Don't relax and fall into a deep sleep with 6 calm bedtime stories for grownups.
You are listening to The Cozy Cottages and Cabins Collection.
From a misty cranberry bog,
To the gothic southern pines,
From a golden autumn cottage in New England,
To dwellings inspired by music and moonlight.
Each story is a doorway into a world where simplicity sets the tone and the only thing asked of you is to rest,
Like a series of dreams.
These bedtime tales will help you drift across the bridge from your waking life to your sleeping life.
After any of the stories,
You may listen for the next adventure or comfortably fall asleep.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I am Michelle and as you listen,
Think of my voice as that of a trusted friend and guide.
Here is a place where you are welcome to be the fullest expression of your tired self.
And to celebrate all that is unique to you.
Rather than use your imagination for worry.
You may tap into your resourceful imagination.
To find pleasure and solace at bedtime.
You may wish to take a moment to subscribe if you haven't already.
So you may return to this collection in the future.
As you listen,
You are free to customize any detail you like.
You may even wish to skip the meditation and breathwork and go straight to the sleepy stories.
You know what works best for you,
So trust yourself.
Cuddle up and sink into your bed.
Inhale through your nose or mouth,
Whichever feels best.
Feel your body expand.
And you may even open your mouth in a yawn.
And then sigh.
Making a sound if you like.
You can yawn and sigh all you please tonight.
Whatever it takes to signal to your body that you're ready to stand down and prepare for slumber.
Inhale again.
And then at your own pace.
Release the air in a long slow sigh.
Now is the perfect time to let go.
To settle.
To go deep within.
Nothing is required of you right now.
Other than to feel good.
Notice how much more relaxed you are than moments ago.
And I will count you down from five to one.
To deepen your relaxation.
And clear your mind to be a canvas for the stories about to unfold.
Bye.
Feel the crown of your head soften and release,
As though the canopy of trees above a cabin roof.
Is finally,
Gently,
Still.
Your face relaxes.
Your brows,
Your jaw.
It's like a cool clean breeze moves through an open window.
Carrying the scent of pine and earth and night air.
You go with the flow as well.
You breathe it all in.
3.
.
.
Your shoulders,
Chest,
Your arms all grow heavier now.
Warmed from within,
The way old wood holds the heat of a long day's sun.
Your belly rises and falls.
Your back releases.
Your hips and legs surrender to the weight of the stillness.
Deep,
Unhurried quiet of a cabin.
At the end of the world.
One.
.
.
From the ground of your head to the tips of your toes.
You are held and safe in the way a cabin and cottage.
Were always meant to make you feel.
And this energy follows you throughout the bedtime journey about to unfold.
The very first cabins were born from long dark winters and the deep human need for warmth.
Imagine the smell of pine and spruce,
Raw and resinous.
Mingling with wood smoke.
A single fire at the center of the room.
The way its amber light moved across the walls and ceiling.
The way everyone instinctively drew closer to it.
Those early cabins were intimate by nature.
Small enough that the warmth of one body added to another's.
That a shared story carried across the room without raising your voice.
At the boundary between the outside world.
And the one you'd built together felt absolute.
The cold and the dark were out there.
And everything that mattered was here.
In this warm and fragrant room.
That spirit has never left the cabin.
Even as they've changed throughout time and updated.
Lives on in every story you are about to hear.
And no matter which dwelling calls to you the most.
Each one extends the same quiet invitation.
To linger.
To let simple pleasures be enough.
To remember that comfort sought for its own sake.
Is not indulgence.
It's wisdom.
Vital to self-care.
And it's what makes life feel so precious and cozy.
The Cranberry Cottage.
With the summer holidays now a fond memory.
And children back in school.
A profound quietude settles over Cape Cod.
The bustling beaches and lively towns.
Soften their energy.
Giving way to the gentle transition of early September.
The air itself feels different.
Long,
Hot,
Humid days.
Give way to crisp and clean breezes.
Carrying the scent of pine and the faint aroma of the Atlantic.
A subtle invitation.
To slow down and breathe deeply.
This is a time of quiet reflection.
A pause between the vibrant energy of summer.
And the jewel-toned mosaic of autumn.
Your journey to the Cranberry Cottage.
Is a gentle unwinding.
A commitment to focus solely on your peace and need for deep contentment.
It feels good to prioritize your desires for coziness and a charming getaway.
Where every hour unfolds.
And the way you decide.
You leave behind the last hints of the day's demands.
Following a narrow tree-lined road that winds deeper into the secluded heart of Cape Cod.
The soft crunch of tires on the gravel paths.
And the quiet shuffle of your own footsteps on a rusty orange carpet of pine needles that fell throughout the summer.
Is the only sound for miles.
The air grows cooler with each turn.
As your day of traveling.
Brings you to the place.
The delightful daydreaming and planning has at last delivered.
Shadows dance along the path.
As the pines whisper and sway overhead.
Making you grateful for your warm fleece hoodie.
That you unzip as the sun emerges.
The warmth wins for now.
But the coolness lurks in the shade and hollows.
Where local furry inhabitants had the sense to start stowing away acorns,
Anticipating the seasonal changes.
The sweetness in the air.
Brought by Pine Resin.
And decaying needles and leaves.
That have fallen prematurely.
Creates the same sweet headiness.
As entering a library.
Of old beloved books.
You travel quite light.
This hidden cottage is well equipped with all that you may need.
In fact,
The cottage has been that way since the 1970s.
When it first became a retreat for artists and writers who sought to create in solitude,
And all other souls who wanted to remember.
What it was like to live.
Without the constant drone of modern life.
Your palm graces the smooth,
Gray-brown bark of a maple tree.
And you imagine the fiery red leaves.
That will soon dapple the forest.
In a few weeks' time.
For now.
There's just the faintest hint of fading green.
But just as the sun wins out on this afternoon walk.
Summer is not yet ready to surrender.
You follow a series of hand-carved wooden signs.
Weathered and gray.
That poke out of the forest floor.
And let you know you are on the right way to the Cranberry Cottage.
Then,
Through a break in the trees,
The cottage appears.
It isn't grand.
But it is perfectly formed.
Warm inviting haven.
Amongst the deep green of the pines.
Its weathered shingles and sturdy frame.
Speak of resilience and comfort.
Its shakesiding harkens back to the time.
When cranberry harvesting in the Cape.
Rose in popularity centuries ago.
Just beyond it,
The vast,
Flat expanse of the cranberry bog stretches out.
Hinting at the quiet beauty that awaits.
The energy here.
Feels different from any calm or serene setting you've been to.
It's a unique blend of historical and rustic.
Forested.
Yet still influenced by the ocean.
But there's also an otherworldly presence.
Harmonious and gentle.
An end of season sigh.
That may be felt on every breeze.
And with every susurration of the feathery pines.
You follow the woodchip path.
To the front door of the cottage.
Three monarch butterflies flutter before you.
The brilliant orange wings catch the light.
And a golden halo forms around them.
Giving them the strength for the journey south.
They will soon embark on.
Every railing of the modest porch.
Is occupied by flower boxes.
Overflowing with late summer blooms.
Herbs with basil and mint filling the air.
The stairs creak and groan beneath your feet.
You come to the door.
And open the squeaky screen.
And unlock the scarlet wooden door into the foyer.
Stepping inside.
You prevent the screen from slamming.
Your feet land on a woven brick red welcome mat.
Distant sound of crickets.
May still be heard as you close the door.
Sealing away the outside world for a moment or two.
An immediate warmth embraces you.
A faint scent of freshly cut logs,
Dried eucalyptus,
And lavender.
A hand-blown cranberry glass vase and dried herbs,
I'll welcome you home.
" photos of the bog throughout time.
Many in black and white.
Are nestled in antique frames.
And hang on the shiplap walls.
Beneath dried cranberry boughs.
The Wampanoag people.
The original inhabitants of this land.
Knew the cranberry as sassamanish.
And harvested it for thousands of years.
Long before European settlers arrived.
They use the tart berries not just for food,
But for medicine and dyes.
Understanding the deep connection between the land and its gifts.
Later in the early 19th century.
Captain Henry Hall of Dennis,
Massachusetts.
Began the first commercial cultivation.
Noticing how sand helps the wild vines flourish.
Today,
These barks remain.
Continuing centuries of tradition.
And a deep respect for nature's cycles.
The photos capture the later years.
But two oil paintings in the center of the wall.
Recreate the cranberry harvest from centuries before.
You smile to yourself.
Grateful to experience this magical bog on this perfect late afternoon.
The first order of your visit.
Is not to settle in just yet.
But to explore the bog before the sun slips away.
As now the days are becoming shorter.
And you relish every moment of sunlight that you can.
There's a sense of something calling to you from outside.
A gentle curiosity.
That you feel inspired to answer.
You leave your bags on the glossy top of a pine shelf just inside the doorway.
Slip your feet into a pair of comfortable worn boots you've brought just for this.
As you step back outside.
The cool air against your face is refreshing.
Tinged with the unique damp scent of the bog.
You smell for the first time.
The light of the setting sun casts long golden patterns across the lawn.
You follow a narrow,
Grassy path.
That skirts the edge of the cottage.
And leads you to the lip of the bog.
The ground is soft and spongy beneath your boots.
Texture you haven't felt in a long time.
The path gives way to a gravel dike.
Raised ground that separates the bog from the surrounding forest.
You stop here.
A world opening up before you.
The bog is a vast,
Flat quilt of deep green.
A patchwork of low-lying vines that stretch as far as the eye can see.
Tiny,
Glossy,
Oval leaves cling to the ground.
A carpet of rich verdant light.
The last of the sunlight catches the vines.
Turning their deep green into a brilliant emerald.
Here and there.
A small cluster of ruby red berries peeks out.
A promise of the harvest to come.
They are a brilliant,
Almost shocking splash of color.
Against the endless green.
Tiny jewels scattered across the landscape.
The sky becomes a canvas of soft pastels.
Raspberry pink and orange and lemon gold.
Like scoops of sherbet.
These vibrant hues deepen to a rich,
Dusky blue at the horizon.
For a short while.
The air is so still.
The reflections in the water-filled ditches.
Are perfect mirrors.
For the delicate.
Slow-moving clouds overhead.
You begin to walk.
Your pace slow and deliberate.
Your senses fully open.
You can hear the quiet whisper of the wind.
As it awakens and stirs.
And brushes across the low-lying vines.
This shushing sound is a language all its own.
And the natives have always been so in tune.
They could easily translate.
Or the varying winds.
That come through the gates.
In the distance.
The faint,
Repetitive croak of a single frog.
Brings a song of longing to the bog's soundscape.
You follow the dyke as it winds its way into the bog.
Lonely trail that takes you away from the cottage.
Deeper into the quiet.
The sun sinks lower.
And the light fades.
But the beauty of the bog only deepens.
The sounds of the day.
Distant chirps of birds,
The buzzes and hums of insects.
Begin to fade away.
Replaced by the hushed symphony of the evening.
The air grows cooler.
As you can feel the subtle chill of the bog.
Rising up around you.
You take a deep breath.
Filling your lungs with a clean air.
Smells of damp peat.
And the faint tart aroma of cranberries.
A scent that is the very heart of this place.
And will only grow stronger in the coming weeks.
Cranberries have an inherent almost startling beauty.
Their glossy crimson shells.
Cast a vibrant hue that makes an indelible mark on your mind.
Conjuring images of timeless traditions.
While their tart flavor may not be enjoyed by all.
That bold deep red shade.
Is a symbol of celebration and gatherings.
A visual conjuring the warmth and joy.
At the end of the year.
Strung into garlands that wind around holiday trees.
Are simmering on a stove with cinnamon,
Cloves,
And orange.
Are small jewels that fill a home with fragrance.
The cranberries have a timelessness to them.
Are symbolic beyond the simple oval root they appear to be.
The last of the light fades into deep blue black.
And stars freckle the sky.
You feel a deep sense of contentment.
You connect with this hidden oasis on its own terms.
And it welcomes you in return.
With deep wells of inner peace and appreciation.
You turn back as an owl hoots.
Its song echoes across the bog.
The cottage is aglow with Edison string lights.
Draped around its patio overlooking the bog.
It's a warm,
Twinkling refuge.
Journey back feels different.
You are no longer just a new visitor.
You feel very much a part of this space,
This time.
A resonating sense of being home.
Spreads a wave of warmth through you.
That overcomes the sudden nip in the air.
Whatever thoughts you may have had about your life… and been stuck ruminating on.
Settled into a sacred quietude.
Like leaves settling on the earth.
What's inside?
The warmth of the cottage is an immediate embrace.
And you take some time to get acquainted with it.
You move with unhurried movements.
Placing your boots by the door.
And changing into slippers.
You move to the small stone fireplace.
Where kindling and a few sturdy logs are already laid.
You kneel.
The cool stone floor,
A solid presence beneath you.
As you strike a match.
And a tiny flame leaps to life.
The dry kindling catches.
Crackling and popping until the flames lick at the logs.
A cheerful,
Comforting sound fills the room.
Along with the scent of burning wood.
Sweet and peppery.
The amber glow enhances the coziness of the living room.
And you notice how much of the cottage.
Is inspired by the bog.
Cranberry hues are found throughout.
From the inviting sofa to the pillows and crocheted crimson blankets draped across overstuffed armchairs.
And a vintage trunk.
That took many voyages across the Atlantic.
The rugs,
As well,
Are woven with deep red and gold threads.
Plush and soft atop the cool wide planks of the hardwood floor.
In the corner,
A small bookshelf is filled with old,
Well-loved books,
Their spines a faded rainbow of colors.
Tall,
Slender,
Cranberry-hued candles.
May be found in ornate candelabras.
Throughout the living room.
And on the rustic farmhouse table in the open-concept dining room.
Modest chandeliers.
Hang amidst exposed wooden beams.
The room's carefully balancing loftiness with a sense of intimacy and coziness.
You walk to the kitchen.
Which features an antique gas stove.
And a custom retro fridge.
Also in the shade of cranberry.
The fridge is well stocked.
And with a chill in the air,
You are happy to discover some soup.
That you heat atop the stove in a small saucepan.
Next,
You prepare a warm,
Soothing drink.
You fill a burnished copper kettle with water from the tap.
The clear liquid making a soft,
Rushing sound.
Kettle feels cool and solid in your hands.
Its surface worn smooth by years of use.
You place the kettle on the stove.
Listening as the flame below causes the water to dance.
Soon a thin wisp of steam rises from the spouts.
And a whistle begins to sing.
A high,
Clear note.
That signals it's time.
You bore the steaming water.
Over an herbal blend.
In a large handmade red ceramic mug.
Its rustic surface smooth and cool to the touch.
The delicate floral scent of the tea rises on the steam.
The gentle clinking of the mug against the saucer.
It's a soft melody.
And the warmth of the ceramic cup spreads through your hands.
A welcome relief from the sudden chill of the evening.
You place the tea on the table.
And then find a ladle to portion the soup into a bowl.
You then settle in a chair at the table.
With French doors behind it.
That give a beautiful view of the bog.
And silhouette of the forest.
As the moon rises.
Quiet old clock on the mantelpiece.
Ticks softly.
Rhythm a gentle reminder.
The unhurried pace of this escape to the Cranberry Cottage.
Everything feels timeless.
And the walls reverberate with the energy of peace.
From generations who have found it here before.
A soft veil of ethereal mist.
Rises over the ball.
The stars twinkle brilliantly as the moon rises.
You take your time.
Enjoying the soup and tea as a wave of tiredness creeps in like the mist.
The bog looks mysterious.
In the dark of night.
But in a comforting way.
The green vines are still vibrant.
But here and there.
A hint of moonlit ruby red berries peeks through.
A promise of the harvest to come.
The water in the irrigation ditches is still and dark.
Reflecting the twinkling sky and incoming silvery gray mist.
The night breeze causes the trees to rustle.
And circulate the air through the slightly cracked windows throughout the cottage.
Bringing the unique damp scent of the bath.
Distant muted call of a late summer bird.
The gentle rhythmic chirp of crickets adds to the tranquil soundscape.
You return to the warmth of the fireplace.
Settling into one of the comfortable chairs.
The mesmerizing dance of the flames.
Captures your gaze.
The warmth is spreading through you.
Chasing away any lingering chills.
Gentle crackle and hiss of the wood.
Is a gambering presence.
As it burns down into embers.
And eventually dies out.
You feel your body begin to relax completely.
The weariness from your journey.
Has settled into a comfortable heavy warmth in your limbs.
Your muscles soften.
Your jaw relaxes.
And your mind empties of the day's thoughts.
Eventually,
You stand.
And you make your way into a modest bedroom.
Designed for comfort and simplicity.
A leaded pane window looks out over the quiet bog.
It's dozens of diamond glass panes framing the scene.
A high elegant wooden bed frame.
Features a plush quilt.
Covered with soft inviting blankets.
In cranberry and cream.
Deep red silk wallpaper.
With a damask design.
Meets the ivory wainscoting.
A fluffy cream rug beneath the bed.
Like a cloud floating over the dark wood floor.
And a small antique nightstand.
Sits a raspberry red hurricane lamp.
From the 1950s.
Creating a comforting glow.
You now light the kindling.
And the small black wood stove in the corner.
And then step into the en suite.
Where a cranberry-hued,
Restored claw-foot tub awaits.
Biting candles around the tub.
You enjoy a long soak in the bath.
The faint smell of wood smoke wanders in from the cracked window.
As crisp air meets your nose.
And your body surrenders in the silky hot water.
Before drowsiness takes over completely.
Your eyes and towel off to prepare for bed.
Changing into lightweight flannel pajamas.
The fabric feels gentle against her skin.
A welcome relief after the day's journey.
You blow out the candles.
Making a wish.
That memories of this special place return to you.
When you need to remember that the world can be a warm,
Comforting place.
Slight chill of the room.
Quickly replaced by the warmth from the wood stove.
You peel back the quilt and crisp sheets.
And climb atop the bed to settle beneath them.
Peace and enchantment settle in your being.
Unaware of time.
You simply respond to your body's delicate invitation to sleep.
The crackling fire charms you to slumber.
You are held in this perfect timeless moment in the Cranberry Cottage.
And you may surrender here to the soft and waiting stillness.
Or let yourself drift like wood smoke on a quiet night.
Toward the next story.
Moonlit Carousel of Dreamers.
Oh those nights when sleep is so elusive.
That your yesterdreams begin to stir and thoughts spiral in your head like tornadoes of words plucked frantically at a typewriter well into the wee small hours But what if?
Rather than give in to these thoughts.
You give in to the soothing allure of the night.
Spring is in full bloom as you stir in your streamside log cabin.
The songs of cicadas arriving early in the season.
And in full force.
Their melodies are so persistent and loud.
They drown out the gurgles of the stream.
Moonlight pours through the open windows of your bedroom.
The sheer cream curtains.
Becoming a glistening opalite.
In the kiss of lunar light.
But rather than toss and turn.
You rise from the bed.
And place your bare feet.
On the weathered wooden boards.
Of the rustic cabin.
And stand.
Something calls you out into the night.
It's not just the chirps of frogs.
The sweet sussurations of the dancing pines.
The echoing hoot of an owl.
The smells of damp moss,
Yellow jasmine,
And the coolness of the breeze.
Are also alluring.
But still not at the heart of this call.
But the funny thing is.
.
.
You need not define this call.
You simply answer it.
Walking toward the window.
And stretching your arms overhead.
You smile as you change into your hoodie and soft pants.
Freshly laundered in the afternoon.
And dried in the spring sun.
Your feet slip into loafers.
The fleece of their interior and of your hoodie as well.
Are downy and soft against your skin.
You walk through the cabin.
Guided by the moonlight.
Step out into the misty night.
And as you pass beneath the purple black shadows of the pines draped in boughs of dewy wisteria.
Sense of freedom.
Ripples through you.
It soothes any angst.
About being awake at this hour.
Your feet follow your intuition.
Drawing you deeper into the woods.
You walk along the stream.
Carries fallen baby pink petals ever ebony stones smoothed by time.
Somewhere in the distance.
Familiar melody drifts through the forest.
Curling around the shadows of the trees and the dewy wisteria.
Long ago.
The song was a mystical glue.
Binding people across the country.
Carrying stories,
Laughter,
And quiet magic.
From porch to porch.
Town to town.
Tonight it stirs.
In the hidden clearing beyond the pines.
Leaving its spell through the night air.
You're not sure exactly where it comes from.
Perhaps it simply awakens.
In the secret libraries of your mind.
Or drifts from the radio.
Of a truck passing by.
Or maybe it's vinyl spinning softly on a turntable in the window of a forest cabin.
Catching the moonlight on its grooves.
Snows ripple through the forest.
Carrying fragments of lyrics once sung far and wide.
Southern Night.
You hum along.
Meandering through the mist.
As you come to the soft edges of the woods.
Weaving willows billow in the breeze.
Tendrils dancing.
With the grace of southern bells.
Surrendering to the moonlight.
Curtains of the forest.
You push through.
Feeling the cool willows as they thread between your fingers.
You step out into the clearing.
Everything seems to change quite suddenly.
Yet in a dreamy and comforting way.
A small white dog sits at the edge of the forest.
Still and contemplative.
Until she hears your movements.
Her ears perk up.
She runs your way.
Plump bouncing ball of white fur.
Resembles marshmallow fluff.
In the moonlit mist.
Her tail wags in the tempo of an upbeat song.
Her greeting so enthusiastic and warm.
It's as though you've met before.
And she's remembered you fondly.
One's clothes.
Squat down and run your fingers through her curly fluff.
Your thumb and index finger.
Landing on the cool engraved brass dog tag.
That glints gold in the moonlight.
Sadie,
It reads.
And you whisper her name.
As she snuggles up closer to you.
Her body wiggling with profound glee.
She hops forward.
At first,
Moving more like a bunny than a dog.
You follow her through the mist.
Silvery white haze.
Takes on a colorful glow.
Your furry guide leads you deep into the clearing.
The mist dissolves suddenly.
Revealing the moonlit carousel of dreamers.
And all its hushed southern gothic splendor.
It is a whimsical sanctuary.
Tucked behind the pines.
Where the air is thick.
Nostalgic tonic.
Spun sugar.
Warm honey and confections.
Drifting from nearby wooden stands.
Everything here moves.
With a slow.
.
.
Heavy energy.
As if the very atoms of the air have surrendered to the night.
The meadow is bathed.
In a soft,
Retro glow.
Missing the intense white glare of modern bulbs.
Soothing glass tubes.
Of neon.
In cotton candy pink.
Aquamarine and lavender.
Bring a rainbow radiance.
His lights pulse.
With a low-frequency warmth.
Casting a grainy analog wash.
Over the tall grass.
It feels like a cherished memory.
From a summer long ago.
Above the clearing.
Stars freckle the indigo sky.
Such dense white clusters.
You realize.
There is simply not enough time in one night.
To count them all.
You aren't the only soul.
Drawn out into this moonlit oasis.
Other dreamers meander through the meadow.
In an unhurried drift.
Their movements fluid and calm.
You see a woman in a pair of faded striped pajamas.
And a man in a paper-thin vintage t-shirt.
Soft jean shorts.
That look as though they've been washed a thousand times.
There's no uniform here.
Some people look like they stepped out of a 1970s summer camp.
While others wear long.
Heavy carton nightgowns.
From a much older time.
Sadie trots happily ahead.
Her white fur glowing as she guides you past the beloved attractions To your left,
The cloud carousel.
Turns with a steady mechanical click-clack of wooden gears.
The Ferris wheel of stars turns so slowly.
That its tufted,
Velvet-lined baskets seem to hover.
Suspended in the midnight air.
Every movement is graceful yet purposeful.
Carnival waits for you to find your place among the other dreamers.
Give in to the soothing majesty.
Of a southern night.
Sadie pauses and looks back.
Her dark eyes reflecting the teal glow of a light.
Her tail wagging.
To invite you to follow.
You feel the cool night air move through your hoodie.
A perfect contrast.
To the amber warmth of lights around a wooden cart.
Were a vendor with a long white beard and gentle green eyes.
Stands amidst various glass carafes and bubbling beverages.
He offers you a choice of tonics served in lidded orbs with straws.
Each a unique botanical blend of the finest southern delights.
Dreamer's potion to bridge the gap between your busy mind and the quiet of the forest.
An inner child elixir.
To awaken the simple wonder of your youth.
And a tonic for bliss.
Designed to wash away the last remnants of the world's weight.
So you can feel the purest sense of joy.
As you choose your special blend.
And thank the man as he passes you your sparkling drink in the orb.
You take a sip.
And a gentle warmth spreads through your chest.
Calming,
Sweet infusion.
The tastes of southern hospitality.
And moonlit gardens.
The vendor whispers before you go.
These blends are a gift for the spirits.
Away to settle into the marrow of your bones before you continue your journey.
Cloud carousel.
Is an ethereal gathering of light and form.
That seems to float just above the silvered grass.
At first.
It appears to be nothing more than heavy luminous clouds.
Rising from the meadow grounds.
Slowly spinning beneath a soft amber glow.
Vintage Edison bulbs.
That hang from its celestial ceiling.
But as you draw closer.
.
.
You begin to make out the intricate formations within the mist.
Mystical beings sculpted from the clouds themselves.
You see a unicorn.
With a spiraling horn of glimmering moonbows.
And a powerful pegasus.
With wings that ripple like white silk.
In the evening breeze.
These storybook creatures.
Are marvelous and inviting.
And it takes you a moment.
To decide which one to ride.
But once you do and settle.
Sadie dutifully sits on the floor below.
Peering up at you with a loving gaze.
As the ride begins its fluid,
Circular glide.
The creatures in the clouds.
Rise and fall.
With a slow,
Rhythmic grace.
Their hooves leaving trails of stardust in the lavender mist.
The ride slowly comes to a halt.
And you now follow Sadie to the Ferris wheel of stars.
Her white fur glowing even more brightly.
As she hops into a deep basket.
Lined and tufted midnight blue velvet.
Embossed with silver and gold foil stars.
You settle beside her on the cozy bench.
And she rests her head on your lap.
As the ride gently lurches forward.
The ascent is so gradual.
It feels like hovering.
Lifting you high above the Georgia pines.
Ancient oaks in the distance.
Draped with lush Spanish moss.
Until you are suspended.
In the indigo voice.
The stars are thick.
Pulsing hopeful clusters of white fire.
So many and so bright.
That you feel the vastness of the universe.
In its sparkling presence.
Everything beyond.
His magical moments.
Fades away.
All concerns small in its celestial showcase.
Sadie nuzzles closer.
Her gaze reading the profound change in your expression.
As you sink deeper into the velvet cushion.
Her small weight.
Is a comforting grounding presence.
Even as you gently rock.
High above.
The nostalgic rainbow neon lights.
Of the carnival below.
When it's time to disembark.
You expect Sadie to slow down.
But she is inspired once more.
And leads you to the northern edge.
Of the festivities.
You are soon in the wishing meadow of floating lanterns.
Were hundreds of glowing orbs.
Hover in the tall,
Silvered grass.
Star-shaped rain lilies.
And birds foot violet.
These spheres are breathtaking.
Vibrant amethyst,
Ruby,
Sapphire,
Emerald.
And honey gold lanterns.
Encased in delicate,
Translucent paper.
They hover just overhead.
And you meander beneath them.
Sadie zooms below the lights.
One of the lanterns calls to you.
Just as the southern knight.
Has drawn you from the cozy log walls of your cabin.
You step beneath it.
And make your wish.
The first one that comes to mind.
A small slip of ivory paper.
Flutters from the lantern.
Into your hands.
You look down to see your own wish.
Written in glowing scratch.
And then.
.
.
Second line of pearlescent gold letters.
Manifests beneath it.
Pulsing with life Your wish is granted,
" it reads.
You fold the paper carefully.
Feeling the crisp,
Magical texture.
And tuck it into your hoodie pocket.
As Sadie suddenly breaks into a joyful sprint.
Urging you to follow.
Once she captures your attention.
She slows her stride.
Leading you away from the carnival lights.
And wishing meadow.
Deeper into the clearing.
You hear the soothing rush of water.
Before arriving at the sleepy river.
The luminous navy blue water.
Winds around the back of the carnival.
The first fireflies of the season.
Lazily flicker their chartreuse bellies.
As they fly around the edge of the river.
The moonlit water.
Gently guides a fleet.
Of the most inviting and luxurious beds imaginable.
Built onto low sturdy rafts.
That sit flush with a pearly mist.
One bed is covered in a crisp,
Pristine Americana patch or quilt.
Vibrant stitching.
Smells of sun-dried cotton.
While another holds a shimmering mulberry silk duvet.
That feels cool and liquid to the touch.
Beside them drift fragrant cedar platforms.
Piled with plush,
Cream-colored,
Low-slung day beds.
Dressed in a rich moss green velvet.
Feels like a manicured forest floor.
Other rafts.
Are topped with heavy chenille blankets.
Resemble soft billowing clouds.
And the pillows are mountainous and overstuffed.
Encased in smooth high thread count linen.
Some are even draped.
And delicate ivory lace bedspreads.
Or weighted plum-hued velvet.
Each one a fragrant sanctuary of texture and warmth.
Waiting for a dreamer to climb aboard.
Sadie patiently sits on the wooden dock.
Her tail slowly wagging.
Brushing against the creaking boards.
As she waits for you to decide.
Proud fourth-generation Kearney.
With an inquisitive,
Knowing smile.
Helps you bore.
And you settle in with Sadie curled at your feet.
As the raft drifts down the river.
The rainbow lights of the carnival glow.
Are in your peripheral vision.
Like a fading,
Neon sunset.
You lean back against the pillows.
Looking up.
As the sky becomes framed by a natural tunnel of ancient oaks.
Their branches heavy with silvery Spanish moss.
Drapes down like curtains.
Brushing the surface of the mist.
It feels as though… This small river wasn't always here.
But was carved deep into the red Georgia earth.
By some ancient magic.
The very moment,
The carnival.
First appeared long ago.
Along the bangs.
And bobbing in the silky blue current beside you.
Hundreds of floating lilies and lotus flowers glow from within.
Acting as natural vessels for flickering tea light candles.
Their golden flames.
Dance in the low breeze.
Casting long amber shadows.
Against the mossy walls of the riverbank.
The stars above.
Seem to flicker in time.
With a dancing candlelight.
Thick and brilliant.
Through the gaps in the canopy.
And suddenly waves of sleepiness wash over you.
Inundating waves promising peace but you fight sleep like a small child.
Sensing there's so much left to experience and explore.
You manage to stay blissfully awake.
Your eyes bleary and heavy.
Sadie lets out a sigh.
And you sigh a long,
Long sigh.
As the raft circles back around.
And approaches the dock.
You almost wish to go one more time.
But the same call that brought you out into the night.
Is gently tugging you back.
The comfort of your cabin.
The Karni asks if you are ready.
Do you nod and smile?
As he latches a rod with a hook onto the raft.
Carefully guiding it back.
To land.
Sadie is the first to leap onto the weathered planks of the dock.
Her white tail a cheerful swaying flag in the rising moonlight.
She waits for you.
Her head cocked to one side.
Ensuring you've safely cleared the misty stream.
Before she begins her trot toward the tree line.
You rise,
Walking through the quiet,
Glowing carnival.
One last time.
Knowing you can return.
Whenever you desire.
That makes it okay to leave the sanctuary.
And return to the cabin.
Leaving the vibrant teals and pinks of the midway behind.
You and Sadie step onto the familiar path of pine needles.
That crunches beneath.
Your heavy,
Tired feet.
The carnival fades.
Into a profound rich silence.
As the mist begins to clear.
Revealing a sky.
Where the moon sits at its absolute center.
A bright silver coin.
Presiding over the Georgia woods.
The air has grown noticeably cooler.
Crisp and bracing your skin.
Carrying the clean metallic of the stream that borders your home.
You pull your hoodie a little tighter.
As Sadie weaves through the tall grass.
Like your fluffy beacon of light.
Her nose twitching at the fragrant,
Wild azaleas.
As you walk between a trio of old stumps.
Markers of your property line.
The soft amber glow of your cabin windows appears.
Flickering like a welcoming hearth.
Through the trees.
You reach your porch.
The wood cool and solid beneath your feet.
And slip and sigh.
To reconnect with the overwhelming comfort of home.
The warm,
Dry air of the cabin.
Greets you.
As you prepare once more for bed.
This time.
Feeling more tired than before.
The enchantment of the night lingers.
Even as you settle.
In this quiet refuge.
From the wonders of the carnival.
It's the night.
Before you change back into pajamas.
And slide beneath your own blankets.
You reach into your pocket.
And withdraw the folded slip of paper.
From the wishing meadow of lanterns.
You said it carefully.
The bedside stand.
Where its gold ink continues to shimmer in the darkness.
The light from your granted wish pulses.
Acting as a luminous beacon.
That guides you toward a slumber.
Our dreams and reality.
Ultimately merge.
Sadie hops onto the mattress.
Circling once before tucking her chin.
To the crook of your knees.
She is your silent guardian.
Her presence a reassuring anchor.
As the world dissolves.
Magic of the carnival of dreamers.
A moonlit carousel.
The starlit Ferris wheel.
And the drift down the sleepy river.
Lingers in your bone.
Their soothing motions still felt.
As you cross the bridge to sleep.
And if sleep has found you.
Go willingly.
Of now.
Simply flow.
Allow the next story.
To bring you further in.
Autumn Cottage in Camden.
Camden is a charming historic village.
Nestled amongst the rocky shoreline of the mid-coast of Maine.
It's a place with a deep and quiet history,
Where Europeans first settled in 1770,
Its harbors once echoed with the busy sounds of schooners being built.
As it became a vital hub.
That was incorporated in 1791.
Its maritime history.
Is still very much felt in the modern world.
In a place of quiet elegance and serene beauty.
That feels,
In many ways,
Timeless.
Historic buildings like the Camden Opera House.
Feature brick facades.
While charming boutiques and galleries showcase classic New England wood siding.
Painted in nautical hues and muted colors.
Often accented with cedar shakes.
Or traditional trim details.
The Vibrant Village.
Overlooks a harbor filled with a graceful presence.
Of windjammers and sailboats.
Their sails catching the autumnal golden afternoon light.
The postcard worthy village.
Is sleepier on weekdays like today.
As the season brings a new wave of weekend visitors.
Who come for leap-peeping season.
By Aaron Camden.
Is a unique perfume of salt spray,
Fresh bread,
Maple and pumpkin spice coffee,
And decaying leaves.
Carried on a breeze that rustles through leaves.
Already hinting at autumn's touch.
It's not hard to imagine what life was like.
Centuries ago.
As nature's rhythm is just as vibrant.
From the twinkling deep blue water of West Penobscot Bay.
The pace is slow and soothing.
As children are back in school.
And the lines of summer are a fading memory.
As the villagers consider the incoming changes.
Of autumn and winter.
You find yourself in the heart of Camden.
Perhaps solo.
Or with a beloved one.
Or maybe a pet.
You take your time meandering through town.
It's one of those picturesque places that celebrates Halloween and goes all out.
And in a month's time,
Jack-o'-lanterns will light up the porches of historic cottages as kids take to the streets in the costumes that are trending this season.
Your feet are clad in comfortable sneakers.
You wear a sweater and soft denim jeans.
Dressed in your favorite autumnal colors.
You walk along a quiet old brick sidewalk.
Your footsteps heard as they land on the first handfuls of fallen leaves.
Today,
The afternoon air is warm.
But with just a hint of coolness.
Felt in the shade.
Or with an occasional gust of wind off the harbor.
The light is an otherworldly gold.
Filtering through the branches.
Of old maple and oak trees.
Whose leaves are just beginning to blush.
With fiery red and russet.
The glistening sun lands on your face.
And a gentle,
Cool bay breeze kisses the back of your neck.
You pass by charming historic homes.
Their weathered clapboard siding painted in inviting colors.
Some have window boxes overflowing with blooms like fiery orange miracles.
Arranged with tiny pumpkins and gourds.
You make your way toward the harbor.
The centerpiece of a village.
As you walk by,
You pass an antique store with a faded sign.
The window display.
Filled with old nautical tools,
Ship models,
And worn books.
These objects cause your mind to wander.
Envisioning a time.
When Camden was a bustling shipbuilding hub.
A sense of time-honored craftsmanship and resilience.
Lingers in the air.
And is even more evident.
As you approach a small market.
Whose sign boasts its origins date back to 1868.
The sound of a bell from a quiet church steeple chimes a low melodic note in the distance.
A gentle reminder of the hour.
As you open the door to the market.
And a tiny brass bell rings.
You gather a fresh baguette.
Crusty and still warm.
And inhale the aroma of cinnamon rolls and pumpkin pie.
Warm,
Sweet scents that mingle with the briny air that comes in from the street.
Paying for the items.
And placing them in your canvas bag.
You step back into the village.
Ready to return to your cottage.
To enjoy a night of coziness.
Self-care.
And reflection.
The streets give way to a boardwalk.
Which brings you to a wide expanse of granite.
And you find yourself standing at the edge of Camden Harbour.
The water is a deep,
Tranquil blue.
Dotted with the mass of beautiful schooners.
And the bright red buoys of lobster boats.
A few seagulls circle overhead.
Their calls echoing across the water.
The sailboats sway gently in their moorings.
Their rigging making a quiet,
Rhythmic clinking sound against the masts.
Although there are only a few people in the harbor,
It is alive with a quiet,
Working beauty.
A place where generations meet.
Have earned their living from the Atlantic.
You breathe in deeply.
Inviting the salt-laced air to fill your nose and cleanse your lungs.
You continue your walk through town.
Admiring the way the light catches the old brick and granite.
Impossibly narrow building with shake siding.
Nestled between much larger buildings,
One mustard and one red,
With A-frame roofs that tower over it.
A circular sign hangs outside this unique building.
Revealing it is stone soup books.
A community haven where books are sold and traded.
The signs in the village.
Use an old timey font.
Often bookended by vintage lanterns.
The storefront windows of a small boutique.
Feature rustic wooden tables.
Display handcrafted sweaters and woolen blankets.
Their colors reflecting.
The rich tones of the season.
Burnt orange.
Deep forest green.
Burgundy.
And mustard yellow.
The locals.
Particularly those that work in the shops.
All seem to take a collective sigh.
As they enjoy this welcome lull.
That the autumn weekdays bring.
They meet you with kind smiles and waves.
And you feel a sense of connection.
Of being part.
Of this cozy.
.
.
Living.
Breathing place.
As the afternoon sun.
Deepens in an orange gold shade.
Begins its slow descent.
You return to your awaiting Kaia.
You ease yourself into the seat.
The boat floating gently.
On the calm water of the bay.
As you take a few graceful,
Easy strokes.
The kayak propels forward with ease.
The village and its vibrant energy.
Begin to recede behind you.
The sounds of the town.
Replaced by the gentle lapping of water against your boat.
The air feels cooler now.
And you can sense the day's transition.
You paddle along the coast.
Taking your time.
Enjoying the strength in your arms and core.
That you feel with each stroke.
Golden sunlight.
Casts a shimmering path across the bay.
Leading you home.
The hills of Camden are a stunning backdrop.
Their forested slopes.
A deep,
Rich green.
Now speckled with the first hints of autumn.
Ever-changing palette.
That will become more beautiful.
With each new morning.
Until they reach their peace.
Just waiting for the right time to ignite in a blaze of red and gold.
Stone walls.
And granite outcroppings.
Are visible along the shore.
The air continues to grow cooler.
As you glide along.
The sun dipping lower.
The only sounds are the rhythmic dip of your paddle.
And the soft rush of water.
Around a small point.
And come to the edge of a secluded cove.
Where your autumn cottage awaits.
Its weathered gray shingles and white trim.
Glow in the fading light.
Offering a neutral canvas.
For the autumnal decor.
That is seen even from afar.
A fieldstone chimney rises from the roof.
And come nightfall.
A plume of smoke will rise from it.
Into a starry sky.
Lanterns line the porch.
Where decorative cornstalks are carefully arranged.
Two ivory wicker armchairs,
And an outdoor sofa.
Are adorned with orange,
Burgundy,
And gold plaid cushions.
With pumpkin and autumn leaf themed throw pillows.
Carefully arranged.
A wreath of dried leaves and small pumpkins hangs on the scarlet front door.
A beautiful welcome.
The entire cottage is a vision of autumn.
As are many of the neighboring homes that dapple the coastline.
Everyone celebrates the seasons that vary so dramatically along the Maine coast.
The trees around the cottage.
Are a mix of ancient oaks and young maples.
Adding pops of color here and there.
The air also becomes damper as sunset approaches.
Smelling sweeter and more briny.
With a hint of distant wood smoke.
You paddle with ease.
And the tide delivers you.
To the shore of the coast.
You ease your kaya.
Onto the smooth,
Dark sand.
Then remove your canvas bag.
And walk along the rocky beach.
The last rays of sun cast a long shadow from the cottage.
The air is still and silent.
Quiet pause before the full arrival of dusk.
The peaceful moment settles over you.
You bring your bag to a table.
And find a lighter carefully stowed.
Within a drawer.
Edison lights strung from the trees over a small fire pit.
And vibrant green Adirondack chairs.
Come to life.
You start a fire.
With dry kindling.
And a small log in the pit.
It comes to life.
Adding warmth to the increasing coolness in the air.
The water laps gently.
A calming soundtrack.
As your plans unfold.
The sun is just a sliver of fire on the horizon.
Its last golden light.
Bleeding across the water.
A walk along the beach.
Your eye is scanning the ground.
For the perfect fallen leaves.
Though not as abundant.
As they will be in a few weeks.
There are still quite a few.
That scatter the earth.
You find a variety of colors and textures.
A deep red maple leaf.
Its points perfect and sharp.
A vibrant yellow birch leaf.
Delicate as a butterfly's wing.
A soft brown oak leaf.
Its edges curled with ease.
You feel a deep connection.
To these tiny.
.
.
Fragile gifts of the season.
You settle into a chair by the fire.
And pull out a black and gold sharpie marker.
From the pocket of your jeans.
This is the moment.
For your ritual.
The world outside.
Is a peaceful beautiful blur.
Of firelight.
And a sky exploding in vivid bands.
Of pink,
Orange and red.
Put your world inside.
Is still and focused.
You hold the first leaf in your hand.
This sleeve.
Is for what you need to release.
What you need to let go of.
From the past year.
It could be a worry.
Of fear.
Resentment or a burden.
You take the black sharpie.
And with a quiet mind,
You write on the leaves.
The ink is a dark,
Final mark.
Depicting everything.
That has been stealing your peace.
That's been holding you back.
Clouding your thoughts.
Causing tension in your body.
Or bringing heaviness to your heart.
You feel the weight of these words.
Their meaning settling in your soul.
Them with a gentle breath.
You blaze the leaf in the fire.
And watch it catch.
Sparks fly towards the sunset skies.
And you are filled with a deep sense of peace.
And a happy sensation of lightness.
As this leaf becomes ash.
Now you pick up a second leaf.
This one is your favorite of the bunch.
This leave is for what you want to bring into your life.
Your harvest of hopes and wishes.
For the coming seasons.
It could be more peace,
More joy.
More creativity.
More connection.
You take the gold metallic sharpie.
And right on its colorful,
Waxy surface.
The ink is a shimmering contrast.
Strong and hopeful statement.
You look at your wish.
Letting its meaning fill you.
You stand and walk to the water's edge.
As you place the leaf on the sparkling water.
Catches the last of the sun's light.
A small boat of hope.
Sailing out into the bay.
You watch it drift.
A tiny promise of the good things to come.
Until it too.
Disappears into the twilight.
You sit for a few more moments by the fire as it dwindles Breathing in the quiet of the sunset.
Feeling a sense of lightness and clarity.
The sky deepens into the blues of twilight.
Blending seamlessly with the water.
As the first stars begin to show.
You rise,
Stretching your arms overhead.
As a yawn sets itself free.
Crickets begin their nocturnal song.
As you walk to the cottage.
Wrapping your arms around yourself in a hug.
As the night brings a slight chill.
As you open the door to the cottage.
A soft welcoming light spills out.
Interior.
Is a warm glowing haven.
That embodies everything.
One might imagine.
And even hope.
An autumn cottage could contain.
Every nook,
Every surface.
Is a celebration of the season.
Your gaze falls on the living room.
Where a large plush rug.
Its pattern a beautiful plaid of deep reds,
Greens,
And browns.
Covers the shiny hardwood floor.
Piles of soft blankets.
In every shade of autumn.
Wine,
Pumpkin orange.
Burnt sienna.
Deep yellow and forest green.
Are folded over the furniture.
Invading you to cuddle and relax.
The furniture is a delightful mix of rustic and refined.
With well-loved wood.
And deep comfortable cushions.
Upholstered in wine and cream fabrics.
Firewood is already laid in the stone hearth.
Waiting to be lit.
You kneel in light kindling for the second time tonight.
A small match igniting a warm orange glow.
The flames quickly catch.
And a gentle crackle fills the room.
The scent of pine and oak smoke mixes with the scents of the cottage.
Small pumpkins and gourds.
Decorate the wood mantel.
Along with timeless framed photos.
Of pumpkin patches and apple orchards.
You stand and walk to the kitchen.
Which has been designed to be a gathering place.
The antique stove.
It's cast iron,
A deep,
Rich black.
Has been here for a century.
Very well maintained.
On its top burner.
A pot of water is waiting.
You add cinnamon sticks,
Whole cloves,
And star anise and bring it to a simmer.
Placing a few slices of apples.
In it as well.
Their leftover from a pie you baked in the morning.
Steam soon rises.
A fragrant cloud that fills the air with the comforting,
Spicy scent of autumn.
An antique Dutch oven sits on the back burner.
Vibrant orange-red hue.
It contains a rich,
Creamy pumpkin soup.
You made just before heading into town.
You give it a stir with a ladle that brushes against the side.
Filling the air with its heavenly smell.
Though it's still warm.
You turn on the burner to heat it up a bit more.
And then remove the baguette from your canvas bag.
Slicing it on a cutting board in diagonal pieces.
He placed the bread in a basket.
And gather a bowl and napkin that capture the spirit of fall.
As the soup comes to a simmer.
You turn off the burner.
Generously ladle it into the bowl.
And bring all you need to the table.
The dining nook is a door.
With nautical and historical elements.
A nod to Camden's past.
A ship's wheel hangs on the wall.
Its spokes worn smooth by time.
Old brass lanterns sit on shelves.
Their glass panes clouded with age.
A small model schooner rests on a shelf.
Lined with tiny orange and gold autumn leaf lights.
Its tiny sails are perfectly trimmed.
A miniature version.
Of the boats you saw in the harbor.
The fire across the way in the living room.
Is now a steady,
Warm glow.
You enjoy your hearty meal The smells of cinnamon and cloves,
And apple and pumpkin soup.
Join the soothing smell of the burning logs.
Every cell.
Every bite.
And every sensation.
Serves to bring comfort and warmth.
As you watch the moon rise over the water.
The firelight reflects on the mullioned windows.
A ghostly overlay.
The nocturnal blues of the sky and bay just beyond the panes.
This mesmerizing visual.
Reminds you of your ritual,
Letting go of something.
So you have room to harvest what you most need and desire.
In every way imaginable.
This moment soothes you.
And brings a bold,
Deep feeling of comfort and bliss.
In the autumn cottage.
You rise and gently clean the few dishes.
The simple act of quiet meditation.
Putting away the remaining soup reminds you of abundance.
You turn the dial on the stove and the bubbling of the simmering apples and spices fades to stillness.
The scent still lingers in the air.
A warm and comforting farewell to the day's nourishment.
You make your way to the bathroom.
A delightful space also designed for the season.
A wreath of tiny dried gourds and maple leaves.
Hangs from a nook on the door.
You reach for a small bottle on the sink.
It's labeled Promising.
Apple Cider Shampoo and Conditioner.
Then grab a fresh bar of apple cinnamon soap.
You step into the shower.
And the steam rises around you.
A fragrant cloud of spiced apples and cinnamon.
That warms you from the inside out.
The sweet,
Crisp scent is a perfect welcome to the new season.
You feel the day's lingering tension melt away.
Replaced by a profound sense of calm.
You step out.
Ta-ra.
Wrap yourself in soft flannel pajamas.
Their fabric a cozy shield.
Against the growing evening chill.
Of the main coast.
You walk toward the bedroom.
Soft glow from the embers of the fire.
Casting a gentle light.
Majestic ivory four poster bed.
Sits in the heart of the spacious bedroom.
Featuring a cathedral ceiling.
And exposed wooden beams.
The window is cracked just enough.
To allow a cool salty breeze.
To circulate through the space.
And you can see a sliver of the moon.
Rising over the quiet bay.
Soft thrill blankets in autumnal shades.
Rest at the foot of the bed.
And the downy duvet cover.
Resembles a watercolor painting of Camden.
Its swirls of deep red.
Golden yellow.
And amber leaves reflecting on the bay.
You feel the cool air on your skin.
As you peel back the fresh,
Crisp sheets.
And you climb into bed.
Settling under the weight.
The soft duvet.
You feel the coolness of the air with each breath.
As you are completely enveloped.
By the warmth of the bedding.
You find yourself drifting.
Fading into.
The welcoming embrace of slumber.
You may rest here now.
In this quiet place you've made.
Drift softly,
Effortlessly toward the next cozy cottage that awaits you.
Magical Music Cottage most humans in today's world have experienced at least once in a lifetime.
A song with a grip so powerful.
That its melody becomes an earworm,
Playing throughout the night.
Still heard during an unexpected awakening before sunrise.
Its lyrics somehow make sense of all that seemed senseless.
Validating a promise.
That you are not alone.
In whatever you may be going through in this life.
It can be the simplest melody,
The barest lyrics.
The Most Unexpected Voice.
That brings you the sense of hope.
And deeper meaning.
But in that song is a magic.
A magic that enhances life.
And brings together souls who have shared dreams and understandings.
Perfect song sometimes,
Is all we need to accept that amongst all the things that happen,
The human spirit endures.
With resilience through music.
And it's this love of music.
Brings a special invitation to Rose's enchanted realm.
Arriving in a dreamy melody.
Begins to play in your mind.
You close your eyes and drift toward the soft edges of sleep.
The melody is so familiar.
And yet at the same time new.
Reminding you of all the songs you have ever loved.
You follow the song.
Leading you towards a door that appears suddenly.
Made of ebony wood.
And in the shape of a firmata.
The top arches gently over a circular entry.
Perfect musical symbol.
That represents a pause of unspecified length.
A stop of the chaos of daily life.
As you enter beneath the glowing threshold.
And arrive in the enchanted forest.
The air immediately shifts.
Feeling cool and velvety against your skin.
Carrying an otherworldly aroma of honeysuckle and evening dew.
Every tree.
Every path glimmers.
With a soft,
Natural glow.
Deep luminescence.
That emanates from the wood.
Every smooth piece of bark is reflective.
The tree trunks feature vibrant,
Wavy-striped hues like rainbow eucalyptus trees.
Pulsing with the soft deep colors.
Of deep violet meeting turquoise.
Cerulean blue,
Ruby,
And icy pink.
As you step fully into this realm.
You are greeted by the soft,
Rhythmic motion of butterflies.
That arc around you.
In the formation of a crescent moon.
Their wings are dusted.
With what looks like glittering moon mica.
That captures the soothing blues of twilight.
Their wingbeats create a subtle,
Breathy percussion.
The soft rustling sound.
Forms a beautiful hushed background song.
Your feet land on the earth with buoyancy and lightness.
As you revel in the comfortable attire you wear.
Billows in the cool night air.
In merely a few steps,
You discover Rose.
Standing tall amidst the trees.
She is majestic and serene.
Wearing a long gown of opal and black fabric.
That catches the ambient light.
The dress shimmers,
And dusts the glimmering earth below.
Resembling the stark beauty.
Of the white and black keys of a grand piano.
She has a timeless elegance.
No matter where she may appear in time or space.
Her presence would be received the same.
Rose begins to walk.
And with her first step.
A magical layer of sound stirs.
From the shadows of the glowing trees.
Fairies arrive.
Too small and light to make a sound with their feet.
With their tiny,
Exquisite voices.
Create a low choir.
Joining in on the rhythmic nature of your walk.
Their soprano song is both clear and airy.
Gently balancing the sounds as it weaves a melody.
Through the percussive rhythm of the butterflies.
To your left.
A sparkling turquoise stream serenely winds around the base of the luminous trees.
Adding another layer of sound.
The smooth liquid flow of water resonates like a constant,
Quiet synth drone.
Along its edge.
A Trail of Unicorn Zips.
Their glittery pink tongues gently touching the water.
Their spiraling horns.
Pure white and twisted like carved ivory.
Reflect the forest's vibrant pulsing light.
Sending tiny rainbursts.
Dancing across the ethereal aquamarine ripples.
Rose simply glances toward the stream,
And a harp on the bank begins to play itself.
A single,
Simple,
Beautiful arpeggio of pure,
Gilded notes.
Petals from night-blooming flowers along the path.
Suddenly unfurl.
Their velvety insides glowing.
Becoming natural speakers.
That amplify the melody.
Sending the sound perfectly through the air.
You feel a deep sense of calm.
Settle in your bones.
A feeling that every single thing in this magical place.
Precisely where it should be.
That all is right and well.
And always has been.
Step by buoyant step.
Reveals one beautiful surprise after the next.
In this fairytale realm.
You soon discover.
That harmony is more valued than anything else.
Evalu the flowing piano pattern of Rose's gown.
Watching it undulate on the evening breeze.
Trusting her guidance through a clearing in the woods.
Gently opening in the trees.
Brings you to the edge.
A smooth expanse of a magical lake.
The surface is like polished glass.
A silky cobalt blue.
And still.
Doubling the entire luminous forest.
And the sky above.
This reflectively.
Offers a phenomenal acoustic chamber.
Where sound reverberates.
And doubles and triples.
The beautiful echoing notes of the forest symphony.
Rose stands at the very edge.
As she does every night.
Her opal gown trails slightly on the damp moss.
And tiny blue wildflowers.
The Carp at the Shore She turns to you.
Her expression one of gentle invitation.
And explains.
This is the place to find release.
She turns back to the moon.
And begins to sing.
Her voice is the purest sound you have ever heard.
A melody that feels both ancient and utterly new.
It is a song of letting go,
Of release.
And of constant strength.
She sings into the vast open space.
And the magic of the realm is instantly focused.
Do not hold it in,
" she whispers.
Her voice resonating softly over the water.
Here the air can be cleared,
Not by words,
But by sound.
She invites you to join.
And with a deep breath.
A brave inhale of the honeysuckle-scented air.
You open your mouth.
And offer your own voice.
To your own amazement.
Your voice sounds clearer,
Purer,
And stronger than you have ever heard it before.
The way you may have imagined.
It could sound at its best.
Effortlessly cutting through the night air.
It is a voice of truth and deep release.
A raw,
Perfect tone that instantly feels cleansing.
All self-consciousness fades.
And you experience a powerful release.
Every soul may find.
When using their voice in this way.
Here.
And the beauty of the night.
As you sing together and improvise.
Playfully and with bits of laughter and conspiring smiles.
Let the trees lining the shore begin to react.
Glowing,
Colorful trunks change hue and pulse to the rhythm of your shared sounds.
By gentle,
Natural strobe lights.
This doubled beauty is reflected perfectly on the lake's surface.
In a vibrant cascade of soothing hues,
A chorus arrives.
Drawn by the power of the wordless song.
Mystical animals gather amongst the tree line.
With familiar species as well.
A silver stag joins with antlers that chime like tiny bells.
An owl hoots and a wolf howls at the moon.
A family of forest sprites joins you on the moonlit shore.
As a few unicorns come near.
They stand as a silent appreciative audience.
Swishing of their tails,
Like the jazz brushstrokes on a snare drum.
As they briefly join the magical atmosphere of the night.
The moment is a powerful collective breath.
A perfect,
Shared note.
The song ends when you wish it to.
Leaving the air sparkling with residue of the sound.
Rose smiles.
Her eyes reflecting the tiny diamond stars.
Fraggling the sapphire night sky.
See,
" she says,
Her voice returning to a soft guidance.
That is how you clear the air.
She then gestures toward a pathway.
That leads from the lake's edge toward the cottage.
This path contains perfectly shaped glowing music notes.
A mix of whole notes,
Eighth notes.
And rests that light your way.
The Magical Music Cottage.
Comes fully into view.
Unlike any cottage you've seen before.
It's grand,
Yet simple.
With a unique spherical room.
That resembles a full,
Soft moon.
Its pearly lavender frame.
Pulses with light.
At a slow,
Soothing tempo.
A visual heartbeat of the realm.
That is joined by the soporific perfume.
A fresh lavender that grows along the path.
But the most striking feature is its exterior walls.
Which are covered in tiles.
That resemble mermaid scales.
Shifting constantly in deep soothing blues,
Greens,
And purples.
They shimmer and catch the light.
From the forest and the sky.
Drawing you in with her tranquil beauty.
As you approach.
You notice the comforting sight.
Of a fluffy black cat.
She glances up.
From a fuzzy white pillow perch on the window ledge.
Her deep,
Her subtly audible.
Acting as the cottage's anchor base note.
The front door.
Features a mosaic of mermaid-tail colored glass panes that form a g-clasp.
Rose turns the knob and opens the door.
Would you follow her and sigh?
You instantly feel lighter.
Than you have felt all day.
As you enter the main dome-shaped room.
The walls shimmer with a reflection of the continuing scale pattern.
And overhead.
The glass ceiling offers an uninterrupted,
Stunning view of the celestial expanse.
Flowers and vines.
Colors muted and soft.
Draped down from clear glass vases.
Hung from the ceiling.
And resting on floating shelves.
The air inside.
Is warm.
Fragrant and deeply peaceful.
Rose extends her slender hand.
And the room comes alive.
She is the conductor.
Of this cozy space.
One by one,
The instruments awaken.
The Grand Piano.
Begins a low rolling chord.
The upright bass hums,
Joining the low rhythm.
Cello,
Violin,
And viola.
Their bodies crafted from a dark,
Rich wood.
With an opalescent purple glow.
Begin to sound.
Single sustained notes.
Creating a rich,
Welcoming wash of sounds.
In the center of the room.
Opal hearth glows.
Pure and inviting.
The honeyed flames within.
Dance and shift.
Warming the air with soft heat and light.
And casting dancing shadows.
That match the tempo of the song.
Rose gracefully lowers her slender hand.
And all the instruments settle into silence.
The fairies drift in from hidden spaces,
Coming together in a silent,
Watchful choir.
Her tiny face is upturned.
Waiting happily for the next invitation to sing.
Their wings and flowing dresses.
Of her sparkling pearly colors.
Pulse along with the music as well.
Rose gracefully moves to a purple paisley pillow top bench by the grand piano.
A white piano.
The black silhouette of hand-painted roses.
That live up to her name's sake.
She invites you to settle in.
And you sink into a velvet chair by the fire.
Are instantly caught up.
In the vision of the mesmerizing rhythmic flicker.
Of the ever-changing rainbow hues of the flames.
That reflect on the heart.
As you sit.
A simple,
Clear melody begins to come to you.
It is not a song you have heard.
But the raw,
Honest song of your heart.
The tune of all the emotions and thoughts.
That have built up over time.
That you now need to release.
You hum the melody ever so faintly.
And it catches Rose's keen attention.
As she begins to play along.
Her fingers moving like graceful shadows across the keys.
One by one.
Your favorite instruments join in.
Conducted by Rose's subtle nods and smiles of encouragement.
Perhaps the violin or an electric guitar takes the lead with the main theme.
While an acoustic offers a steady rhythmic strum.
The song rises.
Filling the magical space.
With a sound that is wholly you.
And where the music.
.
.
The words that come to you are effortless.
Giving meaning and powerful release.
To everything that seemed so confusing before.
Rose glances your way.
Her eyes asking for permission to continue.
And you nod with a content expression on your face.
You close your eyes and listen.
As they perform the song in its entirety for you.
The moonlight breaks through the magical glass dome ceiling.
Creating a silver spotlight on the piano.
The air changes.
And when you open your eyes.
A fluffy black cat named Lullaby has joined you.
Settling immediately on your lap.
Leaning against your chest.
Her deep powerful purr.
Vibrates through your body.
Acting as a calming tempo.
It settles directly into your heart.
As your heart rate slows down.
Dreaminess of the moment.
Will stay with you for a long time.
With imagery and sounds.
You may long to return to.
The aroma of honeysuckle.
Mixes with the faint,
Comforting scent of warm piano wood.
The fresh lavender outside the windows.
And the burning logs.
The feeling is one.
Of utter,
Secure inevitability.
Nothing could be more natural.
In this song.
This moment.
This release.
When the final chord fades.
The silence that fills the air is not empty but full.
Notice the music held in the firmata.
A silent pause that brings with it,
Solace.
Undeniable waves of sleepiness.
And a deep desire for rest.
Rose turns,
Her smile gentle.
How she understands.
Song is yours now,
" she whispers.
It will play whenever you need it.
Rose rises and ushers you along.
She guides you down a short,
Dimly lit hall.
The mermaid-scale walls here shift.
From deep sapphire to amethyst.
They're like guiding your path to the guest room.
Ceiling arcs at the top.
A soothing tunnel to the place where you may sleep tonight.
She offers its round door.
A wave of cool,
Comforting air embraces you.
The room's windows offer a stunning,
Quiet view of the dark,
Magical lake.
The room centers around a beautiful four-poster bed.
Its tall pillars made of smooth,
Polished,
Moonstone-hued materials.
Moonlight filters through the windows.
Reflecting on the soft silk of pajamas waiting for you on the bed.
Rose pauses at the door and says goodnight.
Her voice already fading.
Into the sleep-inducing hum.
A magical forest.
Musical cottage.
You change into the luxurious pajamas.
Feeling the cool material against your skin.
As you settle.
To the soul.
Comfort of the bed.
The room seems to understand what you need.
The light from the mermaid scale wallpaper dims.
To us all.
Even sapphire blue glow.
And Azurehead finds the pillows.
The room gently begins to play the sounds.
That you most enjoy.
Perhaps the sleepy babbles of the nearby stream.
To the V.
Persistent purr of the cats.
The songs of crickets and tree frogs.
And rustling leaves in the forest.
Lying beneath the glittering,
Hopeful expanse of the night sky.
Visible through the picture windows.
You surrender to the deep,
Harmonious peace.
You smile.
Knowing you can always come back.
One final thought takes hold.
Before you slip into slumber.
And there is no wrong choice.
Sleep,
If it calls to you.
Allow yourself to be carried.
Gently.
To what comes next.
Cabin in the fog.
The Pacific Northwest.
Possesses a magnetic pull.
Grounding palette of deep greens and slate grays that calls to those seeking to disappear for a while.
Along the coastline and within the ancient forests.
The atmosphere is tactile.
The air lands like cool damp silk on the skin.
The trees rise from the forest floor.
Instilling a desire to ground yourself in the serene beauty.
The soundtrack of a cascading waterfall and birdsong.
Join the persistent hum of the earth.
Here you slow down.
Breathe in the mist that rolls off the churning Pacific.
To curtain the coastline in a protective silvery haze.
There is a kind of magic.
In this remote corner of the world.
Conjures the mystique of a beloved fairy tale.
A sense that the forest is a wise presence.
Gently reminding all who wander here.
Of its grandeur.
Unspoken towering beauty.
Reverent silence.
Within its embrace.
The frantic pace of modern life simply doesn't stand a chance.
Every winding path.
Along the rocky shore.
And into the woods.
Brings an invitation to surrender.
In this timeless landscape.
The boundary between the earth the sky dissolves.
Inviting you to drift into the mystery of the fog.
You turn off the silver band of glistening asphalt.
The tires of your car.
Crunching on to a mile-long gravel path.
Tunnels deep into the Olympic timber.
Or the windows rolled down.
The air is a revelation.
A scent like no other.
Feel its dampness and inhale deeply.
Take in the cool,
Damp blend of crushed hemlock,
Salt spray,
And loamy fern.
The long driveway is the first indication.
That life is slower here.
And as it narrows.
The fragrant bark of cedars is close enough to reach out the window and touch One of your favorite songs for road trips plays quietly.
As you round the end of the gravel pathway.
The silhouette.
Of your remote destination emerges.
Perched on a gentle rise is the cedar nest.
Built in the mid-20th century by retired grandparents.
The storybook cabin was designed with the next generation in mind.
Devoted to their six grandchildren.
Mavis and Luke built the cabin as a place to spend more time together.
Summer refuge they had once dreamed of for themselves.
It became a heavenly escape.
And summer camp.
Where the sounds of laughter echoed through the trees.
And every walk was a voyage of new discoveries.
The legacy of the cabin continues.
The grandchildren decided to share this sanctuary with others when they were grown.
They hoped to pass on the healing magic of their youth at the Cedar Nest.
Others in need.
Of a little inspiration.
You park and open the door.
Stretching your legs and yawning and sighing.
Recovering from a long trip.
You haul your bags toward the porch.
Your pup leaps out.
Trotting across the mossy property.
With a newfound sense of freedom.
Tires settle into the stillness of the gravel.
And for a moment,
The only sound is the sporadic tinking of the cooling engine.
Your pup's paws patter softly on the emerald moss.
The contrast to the heavy,
Softly rustling giants that surround you.
This is the threshold.
Place where everything within you softens and transforms.
Welcoming all the promises.
A forested getaway can offer.
Walking up the shiny porch steps,
Smoothed by time.
The wood feels solid and welcoming beneath your boots.
Clean lines of the cedar nest cabin.
Meet the soft curves of the forest.
Sturdy yet unassuming,
It exists with an intention to blend into the forest's beauty.
The exterior is weathered to a soft silver gray.
The hint of lavender.
But as you turn the heavy iron key.
And push open the door.
You are met with a golden glow of polished wood.
And a sliver of honeyed sunlight.
Pours through the canopy of trees above and through the skylights.
Cabin is a dream preserved.
The walls are paneled in wide planks of hand-carved cedar.
The grain flowing like a frozen river.
The swirling designs in the wood.
Cause one's imagination to stir.
Making out the portraits of deer and spirals of chimney smoke.
And fire-lit evenings.
It was often a game Mavis and Leap encouraged.
Everyone would settle on the rug and floor pillows in a heap.
They would stare up at the panels.
Belly is warmed with cocoa.
As the children and grandparents alike would compete to discover the most designs in the grains.
The center of the main room.
Sits a vintage matte black wood stove.
Surprisingly necessary on the nights that follow balmy afternoons like this.
Furniture is a thoughtful gallery of the past.
Low slung teak armchairs with tapered legs newly upholstered in a soothing sea blue fabric that mirrors the Pacific at dawn.
You begin to unpack.
But the process is slow and meditative.
You're on your hands.
Over a crocheted chenille blanket.
Draped over the sofa.
Deep forest green throw feels like a cloud against your fingertips.
The kitchen is open and airy.
Featuring shelves made from reclaimed wood.
And a collection of stoneware mugs in seafoam green.
Every corner holds a soft accent.
An antique lamp.
Candelabra jar of dried eucalyptus.
Enlarge windows that frame the encroaching fog.
Like living gallery pieces.
The air inside is still and intoxicating.
With its smells of sweet dry wood and old books.
The mystical world outside.
Beckons to you and your pup especially.
You reach for your walking attire.
A thick ribbed fisherman's sweater that smells freshly laundered.
And your sturdy,
Broken-in hiking sneakers.
You clip the leash onto your companion's harness.
And their excitement is palpable.
As you step outside.
The world has shifted.
The fog has arrived in earnest.
Turning the driveway into meandering tufts of gray.
You begin your trek.
Leash slack in your hand as your pup leads the way.
Their snout hovering inches above the damp earth.
Cataloging the scents of resin and wet stone.
Their nose twitches as they sniff with curiosity.
As if they've never smelled anything quite like this before.
A trail winds off away from the property.
In the cascade of a nearby waterfall.
Becomes a bit louder with each step.
The forest neighbors are everywhere.
Though they appear like holograms.
Through the thin mist.
To your left.
Roosevelt elk carefully moves through a stand of Sitka spruce.
She is massive and silent.
Tan coat taking on a reflective sheen.
And the droplets of moist air.
She pauses.
As does your breath.
And you watch one another with curiosity.
For at last,
She takes off into the dark green and blue shadows of the forest.
Further up.
Tucked into the crook of a hemlock branch.
A great grey owl sits in a state of midday slumber.
Its feathers puffed against the cool dampness.
Guardian of the silence.
You smile though.
Knowing in a few hours.
You will hear his song.
All the way back at the cabin.
You pass a thicket of huckleberry bushes.
Where a red fox pauses.
One paw lifted.
Fiery fur,
A brilliant spark.
Against the slate gray backdrop.
He offers a quick,
Knowing glance.
Before vanishing with a flick.
Of his white-tipped tails.
At times,
Your pup notices the other beings.
And is surprisingly subdued.
Most often.
Their nose is so deeply buried in the damp earth.
That not even a unicorn could distract them.
You come upon a wide creek.
It flows swiftly over smooth rocks.
And the other side of it.
A fawn sips from its crystalline water.
As a doe and young buck.
Look over the creek from behind a fan of emerald ferns.
You continue alongside the creek.
A bed of rocks gives way to a lush carpet of clover and ferns.
And the trees open up.
To reveal the waterfall.
It's a graceful,
Tiered cascade.
That seems to emerge.
Directly from the clouds.
The mist from the falling water.
Mingles with the incoming fog.
Creating a swirling vortex.
Of white and silver.
You stand at the edge of the pool.
The spray landing on your face.
Tasting both refreshing and metallic.
As you lick your mist-covered lips.
This place where dreamers dream.
Time seems to dissolve in the cascade.
As if the veil between who you are now and who you could be.
Has been lifted.
You perch yourself on a smooth tree stump.
Light enough to accommodate.
Both you and your doll.
Meditation stump.
That's brought many visions to those who indulge.
In the simple act of forest bathing.
It offers you a chance.
To get lost in a reverie.
Looking into the shimmering mist.
You see a reflection of your own life.
A path not yet taken.
Something you've longed for.
Are perhaps put off for the right time.
Emerges in the cascade.
The forest whispers,
Possibilities are nearer than they seem.
Imparting a deep grounding sense.
You are as resilient as a cedar.
And as fluid as the stream.
Deep resonating calm settles over you.
The possibilities of your life feel vast.
It comforting.
To allow yourself this luxury of imagining.
What better place to do so?
And then look wide.
Helpable magic.
Of the forest.
Unaware of how many breaths have passed.
How many minutes have been spent?
You notice your dog curled up in a ball.
Sleeping calmly beside you.
The fog begins to thicken.
Arriving in steady undulating waves.
First blanketing the forest floor.
And swallowing the fallen pine cones.
And neon green moss.
Your pup stirs back to consciousness.
Barking once a joyful sound.
They spin in an enthusiastic circle.
Their fur damp and sparkling.
Knowing as well as you.
It's time to get back on the trail.
As you return to the now familiar path.
Inching towards the cedar nest.
The forest begins to disappear.
The world is being erased.
One tree at a time.
Leaving only the immediate past.
Beneath your feet.
The greens become deeper.
Grays become softer.
And the silence becomes absolute.
The time the cabin reappears through the dense silk of the air.
It looks like a glowing lantern in the dark.
You reach the porch and inhale the change in the air.
As you step on the wide cedar deck.
Your breath forms a faint cloud.
Joins the swirling mist.
Rather than head straight inside.
You walk to the porch swing.
Sturdy cushioned bench.
Suspended by thick glistening silver chains.
That groan rhythmically as you settle.
You and your pup sit together.
Rocking ever so gently to and fro.
The fog reaches its peak now.
It's so lush and thick.
At the world beyond the railing.
Nearly disappears.
Even your hands.
Resting on the armrests.
Feels like a distant blurred shape in the white house.
It is a sensory deprivation.
That feels like a gift.
You are suspended in a dreamy sea of silver.
Cracking back and forth.
The only movement.
Other than the fog in a world that has decided.
To become perfectly still.
But eventually the sharp and chill of the air.
Pauses you to shiver.
Encouraging you to go back indoors.
One's back in the cabin.
You move with the ease of somebody.
Who feels perfectly at home.
You light a few candles.
And then attend to your companion.
You fill their traveling food bowl.
And give them fresh water.
Then you prepare yourself a light,
Easy meal.
Simple flavors amplified.
By the crispness of the night.
Even after your meal,
The dampness lingers in your bones.
And so you make your way to the wood stove.
To start a fire.
As you crouch,
It feels like a sacred ritual.
To stack dry kindling and curls of birch bark within the wood stove.
With a strike of a match.
Smell of sulfur fills the air.
A small orange flame begins to bloom.
Catching the wood.
And crackling to life.
Soon the iron begins to radiate a deep soothing warmth.
That pushes the coastal chill.
Out of your bones and out of the cabin.
You settle into a teak armchair.
The violet dances across the cedar walls.
This is the moment.
You've been traveling towards.
Invitation to simply be.
And you like the generations before you.
Get lost in the mesmerizing patterns in the grains of wood.
Here all distractions are gone.
The only sound of life.
The soothing sigh of your pup.
Curled up on a rug by the fire.
Maybe you find yourself getting lost in a book or a journal.
A crafting project.
Perfect for a night like this.
But every moment is cherished.
Appreciated with introspection.
And is slowing down.
Just like the many evenings.
Decades ago.
And Mavis and Lou.
Built this cabin from love.
Appreciation of the deep woods.
As you slip into a quieter rhythm.
Sleepiness arrives.
In slow gentle waves.
Feel as heavy and purposeful.
As the fog outdoors.
Your eyelids grow weighted.
And your thoughts begin to drift.
Spirals of wood smoke.
Your eyes lowly.
And walk toward the bathroom.
A small sanctuary of white subway tiles.
Navy walls and brass fixtures.
As you turn the tab.
The room fills with thick,
White steam.
A vivid contrast.
To the cool,
Dense mist.
Pressing against the blue and green stained glass windows of the room.
That water is a cleansing balm.
Washing away a residue of salt on your skin.
And the fatigue of the journey.
That now lands in your body.
You emerge glowing.
Wrapping yourself in a plush oversized towel.
Before changing into your softest pajamas.
Fabric that feels like a second skin.
Before retiring in the cozy bedroom.
Where many have claimed to enjoy the deepest sleep.
And the most insightful dreams.
You take your pup outside.
One last time.
The fog has shifted.
Lightening just enough.
For the soft diffused moonlight.
Filter through the canopy.
The world is a monochromatic canvas.
Of charcoal and pearls.
You peer up,
Catching the ethereal glow of the full moon hanging high above the Olympics.
From deep within the timber,
The great grey owl that's out of low hollow hoops.
Like a night that echoes through the trees.
Snap of the cold reaches your bare skin.
The perfect refreshing chill.
Will help you settle to fall asleep.
Return to the dry warmth of the cedar nest.
Move into the bedroom.
Where the walls are a gallery of the forest's memories.
Dozens of brass-rimmed glass frames Hang in the dim light.
Containing dried pressed flowers.
Gathered from the woods over the decades.
Delicate violets tiny blue star-shaped petals and moon-hued blooms,
Their colors preserved in a permanent spring.
The bed is a fortress of comfort.
Tall king-sized mattress.
Topped with a heavy marshmallow-like duvet.
Before you even have the chance.
To pull back the linens.
Your pop has already claimed the foot of the bed.
Circling twice and collapsing into a contented heap.
You slide into the cool crisp sheets.
Sinking into the immense space of the mattress.
Beyond the glass door of the bedroom.
The creek babbles over smooth stones.
Soothing liquid lullaby.
That never ends.
Nestled here.
Protected by the cedar and hidden by the fall.
You finally let go.
You sense yourself drifting through the fog.
Leaving the waking world behind.
As you float across the bridge to sleep.
And you may stay here.
Nestled in this fog.
Comfortable in the warmth of the cabin.
For as long as you like.
Assembly,
Breathe.
And let the next adventure find you.
The Moon Cottage.
The Moon Cottage.
Been standing in this clearing for centuries.
A place built for the very purpose of dreaming.
Not just dreaming through the night.
Dreaming through the days.
Envisioning all the things a soul might like to experience.
As you walk the winding forest past to this mystical dwelling.
The air feels slow and warm.
Carrying the rich,
Heady hint.
Of spring's promise.
And that promise is.
There are only more warm days to come.
You can feel the grass.
Damp with a first silvering of dew.
Brushing softly against your ankles.
Like satin ribbons.
As you arrive at the clearing.
Overhead the sky holds the pink moon.
Spring's first full moon.
Casting and otherworldly.
Rosy opal aura over the entire clearing.
The night offers the enduring hope.
That winter's great thaw is long gone.
And the warmth of the damp fertile earth.
Rises to meet the pristine night air.
Moonbeams stream through the budding branches.
And solid pillars of light.
Illuminating the ancient oaks that guard the cottage.
Every leaf and stone seems vibrant.
Bathed in the special celestial glow.
Hanging from the eaves and the sturdy branches or dangling crystals that sway in the gentle breeze.
Catching the pink moon's light.
Scattering it like soft diamonds across the landscape.
The cottage comes into view.
Its lavender gray boards are silvered by time and glow in the moonlight.
Everything feels so alive here.
Breathing with the new life of the season.
You notice the modern touches.
That complement the history of the place.
Smooth dome-shaped,
Enclosed glass balconies on the second floor.
That reflect the stars.
And a porch floor inlaid with intricate moonstone gem mosaics.
A trio of cats settle on these iridescent white stones.
The moonlight reflects off their whiskers and light patches of fur.
In the distance.
A young doe and her two spotted fawns.
Move silently through the trees.
Their graceful silhouettes.
Adding to the stillness of the scene.
And the promise of new beginnings.
Everything here is soft.
Bathed in the scent of wild mint.
And spring blossoms.
For 20 years now.
Anita has called the Moon Cottage home.
She stands in the heart of the clearing.
Tending to her night garden.
Awaiting your arrival.
Much like her beloved cats.
She's long been a creature of the night.
And so,
It was only natural for her to be drawn to a moon cottage.
Her long silver hair flows down to her waist.
Shimmering cascade of silky strands that billow in the night air.
She's a vision of timeless peace.
Her face etched with the lines of many stories and mischievous adventures.
Her long flowing violet blouse and burgundy skirt.
Offer layers of chiffon.
A crocheted chenille wrap rests on her strong shoulders.
Her manicured hands feature an array of smoky quartz,
Silver,
And turquoise rings.
Collected from around the world.
During her days.
Humanitarian work.
She hears your arrival.
Turning gracefully with a sparkle in her eyes.
A sense of inner defiance.
And deep intelligence.
And her gaze.
Her face softens into a wide smile.
Oh so many decades and lifetimes ago.
Anita was pursued by a suitor.
Who didn't take well when she declined the life he imagined for her.
Not one to understand.
A dreamer and free spirit like Anita,
" he said.
You keep this up and you'll spend your days as an old cat lady.
But he intended to be an insult or a curse at the time.
Since everyone tried to frighten young girls with the thought of being a spinster.
Became an insightful idea for Anita.
She simply smiled at him.
Nodding silently.
With a radiant,
Certain look in her eyes.
Unintentionally,
He planted a vision in her head.
The beautiful peaceful life.
She would create one day at the Moon Cottage.
Throughout her you.
She was called a hippie.
Another label that just sort of hung in the air.
Potential.
She was a soul of service.
Who knew her maternal energy was best spread around the world.
Rather than confined to one house.
She spent her younger years honoring nature.
Contending to the motherless children of the world.
Both the young ones and the old.
Who desperately yearned for some softness.
She poured herself into the earth.
And into the hearts of others.
A life of rich fulfillment.
That eventually led her back to this clearing.
Now in our retirement at the Moon Cottage.
She's realized that vision of purrs and warm snuggles.
Knowing that the cats give back.
Even more than she could ever give to them.
You approach the lavender-gray picket fence that surrounds the cottage.
Its aged patina deepens the cottage's charm and storybook allure.
Gentle air kisses your skin.
Carrying the fragrant notes of tea and newly budding roses.
Your palm lands on the cool metal latch of the fence.
As you open it.
And the door slowly creaks as it swings open.
Before Anita can greet you.
The cat detaches herself.
From the shadows of the garden.
Trots towards you with a friendly high-held tail.
She is a soft,
Dilute calico.
With patches of muted peach and dove gray.
She leans her weight into your shins.
Rubbing her body against your legs.
And weaving through them with an unexpected welcome.
You can feel the heat.
Of her soft warm body through your clothes.
And a deep,
Steady vibration of her purse.
It grounds you to the earth.
Somehow quieting all the lingering thoughts in your mind.
Dare to take you out.
At this beautiful and precious moments.
Anita smiles.
That's Priscilla.
She then says,
Welcome to the moon cottage.
Priscilla looks up at you with wide amber eyes.
Offering a slow series of delicate blinks.
Feel like a quiet invitation.
To leave the rest of the world behind.
You bend down and scratch her fuzzy chin.
And she presses the full weight of her face.
Into your hands.
Anita comes closer and Priscilla slinks over.
Brushes against her skirt.
Before returning to the garden and settling on a small bench.
Anita wraps her arms around you in a hug.
Mentioning how glad she is.
You've come for a visit.
A beautiful piece of raw amethyst.
Dangles from a herringbone silver chain.
And you feel its weight against you in the embrace.
The enchanting stone is larger than a cat's paw.
Its jagged purple facets.
Glow with a deep internal fire.
As she steps back.
Invites you to follow her to the gazebo.
The stone is her anchor.
A piece of the Earth's beauty that she carries with her.
Vibrating with the same steady,
Calm frequency.
That she radiates to everyone.
Who has been lucky enough to be in her presence.
Surrounding her.
As if they are an extension of her own shadow and soul.
Are the sweet cats of Moon Cottage.
Each a unique masterpiece.
Of color.
And form.
There is a large ginger tomcat.
With tattered ears,
A big appetite and a heart of gold.
There's a petite midnight black queen whose fur looks like raven feathers.
And a pastel Torby kitten not more than six months old.
Is he a fluffy Himalayan with blue eyes like a frozen glacial lake?
Several sleek tabbies with stripes as crisp as the inner rings of an old tree trunk.
Long ago.
Having visited the Hemingway House in Key West.
Anita encountered the six Toad Kitties and felt even more determined to create her own cattery.
These praying companions.
Are the guardians of the cottage.
Moving sleekly through the lunar light.
Of the synchronized flow.
Suggests they are all part of one Living,
Breathing family.
Anita seems to float through the night air.
She guides you to the gazebo.
A quaint structure of pearly white wood and intricate latticework.
And sits like a jewel in the garden.
Small ivory planters.
Overflowing with vibrant aromatic green catnip.
And tall blades of cat grass.
Hang over the railing.
Along with cat swings and hammocks.
The cats move toward these planters.
Some nibbling gently on the greens.
Others simply lounging on the gazebo balcony.
Their tails swinging contentedly in the spring night.
The songs of crickets fill the air.
Joining the soothing sound of a half dozen fountains.
Throughout the tended yard.
Moonlight creates prisms.
In the varying cascades.
Some tall slender and elegant.
While others are stout and wise.
As you step into the gazebo.
The scent of the spring garden follows you.
A mix of damp earth.
With a hint of catnip.
Candles flicker within colorful glass lanterns.
Adding a jewel-toned glow.
To the otherwise silver and black world.
You sit into a plush plum upholstered seat that feels like a velvet hud.
Silver ornate antique teapot.
Rests on a tray and a glass table.
With sapphire blue teacups and saucers that feature silver stars and a crescent moon.
Anita pours the tea with steady hands.
The liquid a deep,
Rich amber.
Smells of toasted honey,
Vanilla,
And the faintest hint of wild bergamot.
She claims it's her special potion for sleep.
And tea is a routine she enjoys outside.
On late nights like this.
And he is grounding.
Each sip sending a silky wave of relaxation and warmth through your chest.
The cats begin to settle and the plum cushions around you.
Their warmth radiating through the fabric as they purr.
You notice a large smoky gray Maine coon reclining on the top of a chair.
His whiskers twitching.
As he watches the pearlescent fountain nearby.
Time feels like a slow silver river.
That weaves through an endless night of comfort.
Anita watches you with eyes that have seen the world.
And now chose in the woods.
She tells you that each cat here found her and they needed refuge most.
Much like you and other guests that come to the Moon Cottage.
She explains that the thaw of spring is a gift for the heart.
Chance to open up.
Like the blossoms in the clearing.
In the gazebo.
Surrounded by the emerald green of the cat grass.
And the purple glow of her amethyst.
You feel completely at ease.
Warmth of the silver teapot.
And the weight of the cats.
Creates a perimeter of safety.
It conjures a bone-deep sense of comfort and peace.
Since arriving at Moon Cottage.
Feel seen and accepted.
And a deep connection stirs within you as this place instantly becomes a home away from home.
You watch the cats that now bathe in the moonlight.
Some carefully traversing the railing at its most narrow points.
With ethereal grace.
Anita recites a quote.
From Jules Verne who said,
I believe cats to be spirits come to earth.
The cat,
I am sure,
Could walk on a cloud without coming through.
Few stray fluffy silvery clouds grace the midnight plum sky concealing the celestial tapestry of twinkling stars.
And for a moment.
You imagine the cats ascending into the heavens.
Playfully leaping from cloud to cloud.
It's a dreamy visual.
Lingers even after you finish the last drops of tea.
The airship.
Cooling and sweetening.
As the first heavy droplets.
Begin to fall over the forest.
Darker clouds arrive.
Their purple gray underbellies absorbing the slivers of moonlight.
That peek through.
The cats are even better at predicting the arrival of the storm than you or Anita.
They've already trotted toward the shelter of the cottage.
Tails held high in anticipation.
Only the kitten lingers.
Excited to play in the rain.
You rise with Anitta.
Your hands steady.
You help carry the silver tray back toward the house.
A light mist hovers over the garden.
As the first small drops arrive.
Darkening the lavender-gray wood of the porch.
As you step onto the veranda.
You pause to look down at the moonstone gem mosaics.
Arranged upon the floorboards with pieces of pearly white oyster shells.
Patterns are set in the shapes of crescent and full moons.
Glowing with an internal pearlescent light.
Seems to defy the gathering shadows.
Above you.
Moon chimes made of thin silver and crystal hang from the eaves.
Singing a delicate melody as the wind brushes past them.
You approach the heavy oak door.
The fingers of your free hand.
Tracing the deep ancient engraving.
Of a moon nestled in the wood.
You notice it matches the same etched designs on the wisteria-hued shutters.
Just as you cross the threshold.
The sky opens up.
And the rain begins to fall steadily.
All 10 cats.
Pad quickly ahead of you into the heart of the cottage.
Their paws pitter-pattering on the wood.
In a soft flurry of fluff.
You set the tray down on a weathered,
Rustic farmhouse table.
The wood smooth from years of use.
Anita moves to the heart.
Kneeling to coax the fire into life.
There's something delicious.
Almost rebellious.
About being awake at this late hour.
Far from the demands of the morning.
You find yourself drawn to the living room.
Where the architecture is a tribute to the feline residents.
High above.
Cedar cat paths and glass-bottomed walkways crisscross the rafters.
Leading to hidden carpeted nests.
And sky-high retreats.
Or a straight ear.
Or a twitching tail is all you can see.
You choose to settle on a deep,
Rose-pink velvet setting.
That face is the growing warmth of the fire.
As Anita gently picks up the Maine Coon cat from her armchair.
And settles with the corpulent feline on her lap.
Almost immediately.
Silver Gray Tabby finds her way to you.
Leaving lightly onto the cushion.
Kneading the velvet.
As if preparing dough.
Before settling into your lap.
When Anita looks over from the crackling logs.
And tells you the cat's name.
Resonates through you like a clear bell.
It is a name that is always held.
Profound meaning in your life.
A name from a cherished memory.
Or a story you were once told.
When you tell Anita this,
She smiles.
Firelight dancing in her eyes.
Not surprised,
" she says softly.
I think you are destined to meet.
" as you run your fingers through the tabby's silky cool fur.
Your energies begin to align.
The two of you co-regulate your nervous systems.
As I slow and deepen in sync.
Were the logs that crackle and pop.
Steady rhythm of the rain against the window.
Becomes the perfect percussive beat.
To her resonant purr.
A heavy,
Sweet wave of tiredness washes over you.
As you notice the other cats.
Have tucked themselves away.
Into their favorite hideouts.
And are all now falling into a peaceful sleep.
Anita stands.
And offers to bring you to your room.
Your eyes slowly feeling heavy-limbed and relaxed.
With a silver tabby leading you both up the stairs.
You ascend to the second floor.
Entering a suite.
It feels like a lavender-hued dream.
The room is an oasis.
Of soft violets and Anita's botanical paintings.
Featuring a magnificent,
Tall,
Four-poster bed.
Tucked into a cozy.
.
.
Fabric-lined alcove.
Beyond the bed.
Is a modern addition.
A glass-enclosed dome-shaped balcony.
Where an elegant clawfoot tub sits waiting.
Folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
Freshly laundered ivory flannel pajamas.
And plush towels.
That smell of spring.
Anita wishes you the sweetest of dreams and slips away.
Leaving you with all that you need.
The quiet company of the silver tabby.
You draw a bath.
Sinking into the hot,
Relaxing water.
As the rain streaks the glass dome above you.
Tabby sits on a pedestal at the edge of the tub.
Playfully dipping a single paw into the steamy water.
And then retracting with surprise.
You playfully flick a drop or two toward her.
She dashes away into the shadows of the room.
Only to reappear a moment later.
Wiggling her booty and tail with playful readiness.
You lightly splash her again,
Laughing softly at the silly game beneath the storm clouds.
Feeling all seriousness of the world fully dissolve.
After a few rounds of this little game.
You both become tired.
She curls up on the lilac bath mat to wait for you.
You inhale deeply.
And with such profound ease.
You float to the top of the water.
Feeling light and at the same time,
Heady with sleep.
You slowly stand and ta la la.
And change into the soft flannel pajamas.
The grey tabby snakes around your legs.
Keeping you alert to the present moment.
As you both make your way to the four poster bed.
You peel back the heavy lavender duvet.
And the crisp,
Cool top sheet.
As you settle into the supportive mattress.
The silver tabby jumps up beside you.
And makes a chirpy,
Affectionate meow.
She spins in three perfect,
Deliberate circles.
Before tucking herself tightly against your side.
And kneading your arms.
Her weight is a reassuring presence.
Grounded anchor.
What a wonderful feeling it is.
To spend this rainy night.
At Moon Cottage.
Her serene purrs join the soundtrack of the steady rain.
And you feel yourself drifting.
Delightfully.
Effortlessly.
Across the bridge between your waking life.
In the world of dreams.
Finding comfort.
Finding connection.
Finding peace.
Finding sleep It's time to dream away.
