy pajamas,
Pressing her forehead against the glass.
She waves at us.
And we can see her lips moving.
Hearing her voice in our minds,
Saying hello.
Ones back indoors.
Sleepiness takes hold.
As we are all prepared for bed.
Isabella stirs one last time.
Removing her kitty sleeping mask from her eyes to declare.
I'll see you all in my dreams.
And with that,
Everyone settles.
Giving in to the waves of sleep that beckon.
The world is quiet and crystalline now.
The perfect place for rest.
You might allow your mind to go still and find sleep here.
I remain in the wonder.
As we journey to the next magical retreat.
First frost at the old depot cafe.
The abandoned rails of the northeast.
Lines once ruled by the loud thunder of locomotives carrying freight and daring adventurers.
In search of a joy ride.
Have now been repurposed.
As the use of these railways dwindle.
At the end of the 20th century.
Weeds sprouted up between the rails.
As they were neglected for some time.
But one day.
.
.
The imaginative minds and hearts of old souls.
Who refused to watch potential go to waste,
Came along.
They re-envisioned the silent iron corridors as paths of beautiful,
Quiet potential.
Carving tranquil roots through the heart of the mountains.
These resurrected roots are now lantern illuminated rail trails where people wrapped in the ever-changing beauty of the seasons Explore throughout the lingering afternoons and early evenings.
And four-person rail bikes.
Choosing to pedal or to let the bikes guide them.
Life begins to slow.
Replaced by the calm profound presence of mountainside forests that have watched a century of trains roll by.
These slow,
Deliberate journeys.
Promise a moment of stillness.
Where rewards aren't found in the destination.
So much as in the steady rhythm of the rails.
And journey across compacted gravel and grass choked ties.
But the rails weren't the only thing left behind in modern times.
Glamorous station buildings.
That once met eager travels,
Coffee,
And a warm place to wait.
Were also left vacant.
And in disrepair.
The Old Depot Café.
Was one of these places.
Sold at auction to a mother who stepped out of retirement.
Quite bored by the prospect of doing nothing.
And her ambitious daughter.
I sought to honor the golden age of train travel.
And the station's history.
While creating something new and cozy.
In the heart of the Berkshires.
This time of year.
Late autumn.
On the cusp of November's first hard frost,
Offers the last saturated pops of color.
Before the trees become skeletal silhouettes.
Scattering the mountainside.
The last stubborn leaves finally let go.
No longer clinging onto a season long gone.
As they surrender in a spiral display.
Of color and motion.
They fall with a subtle whisper.
And colorful tiny cyclones.
Pirouetting in the crisp,
Clean breeze.
That awakens your cheeks with an unexpected kiss.
The Berkshires stretching away in vast rolling waves.
Offer a sparse final palette.
A fiery goal.
Deep russets and brilliant crimson.
The sun already lowering early in the evening sky.
Is the season's great magician.
Casting the entire world.
In a glittering magenta and copper light.
That makes every shadow long.
And every edge dreamy.
The air is infused with a scent of damp earth.
Decaying leaves.
And the distant promise.
Of a log fire.
Walking along the abandoned rails.
Is a meditative experience.
As you listen to the crunch of leaves beneath your boots.
Everything feels simpler.
And a reminder of what once was.
Before cars.
These rails were a vital artery to new experiences and adventures.
The smooth,
Flat surface is easy on the feet.
As you guide your gaze upward toward the naked branches above.
The ghost of the rail line lingers.
As a quiet memory.
Your mind wanders to the thrill that must have been felt when the first locomotives left the station.
It was a time that offered limitless potential for speed and prosperity.
You wander along a winding rail path.
Where boxcars once delivered raw goods and fresh timber.
And now pop-up farmers markets.
Thrive during the high season.
Their weathered signs put away until spring,
The sprawling field to the west.
Served as the town's great pumpkin patch.
But now is an expanse of pale grass and a few funky gourds that resemble mushrooms and orange cupcakes with twisting green stems.
They perfume the air with a rich,
Sweet smell of a final harvest.
The rail trail is a corridor of communal memory.
History and nature.
Coming together as one.
In a tranquil,
Timeless space.
Sense of community is palpable.
Even in solitude.
As the sun lowers.
With energetic remnants.
Of conversation and laughter.
And festive gatherings.
Lingering in the feel.
You opted to take the scenic route when you set out to the cafe.
Rather than an easy paved path.
Through the nearby town.
And it now delivers you.
To the Old Depot Cafe.
The structure that once served as a main hub.
For this stretch of the transformed railway.
A sun-bleached concrete platform.
Edged by original,
Ornate iron railings.
But still retain a sense of Victorian grandeur.
Leads to the back entrance to the cafe.
The storybook station is made of granite and dark timber.
Still wearing its old-timey aesthetic.
That offers some European influence.
Great love,
Pride,
And planning.
Went into this late 19th century dwelling.
Its exterior adorned with decorative brackets.
Deep set arched windows with burgundy frames.
And a weathered sign.
That bears the fated name.
Of the original railway company.
This was once a place of reunion.
And heartfelt farewells.
A platform of new beginnings.
And sometimes endings.
Moments sometimes filled with romance and celebration.
The station stop brought life to a small village nestled in the foothills of the Berkshires.
Bringing the hope of modern advances.
And now in a different way.
It offers a sense of community.
And allows for connections and reconnections to be made.
The golden glow of Edison bulbs and flickering tabletop candles.
Outside the double-mullioned glass doors.
A massive,
Overflowing cornucopia represents the bounty of autumn.
With marbled green swan gourds.
With our necks bowing down in modesty.
Plump sugar pumpkins.
And tiny ivory pumpkins.
Twinkling warm white lights.
Are strung around the deep angled awning.
Softened by maple-leaf boughs that frame the entrance.
You wear what's teasingly referred to as a Berkshire's uniform.
Soft practical knits layered over comfy corduroy jeans.
The whole look topped with a fleecy jacket.
Perfect for the sharp ear.
You adjust the heavy knit scarf,
Wrapping your neck.
As you step between hanging vintage brass lanterns that swing from the ceiling.
The hopeful yet dim light that glows within.
Becomes a ceremonial token of the trail.
A nod to Lamplater's past.
Gentle chime sounds as you step across the wide creaking wooden floorboards.
And into the fragrant warmth of this truly unique cafe.
They are as thick.
With the tantalizing harmonious smells.
Dark roasted coffee.
Cinnamon,
And caramelized sugar.
The essence of a New England autumn.
Distilled into vapor.
A new song by Olivia Deen Melodic and deeply soulful,
Play softly enough to allow easy conversation.
It's sound dampened slightly by the deep cushions.
And lush fabrics.
Your body chilled by the mountainside air.
Absorbs the heat gratefully.
The dwindling guests.
An elderly couple playing Scrabble in a corner.
And solitary students poring over notebooks or typing away on laptops.
And a quiet,
Scholarly atmosphere.
Having arrived just moments before you,
You see your beloved one.
Tucked into a deep-set chair by a tall window.
Removing their layers of cool weather attire.
You spot them instantly.
A sight of them a comfort.
More profound than you could have anticipated.
Someone you've longed to spend more time with.
It's not always easy when adulting.
And taking on the busy,
Relentless tasks of survival.
Tonight is about more than merely getting by.
It's about thriving.
And feeling a sense of wonder.
A moment to reconnect with forgotten parts of yourself.
That this person always seems to stir and feed with their mere presence.
Their eyes meet yours and the connection.
Familiar and cherished.
Is exchanged in a single unhurried gaze.
A silent acknowledgment.
Of how far you've both traveled and the effort it's taken to set aside this precious time.
The shared glance feels even more comforting and reassuring.
And the welcoming hug that follows.
As a smile erupts on your face.
Marlies.
The daughter visionary behind this cafe.
Looks on with a knowing glance.
This moment was the kind she and her mother hoped to cultivate.
When renovations began.
The interior is a gorgeous refurbished homage to the mid-20th century.
Every piece of furniture from the club chairs upholstered in jewel-toned velvet to the low slung tables feels antique in the best possible way.
Refurbished properly for comfort.
Ordaining the classiness of another era.
The high walls are adorned with a stunning work of local artists,
Some bewitching oil paintings.
Capturing the season's ethereal light.
Others black and white photos of the depot in its prime.
Overflowing bookshelves.
Act as a communal library.
Heavy hardcovers,
And well-loved paperbacks.
Are exchanged freely by locals and visitors alike.
The atrium is part of what makes the space so unique.
And a wonderful place to connect with nature.
And feel the warmth of the sun.
And even the frostiest of days.
Its double height glass ceiling.
Gives way to the brilliant retreating sunset sky.
You and your companion peer up.
Watching for a moment.
The fire eagle.
Fade into varying shades of pinks.
And ethereal lavenders and aquamarine blue.
The puffy clouds catch the last of the light.
To become floating fiery islands.
That thin out like cotton balls stretched by an unseen hand.
The atrium.
Magically frames the November sky in all its glory.
You ask your companion if they're ready to order.
It's not one of the easiest decisions to be made tonight.
Golden gleam.
Radiating from the glass pastry cases.
Catches your eye.
Highlighting crusty apple tarts and cinnamon-swirled buns,
The drink menu showcases steamy autumnal riches,
From maple lattes to creamy pumpkin spice drinks and hot apple cider spiked with clove and cinnamon sticks.
Approach the brass accented counter.
Simple delight in purchasing a drink for your companion.
Filling you with gratitude.
It's been so long.
Since you've had this time together.
Small token of your appreciation.
Deep gratitude in you.
For the chance to enjoy something so simple.
And maybe even mundane and daily life.
This isn't your daily experience.
Your companion orders first.
That you probably could have guessed.
Or at least narrow down their selection.
You then place your order.
Selecting something seasonal.
That most speaks to you in a joyful way.
Marlies encourages you to take a seat.
You settle quickly.
Choosing two of the antique club chairs tucked close to a large cast iron radiator.
The old steam heat source hisses a low,
Comforting tune.
And glanced spontaneously.
Replicating the same sounds that might echo through a rail yard a century ago.
Marliese delivers her drinks and snacks.
As night forecasts the room.
In cool blue tones.
That come in from the floor to ceiling windows.
And atrium overhead.
It has grown significantly colder outside.
And the frost creeps up the window panes.
And intricate,
Decorative,
Lacy patterns.
Feeling so comfortable nestled in the chair.
A sip on your drink.
And savor its fragrance.
Taste.
And silky viscosity as it warms your throat.
Conversation with your beloved.
Except right where it always leaves off.
Effortless.
Flowing.
And deeply satisfying.
Time passes in the same way it always has.
Yet it feels faster.
And an hour passes in a flash.
Beauty and connections like this.
That you are able to be your most authentic self.
And reflect on all the parts of you.
Sometimes get buried by time.
Lost when we live in survival mode.
Right now.
Amidst the hot waves of dry air from the radiator.
And the cozy charm.
Of the Old Depot Cafe.
You remember once more.
And it feels good to be you.
It feels good to reconnect.
Marley's begins.
Daily ritual of cleaning at the end of the shift.
Restocking.
And stacking the special oversized mugs.
In a quiet rhythm of closure.
The ornate stained glass lamps.
Once used to signal train status.
Now cast pools of buttery light on the dark wooden floorboards.
Which creak gently.
Beneath the cafe owner's methodical pace.
The warmth of the old building.
The closeness of your companion.
And the realization.
The long-desired wonder.
As at last settled upon you.
Creates a delicious heaviness in your body.
The outside night is waiting.
But now.
The prospect of its cold air.
Only heightens the excitement.
For the night to unfold.
You are ready to leave as a yawn approaches.
Followed by a contented sigh.
You and your companion.
Stretch and gather your things.
Just as Marliese's mother,
Anna,
Arrives.
And you have a chance to thank them both.
For creating this beautiful experience.
At the Depot Café.
Stepping out.
The sharp air is immediate.
But invigorating.
Small town is cast in the blue-black of a clear night sky.
Blanketed by a countless canvas of pinprick stars.
That seemed closer.
Brighter.
Than ever before.
You can even imagine passing under them.
On the train that once weaved through this town.
You look down and see the frost has taken over.
Coating the empty tracks on the ground.
In sparkly,
Untouched white crystals.
Quiet as profound.
Punctuated only by the gentle crunch of your boots.
And the frozen grass.
Evolve into step with your companions.
Taking the easier way back.
You lock arms for warmth and closeness.
Enjoying the shared silence of the night.
You offered to help carry their bag.
And take turns.
Enjoying spontaneous laughter along the way.
The town quickly opens up into fields.
Where you come upon your cozy abode for this getaway.
The moon rises.
Shimmering opal light reflecting dreamily of the large state beach.
Candy Apple Red Barn now transformed into a holiday escape.
Though the structure is old and vast.
It feels profoundly secure and homey.
A terminal bounty decorates the entrance.
Tall dry corn stalks lean against the huge timber frame.
And potted orange and burgundy mums.
Cluster on the wooden steps.
As you pause to take in the quiet scene.
You notice a small herd of deer.
Grazing peacefully in the frosty field beyond.
Presence adding to the feeling.
Everyone will.
Natural safety.
Your friend opens the heavy restored door.
And you step into.
The immediate encompassing warmth.
Of the converted space.
The interior.
Is breathtakingly lofty and open.
Divined by the barn's original,
Enormous exposed wooden beams.
That span the high ceiling.
During its restoration.
Much like the old depot cafe.
The history of the barn is visible.
Yet every detail has been transformed.
For cozy living.
And a sense of simple elegance.
The main living room space.
Features an open-air kitchen.
With a large rustic island.
After removing your many layers.
Your companion heads to the clean,
Black wood stove,
Sitting on a slate base.
And expertly prepares the fire.
You hear the dry wood catch.
With a sharp word.
Quickly settles into a rhythmic,
Comforting crackle and pop.
The flickering firelight.
Dances across the vast wooden ceiling.
Making the entire sanctuary glow.
After the fire is set.
Take some time to savor a light bite together.
A simple,
Deeply satisfying pleasure.
Shared in this new home on wooden stools by the kitchen island.
Satiated and sleepy.
Conversation dwindles into contented silence.
And you decide it's time.
To retreat to your rooms.
Your bedroom is a uniquely restored space.
Likely the former HALO.
Set beneath a low,
Angled part of the roof.
The walls are panels.
In reclaimed,
Aged barn wood.
Creating a deep,
Rustic warmth.
Furniture is more modern.
But it allows the architecture to shine.
And a sparkling glow of white fairy lights.
Strung around the beams.
You step into the ensuite.
Noticing there's still the faintest hint.
Of fresh hay and sawdust in the air.
Mingling with the handmade bars.
Of apple cider and cinnamon soap.
In a basket on the counter.
You turn on the shower.
The Cascading Water.
Immediately hot and steamy.
The air quickly filling.
With a sweet,
Comforting sense.
Fresh apples.
The heat washes away the last remnants.
Of the external world.
As you step beneath the water.
Your muscles soften.
And the autumnal fragrance lingers.
Faintly on your freshly cleansed skin.
You towel off and change into flannel pajamas.
A warm option for a room kept perfectly cool for sleep.
With your feet in fleecy slippers.
You shovel back into the bedroom.
And head to the bed.
Pull back the covers and settle in.
Drawing up a classic American patchwork quilt.
Fabric is heavy.
Embracing you with a substantial wave.
Feels profoundly secure.
Outside.
The first frost has taken its deepest hole.
And the land is coated in sparkling white.
Continues to edge around.
Glass panes of the barn.
The November winds howl and whistle softly in the distance.
Just like the sounds of a train whistle once did.
And the sound only emphasizes.
Extraordinary safety and comfort you feel in this barn.
You close your eyes.
The warmth of the quill.
And memories of your beloved.
Both new and old.
Gently ushering you.
Across the bridge of sleep.
Where more heartwarming memories.
And dreams of tomorrow.
Me meet you.
The world is quiet and crystalline now.
A perfect place for rest.
You might allow your mind to go still and find sleep here.
Remain in the wonder.
As we journey to the next magical retreat.
The ice castle,
Snowflakes fall,
Every individual crystal the size of a small coin.
Glistening and sparkling before you.
They're so big and bountiful.
That you can see the unique lace-like designs.
Each one.
As a cluster of lakes.
Falls down on your nose and lips and melts instantly.
Each pristine white snowflake melting on you is a chilly yet refreshing reminder You are truly alive.
A wave of simple joy warms you from the inside out.
Sparking the playful spirit of a child on an unexpected snow day.
The endless snow-covered hills stretch before you blowing like glittering white waves.
So bright they cause you to squint.
You instinctively raise a gloved hand to shield your face from the soft cascading flakes,
Allowing your gaze to then fully take in the jagged,
Snow-capped purple mountains in the distance.
It's as if you've stepped directly into the heart of a living winter fairy tale.
Where every vista is a breathtaking masterpiece.
A profound sense of wonder washes over you,
Settling deep into your being.
Simply being here.
In this moment.
Feels remarkable.
As you move.
You feel the gentle caress of your hand-knit scarf.
Woven in your most cherished color.
Billowing softly in the breeze.
You wear a heavy winter coat.
A truly custom garment.
You designed from thread to fabric.
It's the kind of coat you may have dreamed of when lost in the pages of fairy tales or watching timeless films.
Beneath this outer layer.
You wear luxurious,
Self-warming layers.
That provide unrestricted movement.
Your steps are silent and sure.
Thanks to the plush knee-high fuzzy boots.
That cradle your feet in marshmallow-like foam.
Their hidden rubber grips.
Melt into the snow.
Helping you effortlessly traverse beneath the late day sun.
For many years.
You've heard tales of the ice castle and the folklore surrounding it.
So it was a delightful surprise when the coveted invitation arrived.
Specifically for you.
And you answered that call.
You proudly accept how precious it is to receive such an opportunity and to truly believe you are worthy of it.
This journey is a gentle reminder.
You are worthy when the universe rises up.
To deliver the things you've desired.
Hoped for.
And worked for.
On this wintry journey somewhere in time.
You feel a quiet guidance from within.
It's your intuitive voice.
Leading you now like an internal compass.
As you ascend the snowy hills.
Past evergreen trees,
Dusted with sugar-like snow.
You simply know.
You belong here.
You feel a warm,
Clear welcome.
There's a sense of belonging that goes deep.
And a familiarity.
That rises like a long forgotten dream.
Brought back to life.
The landscape itself.
Seems alive with ancient energies.
Frozen in the dandruff.
Giant ice flowers.
Delicate as lace,
Yet sturdy as stone.
Rise from the ground.
Their petals catching the light.
A thousand tiny prisms.
The air carries the faint,
Sweet scent of frosted berries from hidden bushes.
And the crisp,
Clean aroma.
Of pure undisturbed snow.
Towering ice formations that resemble colossal sculptures.
Carved by unseen hands,
Rise above you.
Each one is profoundly unique.
Some look like grand archways.
Inviting you to pass beneath them,
To enter another realm.
Others are spiraling towers,
Reaching towards the heavens.
Their peaks shimmering with an internal light.
You might notice a faint.
Harmonic hum in the air.
A subtle vibration.
That resonates deep within your bones.
Were the melodies of the ice.
This is the song of the frosty land.
A white fluffy rabbit,
Like a puffy cotton ball.
Blends into the snow and hops across your path.
Pausing to meet your gaze.
You lock eyes in mutual respect.
And acknowledgement that you are both alive and present.
And belong here.
The animals of the forest trust you.
It's as if all the living beings of this landscape have been informed of your arrival.
And are here to welcome you.
You walk along a babbling silvery blue brook.
That bubbles and flows beneath a thin layer of ice.
Acting like a glass top.
A hot spring feeds the stream.
So that it never completely freezes.
You inhale the fragrant balsam fir and pine.
And the cool slate smell of wet snow and the stream.
Crunching softly on the frozen path.
You find your balance with each step.
Beyond your gentle footsteps.
An exquisite quiet descends.
Deep snow absorbs all sound.
Creating a resonating stillness.
That settles over the world around you.
The canopy of snow-heavy evergreens.
Opens up to a clearing.
You ascend a snowy hill.
And the ice castle comes into view.
You gently pause.
Feeling so incredibly awestruck.
By the sight of this ice castle.
That is ornately designed and looms above.
It is not merely a structure.
But a dynamic marvel.
Ever-changing with the subtle shifts of this land of year-long winters.
Its walls are crafted.
From gigantic blocks of pure translucent ice.
So clear you can almost see through them.
Yet strong enough to withstand the fiercest winds.
For a brief while,
The wind whisks away the snow clouds.
Jagged glittering spires reach skyward.
Piercing the fiery sunset sky.
Crowned with natural crystals.
Holes with a soft ethereal glow.
As the sun slips away.
The ice walls change by the second.
From rich shades of magenta and amber.
Deeper hues of plum and azure.
As you approach,
You notice the intricate carvings etched into the ice.
Ancient symbols of peace and protection.
Delicate frost patterns like damask wallpaper.
And shimmering murals depicting celestial maps.
Tiny ice lanterns holding small flickering flames.
Glow from within,
Casting soft dancing shadows on the pristine snow.
The air around the castle.
Has an almost palpable energy.
It's invitation staring in your soul.
And though the castle is grand.
And its peaks majestically jut against the landscape.
It feels entirely unique.
Yet at the same time,
Seamlessly belongs to the very environment that colors it.
And allows it to be.
In this harmonious moment.
Heart of you stirs.
And you consider the idea.
You are allowed as well.
To be fierce and unique.
And still exist in harmony.
With all that surrounds you in life.
It's possible.
To be your unique individual self.
While also being part of something bigger.
As the sky continues to deepen.
Into dusky blues and bands of purple.
You climb the last hill.
That leads you to the entryway of the ice castle.
You ascend a lavender blue carpet.
That lines the pathway and stairs into the castle.
The icy doors open.
And a butler stands at the door.
Prepared for your arrival.
His smile is genuine.
And warm enough to melt the icy world.
Yet his eyes sparkle.
Glittering with light.
He wears a pale blue formal uniform.
Woven from sparkling silver and blue threads.
The castle is yours,
And I am at your service.
Please feel free to change at your leisure.
He responds.
Greeting you with a tray that holds a whimsical icy blue mug with a sturdy handle.
It contains a hot specialty drink.
Drawn from a sacred ancient book.
Of Palace Recipes.
The floors inside.
Are like icy cerulean marble.
Covered by plush ivory rugs.
That are incredibly soft and warm.
The butler gestures to a coat rack.
And invites you to change.
Indoors,
The air is still quite cool yet there's a wave of warmth.
That circulates.
You remove your coat and boots.
Their weight lifting away.
And change into an elegant velvet and satin self-warming robe and plush slipper boots.
Marked with your initials.
You run your fingers along the embroidered monogram.
Once more feeling so welcome and cared for.
With a nod from the butler.
You take the elegant ma.
A rich,
Fragrant cloud of steam rises from it.
Wafting the comforting aroma.
Of spiced honey and lingonberries.
Incredibly soothing to your senses and slightly exotic.
Once you take the beverage.
He places the empty tray on an icy blue table.
Rests on four legs carved into the shapes of swans.
Their beaks hold the tabletop.
And the details are so pronounced.
They appear to be real.
The butler makes a quiet hand motion.
Inviting you to come along.
Follow the trail of furry rocks.
Your slippers sink into the downy floor coverings.
And you soon feel the heat from them and your attire.
Magically warming the air around you.
You sip the beverage.
Feeling the silky,
Soothing elixir coat your lips and your palate.
Bringing you to a deeper sense of calm and relaxation.
The butler guides you through grand halls where chandeliers of intricately sculpted ice hang.
Catching the internal light of the castle.
And scattering tiny rainbows across the walls.
Murals of pure iridescent ice.
Depict scenes of tranquil snowy forests,
Sleeping animals,
Swirling nebulae.
Making the vast space.
Feel both expansive.
And intimately comforting.
He leads you to a library.
Where books with covers of frosted leather.
And pages of parchment.
Are stacked upon white birch shelves,
Sunken within the ice walls.
The shelves themselves.
Seemed to pulse with a faint,
Scholarly light.
There's a deeply cushioned sofa.
Positioned alongside a magnificent fire.
Its flames dance softly within a circular hearth.
Of polished dark stone at the room's center.
The butler invites you to settle and enjoy the fire.
Flames casting warm orange light.
And dancing shadows upon the ice walls.
He explains that a light meal has been prepared for you.
Waiting on a table.
Alongside the sofa.
You make yourself comfortable.
And lift an engraved silver tray cover.
To reveal a plate of your favorite foods.
Prepared to perfection.
Wisps of steam rise from the hand-painted china plate.
That depicts a wintry scene.
The wind begins to whip and howl outside the ice castle.
And through the vast,
Seamless ice windows.
The delicate large snowflakes of the afternoon.
And the clear skies at sunset.
Have given way to a raging blizzard.
A dense curtain of white.
Now encroaches upon the landscape.
Yet inside.
You feel full and nurtured.
Safe and at ease.
Every crackle and pop of the fire.
Seems to deepen your relaxation.
The icy walls look different as the night deepens.
The castle is a true chameleon.
Its ice walls constantly adapting.
Changing weather,
The shifting colors.
The subtle light of the day.
Painting new and wondrous hues.
Upon its surface.
You appreciate this adaptation.
Is going with the flow.
And how much you aspire to this fluidity in your own life.
To adapt to changes.
Rather than to fight them.
Just letting go.
The sense of ease lingers when the butler returns.
His smile,
Warm as ever.
And his eyes twinkling in the light of the fire.
Have a grandfatherly energy.
You feel more pampered and content.
Than you have in a long time.
And this new friend is to thank.
He expresses that your room is ready.
Should you wish to retire?
As a mere suggestion.
A heady wave of sleepiness arrives.
You gently rise and follow him.
Walking through the foyer.
And ascending upon a moving escalator of ice blocks.
When you step on them,
You're surprised that your slippers gently secure into the ice.
Holding you in place as you ascend to the second floor.
Gliding higher and higher.
You feel as if you are floating on a cloud.
As you ascend gracefully to the second floor.
Your slippers become free as the escalator arrives.
And you gently step off.
You look down upon.
Truly vast room below.
The chandelier shimmering with countless facets.
Hangs far beneath you.
You've never experienced such expansive grandeur in a home.
And you simply take in.
This overwhelming feeling of abundance.
In this dreamy moment.
You allow yourself to feel rich.
Feel blessed to feel the bounty of a life that is limitless.
This experience will fade into a memory.
That may be charged back to life.
Whenever you wish.
Helping you to connect with.
And radiate these feelings of abundance.
And prosperity.
Waiting for you with patience.
The butler continues when you are ready.
Guiding you to the Frostbloom Suite.
The most luxurious of suites in the guest wing.
Rather than doors.
Floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes.
Serve as the luxurious entryway into your suite.
The butler parts the curtains and you follow behind.
As you step inside.
A rush of warm air greets you.
Emanating from the crackling fire.
Sat behind a grand canopy bed.
The suite is a vision of serene winter elegance.
Decorated in shades of icy blue.
Soft lavender blue and shimmering silver.
These cool ethereal hues.
Create a breathtaking contrast with a fire's warmth.
And the flickering glow and gentle dance of candlelight.
From unseen sconces.
The firelight casts golden ribbons and deep inviting shadows across the walls.
The bed's rich,
Heavy comforter.
Shimmers in this interplay of light.
As the shadows continue to dance like puppets across the glossy ceiling and walls.
Nearest the fire,
You spot a massage table.
Where a massage therapist waits for you.
The butler introduces you to the therapist.
Who aims to help you relax.
Before falling asleep.
You inhale deeply.
Calm and appreciative.
The room smells of essential oils.
Balsam Fir and winter aromas.
That marry the scent of fire-burning logs.
The butler leaves you.
But not before saying goodnight.
And letting you know you may ring a bell by the bed.
Should you need anything at all.
You smile and nod as he leaves.
And the massage therapist greets you,
Asking what type of healing massage.
You would most enjoy.
Yet she has an intuitive sense.
And seems to know where you might be holding tension.
You let her know with clarity what you need.
And it feels so empowering.
To voice your needs comfortably.
She guides you to a private changing area.
Where you may prepare.
Moment.
You find yourself resting on the warm massage table.
Feeling the gentle heat beneath you.
Like a comforting body of water.
You rest your face on a pillow.
Looking down on the exposed ice floor.
Not covered with a plush rug.
She begins to work her strong hands and fingers.
Into the knots and places of tension in your body.
And you feel your muscles slowly melt like soft wax.
And a freshly lit candle.
Keeping your sleepy eyes open.
And focused on the icy floor.
She continues to knead your muscles and back.
As you notice images.
Begin to appear below you.
It's as if looking into a magic mirror.
Where you see yourself in this moment reflecting back.
Done.
An overlay of an early memory comes to you.
It's a memory.
Of when you were truly happy.
When you had an idea about something.
That you wanted to see happen.
And it did.
And you see yourself now.
Your reflection upon this past memory.
As you take it in and smile.
Hot stones are pressed and rolled across your back.
With a strong,
Steady guidance of the massage therapist.
Once more,
Your body is released of tension.
You inhale and sigh and just let go.
Your eye is now focused.
As this happy memory begins to melt,
Creating a puddle below,
Or so it seems.
Before freezing again in a flash.
And now instead of the past memory.
You see something in the future.
You see yourself doing something you have longed to do.
For a very long time.
This may be something you've never told anyone about before.
It could be so precious to you.
So important and so longed for.
That it felt safer being kept locked within.
Now you see this dream released.
And coming to fruition.
In a movie that plays before you.
On the ice floor.
Below the massage table.
And you feel almost euphoric.
Because you remember that you are enough.
And you deserve this.
And in the magical ice castle.
You have a deep sense.
You can make things happen.
You gently close your eyes.
Still sensing the dancing shadows from the fire.
Like silhouettes upon your eyelids.
Your body relaxes even more.
As the therapist presses into all the nooks and crannies of your body.
That have been unreachable.
With steamy warm towels.
She cleanses your skin of any remaining oils.
And you surrender.
Nothing more to let go of.
You are so very relaxed and ready for sleep.
From head to toe.
You simply feel wonderful and warm.
The last motions from the massage.
Make their way through your scalp.
Her strong slender fingers.
Massaging the crown of your head and temples.
A tingling sensation.
Courses all over your head,
Your face.
Then travels down your spine.
Like a gentle electric course.
Of warm energy.
It feels so good to be you right now.
She caresses your head.
And then squeezes your shoulders.
And with a gentle pat on the back.
You know the massage is over You take a few moments.
Inhaling and exhaling.
So ready for bed.
She helps you gently rise.
And leaves a pair of thick,
Warm pajamas.
Folded neatly on the table.
You change into them and find your way to the bed.
Your heavy eyes nearly betraying you with every step.
Another worldly feeling of tiredness arrives.
As you climb into the bed.
And nestle down beneath the heavy,
Heated comfort.
Your head nestles atop a pile of cool,
Fluffy pillows that soon warm beneath you.
You peer through the sheer canopy.
Into the skylights overhead.
The wind has whipped the snow off the angled roof.
And the moon above cuts through the storm clouds.
With a hopeful silvery glow.
You feel deeply connected.
To the vast infinite universe that is out there.
That is part of you.
Just as you are part of it.
The fire continues to burn.
And crackle and pop.
The wind whispers around the ice castle.
And the blizzard's ferocity returns as it roars on into the night.
Coating this dreamy winter escape in fresh snow.
One last thought dances through the chambers of your mind.
It's possible to feel so safe.
In what may be considered a challenging climate.
Because it is possible.
Find a sense of safety.
Wherever you go.
And this possibility.
Brings you peace of mind.
As you remember.
You are resilient.
Adaptable.
And as precious once in a lifetime invitation.
Has only emphasized this further.
And with this hope.
.
.
Burning gently within you.
Like the tender flames dancing in the heart.
You are ready to drift.
There is a deep safety in this quiet hour.
A time for your heart to find peace.
The Love of a Pup.
Caroline Knapp once said.
Before you get a dog.
You can't quite imagine.
What living with one might be like.
Afterward.
You can't imagine living any other way.
Love takes many forms,
But few are as pure and unwavering as the love shared with a dog.
It's a bond that deserves celebration.
Especially on a quiet winter evening like tonight.
Inside a cabin as a snowstorm arrives.
Philosophers have often mused.
That we may never fully grasp the depth of a dog's happiness.
Living without self-reflection.
They exist entirely in the moment.
Chasing joy,
Embracing rest.
And reveling in silliness without hesitation.
They remind us to take life a little less seriously.
To play more.
To forgive more.
Especially ourselves.
No creature understands forgiveness quite like a dog.
They stand by your side,
Indifferent to success or failure.
Asking only for your time and presence.
And the occasional treat.
When even those closest to you struggle to comfort you,
Your dog finds a way.
A shared glance,
A nuzzle,
A gentle sigh as they settle beside you.
It is a love both effortless and profound.
Such is the loyalty of a dog.
Imagine yourself on Valentine's Day,
A time for cherishing the connections that bring warmth to your heart.
As you relax with your furry friend,
You reflect on holiday traditions.
Glittery red and pink cards exchanged,
Flowers given,
Sweet gestures shared.
But your pup,
Though never one to handcraft a card.
Shows love in a way all their own.
With a persistent nuzzle of their head into your palm,
Seeking a reassuring pet.
An eager bark as they drop a raggedy,
Well-loved toy at your feet.
Inviting you to play.
Of all the kinds of love celebrated on February 14th.
The love you get to share with your beloved pup on this day.
Is like no other.
You spend the day in a cabin sanctuary,
Made entirely your own,
Shaped by long-ago dreams.
Years of simple touches and thoughtful design reflect you,
The colors,
The textiles,
And the artwork.
All bring you deep happiness.
The vaulted ceilings.
Create a lofty,
Open space.
Where sunlight spills through skylights to awaken you on cold winter mornings.
Colorful lamps add warmth to the room.
Collected from your favorite shops.
Candles glimmer.
And a fire in the hearth crackles.
The scent of burning wood mingles with the cool,
Fresh aroma of snow drifting in from outside.
The kitchen windows offer sweeping views of rolling,
Snow-coated meadows to the north.
Dotted with stone farmhouses and rustic red barns.
But to the South.
The bedroom and living room give views of an evergreen forest.
Dusted in twinkling snow.
As soft winter winds whistle through the boughs.
This is where you find yourself today.
Surrounded by peace and warmth,
With your beloved pup by your side.
In the final hour before sunset.
Orange gold.
And fuchsia sunlight.
Paints the main room.
In hues of twilight.
Clouds roll gently in,
Heavy with a promise of a snowstorm.
Your pup is curled up.
In their fluffy doughnut bed near the fire.
Enjoying a late afternoon nap.
Above your sleeping pooch.
A string of hearts in rich reds and carnation pink hangs from the mantle.
Delicate paper shapes swaying gently in the glow of the firelight.
They offer welcome bursts of color.
Contrasting the muted winter landscape outside.
Just a few years ago,
These quiet tokens of affection might have sent your pup into playful overdrive.
Every piece of paper,
An invitation to chew.
The Shred.
And to revel in the joy of destruction.
But now the hearts dangle serenely.
Undisturbed.
As your dog rests peacefully beneath them.
A symbol of how much has changed since those early exuberant puppy days.
And a testament to you and all the patience it took to train the sweet animal into the pet you most wanted them to become.
On the mantle,
Framed photographs tell the heartwarming story of your years together.
Moments frozen in time.
Capturing the joy and simple tenderness that has flourished between you and your pet.
Each photo is a page in the story of your lives together.
A tale of growth.
Of encouraging each other to embrace new experiences.
Even though you are just as content.
Playing hooky and curling up indoors on a day like this.
A dog has the unique ability to bring out the playful,
Silly side that perhaps no one else gets to see as much of from you.
Your dog is the non-judgmental witness to your life,
A keeper of secrets.
And present for moments.
No one else will see.
They watched you in your quietest hours,
In laughter and solitude.
In the worldless space where only trust and understanding exist.
There is an unspoken bond.
The kind of love that needs no explanation,
Only presence.
You sink into the coziest,
Plushest sofa,
The very one that has cradled you through countless blissful winter naps in the toasty cabin.
A furry blanket in your favorite colors.
Drapes over the back of the sofa.
And you lean against its downy warmth.
As your hands hold an oversized mug that contains a steaming treat for you on this holiday.
Creamy,
Rich,
And soothing.
It adds a moment of decadence.
To this beautiful,
Simple end of the day.
Warmth seeps through your palms.
As you feel the mug's familiar weight in your hands.
And as you sit.
You let your mind wander.
You savor the silky treat.
And your thoughts drift back.
To the early days of you and your dog.
Flurries begin to fall.
And while the world outside becomes a swirl of winter's peak,
Indoors you savor the warmth and the gentle,
Contented sighs.
Of your sleeping pup.
As if they receive a telepathic message.
Earpub stirs.
And stretches in a downward dog pose.
Opening their mouth in an unapologetic yawn.
They jump onto the couch.
And curl up beside you,
Nestling close.
Their fur still carrying the lingering heat of the fire.
Your mind remembers your first Valentine's Day together.
An unexpected occasion.
That would change your daily life.
In the most beautiful ways.
At the time,
You didn't know for certain.
Big decisions often come with a swirl of butterflies.
Indicating that you question whether you're truly ready for something.
Of course,
The best dog owners understand this flutter of feelings,
Because they know how important they will be in that dog's life.
Your heart spoke louder than doubt.
Pulling you forward with a deep undeniable knowing.
This pup was meant to be yours.
It had all begun with a drive through quiet country roads.
The winter landscape stretching out in endless fields of white.
Punctuated by bare trees.
And the occasional red barn.
And scarlet-covered bridge.
Standing resilient against the snow.
You remember the crunch of gravel beneath your tires.
As you turn down a winding lane.
The soft glow of a porch light.
Guiding you to the farmhouse.
The 19th century home was old but sturdy.
A picture of warmth against the cold.
White clapboard with green shutters.
Its wide front porch.
Framed with stacked firewood and rocking chairs with a light coating of snow.
A heart-shaped wreath bedazzled with red and pink gemstones and ribbons from a little girl's creative hand.
Hung on the front door.
Snow rested on the roof.
Thick undisturbed layers.
And golden light spilled from the windows.
Promising warmth inside.
As you rapped on the door,
The thunderous steps of the young wreath artist.
Came barreling toward the door.
She peeked behind the curtains of the slender side window.
As her mother said,
It was okay to let you in.
Stepping inside,
The scents of wood smoke and cinnamon filled the air.
Mingling with the faintly sweet smell of a spiced pie cooling on a rack in the kitchen.
A six-year-old girl with blonde pigtail braids met you,
Dressed in a bright red and pink corduroy jumper.
She knew why you were there,
But had grown used to animals coming and going and explained as she led you to her mother.
That she was more of a cat person.
But puppies were cute too.
Her mother met you in the foyer.
And led you to a laundry room where the puppy slept alone in a pen.
The pup woke slowly.
Adjusting to the light,
And clumsily rolling out of the checkered dog bed.
The mother explained.
How someone had abandoned the puppies in a box,
Left on their driveway,
Mere weeks before Christmas.
The family tended to the litter.
Nourishing the hungry pups.
Until they were plump and healthy.
And this puppy she revealed.
Had been her favorite.
The sweet animal followed her each morning,
Resting their chin on her feet.
With big eyes that sought to figure out what would happen next.
But their farm was already home.
For far too many animals.
And they made it their job to find new homes for the puppies.
Two families and a couple had promised to take this last remaining pup home.
Only to back out at the last minute.
And so the puppy remained,
Soothed by the little girl who brought a warm water bottle and blanket.
For the animal to snuggle with in the absence of litter mates.
The pup yawned and did a downward dog pose.
Before coming to life.
Suddenly,
As if a bolt of electricity struck.
That tiny ball of fur began wagging their tail so hard,
Their entire body swayed with it.
They trotted toward you.
Boundless energy.
And unfiltered joy.
As if they'd been waiting.
Just for you.
In that moment,
The butterfly is settled,
Replaced by something deeper and calm.
You knelt down and before you could say a word.
The pup scooted right into your arms.
Pressing their small,
Wiggly body against your chest.
You could feel their heart.
Beating against your own.
It was love.
Instant and true.
You couldn't stop smiling.
As a pink puppy tongue.
Explore your face and hands.
Squeaking with pure excitement.
Just before you left the farmhouse.
The little girl asked to show you her valentines.
She led you to the kitchen,
To a rustic wooden kitchen table,
With cards fanned across it.
Each one was a keepsake.
From her first great Valentine's Day party.
As stew bubbled on the gas range in a worn red Dutch oven.
She explained she was saving the small bags of chocolate kisses and candy hearts for after dinner.
With a bright smile,
She plucked a heart-shaped card from the pile and held it out for you.
It featured a cartoon puppy.
With wide,
Eager eyes.
Bearing an uncanny resemblance to the squirmy bundle in your arms.
I woof you forever was scrawled in bold,
Bubbly letters.
Across the front.
She insisted it was for you,
Understanding in some way that the puppy was meant to be with you.
And then away.
Wise beyond her years,
She seemed to gather that love isn't always about holding on.
But about finding the right place to belong.
And as you held your wiggly new companion.
The perfect name came to you.
As if it had been waiting all along.
There's something magical about naming a pet.
Choosing a word that will shape the way you call to them.
The way their ears will perk up at the sound.
As though this is their name.
The years will bring dozens of nicknames.
Sweet monikers whispered with affection.
Each one met with a wag of the tail or a knowing look.
In time,
Your dog will answer to each one.
At least when they feel like listening.
As every dog is prone to have moments of selective hearing.
Now,
Years later,
On the mantel in your cabin.
That very Valentine.
Sits framed with a photograph of you and the pup.
That the little girl took on the front porch of the farmhouse.
In the picture.
Snow flurries fall around you.
Landing on the puppy's coat.
Capturing you in a moment.
Of pure,
Unfiltered happiness.
It's hard to imagine.
That your dog was ever that tiny.
Their eyes once so unfocused.
Looking out in the world.
Without quite understanding.
But now cuddled on the sofa.
Their eyes meet yours.
And in the silent language,
You've come to understand over the years.
You know it's time for a walk.
You sigh,
Stretching your limbs before rising,
And your pup perks up instantly.
Tail thumping against the cushion.
You dress them in a harness and snug winter sweater,
The soft fabric brushing against their fur.
You bundle yourself up in layers.
A thick sweater,
An insulated coat,
A hat pulled low over your ears.
The cold nips at your cheeks as you step outside,
The air crisp and laced with a scent of snow and pine.
With their leash in a gloved hand.
You walk at an agreeable pace.
As the snow comes down harder by the minute.
Your breath and the pup's breath condense wispy clouds as your boots crunch against the fresh snowfall and their pawprints leave a trail.
You follow a familiar track that winds through the evergreen forest,
The trees towering above with icy pine cones and snow-dusted needles.
A frozen silver blue stream glimmers.
Its surface a slick,
Glassy sheet.
Snowflakes drift lazily from the sky.
Landing soundlessly on your coat.
And on your puffs.
You feel the lacy snow crystals melting on your lips as your pup vigorously shakes them off.
Emerging into the clearing before your cabin.
You release the clasp of the leash and your dog breaks free into a joyful sprint.
Bounding through the snow with vigor.
Their paws kick up powdery flurries as they circle back to you.
Eyes bright.
Tongue lolling.
You chase them for a while.
Laughter spilling into the snowy night.
Until you're both breathless and glowing from the cold and exertion.
The wind picks up.
And snowflakes become heavier and thicker.
You return inside as the warm,
Dry cabin air.
Wraps around you with the smell of home.
Thanks to years of training.
Your dog patiently waits on the doormat as you shed your layers.
You then remove their sweater and dowel them all.
Pecking their damp,
Furry forehead with a kiss.
They knowingly trot toward the kitchen.
Aware of what comes next.
As you've established a shared rhythm through the years.
You prepared a special dinner with care.
Favorite meal for you.
And something equally indulgent for them.
You light a few scarlet candles.
Their golden glow dancing across the walls.
As you put on your favorite music.
And encourage your pup to dance for their supper.
They do so,
And you join in for a moment before setting down their dinner near the table as you sit down to enjoy yours.
A delicate pattern of frost forms on the windows.
A reminder of the winter's grip.
But inside,
All is safe,
Warm,
And filled with love.
With your hub by your side.
You're never truly alone.
Yet you've come to cherish your own company in ways you never imagined possible when it's just the two of you.
After dinner,
You tidy up the kitchen.
And peer out at the farmhouses and barns in the distance.
Emitting warm glowing light into the dark snowy evening.
A hot shower beckons.
And as you indulge,
Staying a little longer than usual.
Your pup curls up on the bath mat.
Part habit,
Part quiet devotion.
Always keeping watch.
Steam fills the air with the fragrance of your favorite soap as the steady pressure washes away the chill of the evening.
Once you're done and wrapped in a plush towel.
Your pup enjoys licking small water beads from your feet.
Ear playfully push them away and laugh.
And successfully telling them to stop as you slip into your coziest pajamas.
The evening unfolds as the two of you settle in,
Nestled together on the couch.
Watching your favorite romantic film.
The kind that always makes you smile,
No matter how many times you've seen it.
Your pup stretches beside you,
Resting their head on your lap.
The firelight dancing and adding golden waves of hope.
On this wintry night.
You stroke your dog's ears,
Absentmindedly.
Feeling their warmth their steady breathing.
Every now and then.
When an animal comes on screen.
They stir or release a barely audible bark.
Looking to you for reassurance.
There is nothing else you need in this moment.
Just this quiet companionship.
This love that endures.
And lives in the present moment.
Before bed,
You slip on winter boots and tug your puffy parka over your pajamas for one last venture into the night.
The cold is something fierce,
But your pup is undeterred,
Racing into the snow with renewed energy.
They savor these last few minutes of freedom.
Never leaving your vision or going far from the cabin.
Moonlight slips between the storm clouds.
Creating an otherworldly opal glow.
On the snow-coated forest.
Once done,
Your dog returns covered in powdery white,
Eyes gleaming.
Tail wagging.
You laugh as you brush the snow from their face.
Then usher them back inside.
Once toweled off.
They run straight to the bedroom with playful,
Soft barks,
Proving that they are faster in this race.
The bedroom is yours to imagine.
A space of deep comfort and tranquility.
The spacious room exemplifies the interior design.
You always wanted for your dream bedroom.
It offers the perfect mattress,
The most comfortable sheets,
And alluring colors and patterns that are simple.
Make you happy.
You decide to light a fire in the smaller fireplace in the bedroom as your dog shadows your every move.
Once the flames are burning bright.
You peel back the comforter and top sheets.
You pat the mattress,
And your pup comes up.
Ready to snuggle.
It may not be something that happens every night.
But tonight is meant for cuddling.
Atop the bed,
Your pup circles once more.
Twice.
And settles in beside you.
Their body a familiar weight against your side.
As they let out a sigh.
You pull the covers up.
And their nose nestles in the crook of your arm.
The fire crackles softly,
Casting flickering shadows as your pup quickly drifts into sleep.
They're breathing slowly.
Their tail and feet moving as they get lost in a dream.
You savor this moment.
Wrapped in gratitude.
For every memory you've shared and every adventure still waiting to come.
Your pup is truly one of your favorite Valentines.
You close your eyes,
Pressing a gentle kiss to the top of their head.
Whisper.
Happy Valentine's Day.
And happy gotcha day.
The waves of sleep arrive,
Slow yet persistent.
Lulling you as the wind whips outside and the fire crackles and pops.
With a tender sigh,
You give in to their promise of restoration and comfort.
Letting go completely.
Finding peace.
Finding softness.
Finding bliss.
Finding love.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
Good night
