Your bedtime holiday begins with tonight's sleep story,
Cozy Escape to the East End.
Snuggle up as your imagination drifts through the maritime air of Sag Harbor and the wild wind-swept bluffs of Montauk on one of the final quiet days before the summer season begins.
The soothing voyage captures misty harbor light,
The scent of late-blooming wisteria,
The gentle knock of buoy bells against the tide,
And the golden warmth of a perfect spring day you may wish could last forever.
If you have ever longed to escape to a charming coastal town and quirky harbor inn before the crowds arrive,
To linger in a marina restaurant,
With the windows folded open to the sound.
To wander an unhurried main street still softened by sea mist.
Feel the peaceful rhythm of a place that has offered refuge for centuries,
Then the story was made for you.
Settle in,
Let your body grow heavy like an anchor and allow yourself to be carried gently east.
To the harbor.
To the lantern lit in.
The rolling bluffs and the most easterly edge of the island.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I am Michelle,
The voice of a friend and guide.
Who will bring you on the quiet holiday your heart desires.
This week's sleep story is inspired by an impromptu escape I made to outrun a heatwave this week.
As the city temperatures hit well over 95 degrees,
I found myself understanding where generations of New Yorkers once fled eastward in search of the cool,
Rainy air of the coast long before air conditioning existed.
I love nothing more than traveling just before the summer season begins,
When beach towns feel like they still belong entirely to the people who inhabit them through the long grey winter months.
It feels special to know.
That in just another week or two.
All this stillness.
Will give way to the buzzing energy of summer.
And as I settle in a near-empty restaurant at a marina,
I can sense the change in the air,
Savoring these last quiet days before the season tips in.
The empty harbor.
The newly reopened gift shops.
Carry the whispers of seasons past.
In the hopeful anticipation of what's to come.
Before we begin our journey.
I invite you to settle where you are.
And come fully to stillness.
Let your body sink.
Little deeper.
And do whatever is holding you.
Open your mouth softly.
And release a long,
Slow sigh.
Letting go of the weight of the day.
The noise of the Wii.
Anything that no longer needs your attention tonight.
And now.
Breathe in.
As you do.
Imagine that the air in your room begins to transform.
Taking on the quality of a coastal morning.
Crisp and soul-touched.
Threaded with the faint sweetness of late-blooming lilacs.
Coolness of harbor water.
And the gentle warmth of a sun.
Just beginning to climb over the Atlantic.
Maybe you yawn.
Perhaps your shoulders drop an inch.
Continue breathing slowly as I count you down.
Bye!
Feel the support beneath you.
That lets you know.
You no longer need to carry your weight.
The weight of anything at all.
Surrender and feel your legs and arms.
Your torso and spine release.
Somewhere far away.
A buoy bell rocks gently on the tide.
Bringing once twice.
And then going to quiet again.
4.
Soften your hands and let your arms rest open at your sides.
Imagine the faintest breath of ocean air.
Moving through a cracked window.
Hear the faraway sounds of ropes tapping softly against dock posts.
Somewhere down on the harbor.
3.
.
.
Inhale and this time the air carries something richer.
The green fragrance of the hither hills forest.
Beneath it the salt sweetness.
Of a harbor town slowly waking.
On its warmest morning of the year.
Let that scent soften your jaw,
Your brow.
The space between your eyes.
Too.
Your thoughts begin to slow.
Like the ponds and inlets of Montauk.
The water becomes still and reflective.
Find peace in the gentle rhythm of your breath.
And the barely audible whisper of the sea.
One.
Your eyes are soft and heavy.
Coast is close now.
The mist is just lifting off the endless.
The morning is waiting.
You may customize any details.
As our story begins.
There's something so spectacular about waking up slowly.
Becoming aware of the morning in a new place.
A safe,
Luxurious place.
Where the sunlight pours through the window you left cracked open.
The sheer ivory curtains dance in the soft harbor breeze.
The ceiling fan helps carry through the room.
You awaken in the inn.
Home for a few nights.
Without a plan,
Without anywhere to be.
Slowly,
Gratefully appreciating the ease of a perfect beginning.
To a perfect weather day.
The air smells so rich here.
Salt water and lilac blossoms.
Freshly mowed grass just beyond the pool below.
As you stretch and readjust to the light.
Coming out of a dream.
You let linger just a bit longer.
Enjoying a sleep.
Brought more rest than a month of ordinary nights.
Resetting you internally to remember what it's like.
To use a day for pure enjoyment.
You feel the unrushed pleasure of stretching like a starfish.
In an extraordinary king-sized bed.
That was chosen with such care.
And far.
Everything in this charming inn.
Has been carefully curated.
And arranged over the decades by the inn's owner.
The sheets have been starched and ironed.
To something still crisp in the morning.
Even though they softened around the shape of your body as you slept.
Duvet is heavy and warm.
Waiting you in comfort.
And you take in the room.
Or a law.
And thinking delicious moments.
Simply breathing.
Simply imagining the first cup of coffee or tea.
Or whatever morning drink you fancy.
The end is quirky.
Themed by influences of Ireland and Bali and to the coast of Long Island.
Eclectic space near the water.
Outdoors,
There are tiki lanterns.
The woven rattan kind.
Still glowing faintly from the evening before.
Their small amber flames not yet extinguished in the soft morning air.
Beyond the inn.
Pale stone paths.
Laid between modest white cottages.
While they are stark and coastal.
The wood trim of the inn is the color of dark chocolate,
With second floor balconies overlooking the marina.
And all throughout the lush grass.
In the veranda below.
Places to meditate.
Gather around cafe tables.
Are in an enclosed glass structure.
With candles and a heavy Balinese influence.
The inn stands out amongst the gray shingles and shakes siding of the east end.
Feeling both quaint and exotic at the same time.
Your eyes slowly.
The grey wooden floor.
And smooth beneath your feet.
You dress and then prepare your morning drink.
Carefully thought her.
As you pack.
For the journey here.
Through the window.
The harbor is already pale gold in the early light.
Sailboats rocking gently at their moorings.
Not yet ready to sail.
A week or two still shy of the season.
That will call them out onto open water.
You push open the back door.
The small balcony.
And step outside to settle in a chair.
To sit.
To simply observe.
Delicate wind meets you immediately.
And the warmth has settled in the spring air for the first time.
With a comforting promise.
That it will soon be here to stay.
You close your eyes for a moment.
Inhale the fragrance of salt water and morning dew.
The harbor stretching before you,
Softly misted at its edges.
The water catches the morning light.
In long silvery blue ripples.
As a young couple bicycles down the quiet thoroughfare.
The inn hosts many pups.
And the owner's terrier is making the rounds.
Sniffing the grass and protecting the inn with a quiet confidence.
Your lips soften and curl up in a smile.
Knowing this will be a great day of unexpected discoveries and ease.
And you return to your room to prepare.
A morning drive leads you to the heart of Sag Harbor.
Taking winding roads like Stephen Hand's path.
Beneath a constant green canopy of pines.
And trees bled out in their verdant glory.
It seems strange to see so many late blooms.
Cherry blossom petals have yet to drift freely on the breeze.
Pops of pink,
Ivory.
Into the lush purples of lilac and wisteria.
Appear along the way.
The streets of Zag Harbor are still glistening from an overnight mist.
When you step out into the late morning.
Sidewalks darkened in long and even patches.
That are just beginning to dry at their edges.
Where the sun touches them first.
You step out into the quiet splendor of Main Street.
Taking your time to explore.
Amidst the relatively few visitors and townspeople.
Going about their daily errands.
Sag Harbor.
In the pleasant unique state.
Being almost awake.
Not quite.
Storefronts are propping open their doors.
For what feels like the first time in months.
Letting out the closed up smell of winter.
And drawing in the ocean air in its place.
A shopkeeper removes window dressings from the end of last season.
Polishing the old glass of her storefront windows.
With an effortless grace.
Across the street.
A merino restaurant.
Has folded back its great waterfront windows.
The whole front of the building.
Opening like a book.
To face the harbor.
A solo waitress in a light sweater.
Arranges tables on the water-facing terrace.
Pausing occasionally.
To let the warmth rest on her face.
With quiet,
Private satisfaction.
A chalkboard menu reappears outside the cafe.
A bicyclist rolls past slowly.
Tires whirring softly on damp pavement.
From somewhere down near the water.
A quiet conversation drifts up.
If you fishermen or marina workers.
Their voice is too low to make out the words.
Warm and toned.
The easy rhythm of people.
Who have known each other a long time.
And other own special language.
Inside the local five and dime.
All the local town gossip.
Is shared by the owner.
And a local resident.
Both intent and ensuring the small businesses of the community continue to thrive.
Another shop invites you to step in.
Walk across the centuries-old wide plank wooden floorboards.
There is history woven into the grain of the wooden docks.
And the weathered shingles.
To the names and dates on plaques before homes and museums.
Every dowering white column.
Of an elegant mansion.
Every rustic shingle on a modest cottage.
Stirs visions in your mind.
You sense the faint trace of old whaling captains.
Who walked these same streets.
Rugged individuals.
Who knew the Atlantic intimately.
Who kept journals of voyages.
Came home sun-kissed and salt-crusted from far-off places.
Who once watched lanterns burning through heavy fall.
Guide their boats safely home.
The harbor has watched the town grow up around it.
And remain.
Patient and unchanged.
Through all of it.
It still carries the memories of another time.
Her knife was less polished.
More challenging.
There is a romanticism.
Daydreaming about those leaner years.
When the spirit of the village was born.
By those erecting the earliest homes that still remain.
You walk without direction for a while.
Letting the town arrange itself around you.
The gulls arcing overhead in slow circles.
The whole quiet blossom strewn village.
Feeling exactly as it should.
Like something that has been resting through a long winter.
And is only now.
On this warm and generous morning.
Beginning to rev up.
By noon the breeze is a salve to the heat of the sun.
Vibrant light.
Turning everything slightly golden at its edges.
Slowing time,
Just enough.
That you notice it.
The cedar-shake siding of the old buildings along Main Street.
Has begun to release the particular warm woody scent.
It holds.
Until the sun is high enough to draw it out.
And the flowering branches overhead.
Sway very gently in a harbor breeze.
Softens the heat just enough.
To make it perfect.
You pop in to a local eatery and order lunch.
Perfect for a casual bite by the water.
You bring the paper bag to a bench outside.
Draped in the cool shadows.
Of an old windmill with gray shingle siding.
That rises at the edge of the green.
You have the best view of the water.
Into the happenings on Main Street.
As you find yourself feeling satiated.
By every tactile sensation and bite.
The sailboat masts clink softly in the marina.
Joined by the occasional distant call of a girl.
Into that beautiful,
Sweet,
Intoxicating smell.
Is unique to the village.
It has a cleanness.
Like the intense salty aromas of low tide and dry crispy seaweed along the shore.
And as you take it all in.
A plan slowly unfolds.
As you wonder what to explore next.
And the cinema worthy day.
A walk the concrete sidewalk along the marina.
Polished wooden boats glimmer in the afternoon light.
Their varnished hulls the color of warm clover honey.
A cordial nod of hello.
Follows.
As you encounter other peaceful souls dressed in nautical blue and white stripes.
And soft baby blues.
The sun feels so warm on your arms and face.
While the harbor breeze cools your neck.
Until eventually.
.
.
He lets the afternoon carry you slowly back through the quiet streets.
And toward the car.
And to the long open road east.
The road east unfolds quietly.
Bringing you beneath the storybook trees of Hither Woods.
That arch over the winding Montauk Highway.
In rich green clusters and plumage.
And beyond the forest.
The dunes and beach grass rise and fall.
You dry without hurry.
The windows down.
The ocean air coming in warm and constant.
Carrying the faint rustle of the trees.
A soft applause and continuous welcome.
The roadside is full of signs of a season in preparation.
A seafood shack,
Shuttered all winter,
Is open again.
A hand-lettered sign propped at the road.
Reads Lobster Rolls.
Season starts now.
The Memory Motel.
With its faded pace.
Retro Lettering and the particular charm of a place.
That has been exactly itself for decades.
As landscapers tending to the property.
A simple American roadside is coming to life.
A stage being set for the season.
Bringing a timeless air.
Of comfort.
Nostalgia.
Dunes on either side glow pale gold in the afternoon light.
The beach grass bending and straightening.
And long hypnotic waves.
A low rolling haze sits offshore at the horizon.
And the Atlantic does what it always does.
Keeping its own sovereignty.
Indifferent to the warmth of the day.
You let your hand rest in the open window.
Feel the warm air move through your fingers.
As the tires make their steady hum on the asphalt.
You follow the highway.
To its absolute limit.
Where the land finally ends and the vast Atlantic takes over.
The Montauk Lighthouse.
With its painted white brick tower with a wide maroon band.
Rises proudly into the crystal blue sky.
It's one of the grandest lighthouse towers you have ever seen.
And for over 225 years.
It has shown its light on the world.
Standing near the edge.
The majestic soaring bluffs.
You look down at the sheer height of the cliffs.
Meeting the churning water below.
Parking lot and trails are mostly empty.
Allowing exploration to feel so easy.
June and July the traffic may be fierce.
And now everything feels open and reverent.
Giving a clearer idea.
Of what life may have been like.
So very long ago.
You think without quite meaning to.
All the ships this grand tower.
" has guided safely past this point.
Of sailors watching for that light through heavy weather.
Feeling relief arrive in their chests.
At the sight of it.
Of the lighthouse keeper.
Tending the flame.
Through fierce Atlantic storms.
While the sea threw itself.
Against the rocks far below.
Goals glow.
High above the cliffs.
And long lazy arcs.
Barely moving their wings bumblebees drift lazily above the brush.
Their furry black and yellow bodies.
Surrounded by a halo of warm sunlight.
The ocean horizon.
Stretches in every direction.
Vase.
Silvery blue.
And unbroken.
You stand there in the war.
Perfect afternoon.
With a lighthouse behind you.
And the sea before you.
Immense and calm.
Feeling that there is simply nowhere else to be.
Leaving the high cliffs of the points.
You turn back westward.
For a quick peek at the surf at Ditch Plains.
But as you park near the rising dunes.
You notice how quickly.
The energy has shifted.
It's after 6 now.
And the temperature has become shockingly chilly.
Another climate,
Or season,
Almost.
Golden light of the point is now concealed beyond the blue mist.
The entire beach is swaddled in these cool moody blue and gray tones.
As the sun slips away.
On the other side of the bluffs.
Before you even step out of the car.
You reach into the back seat.
For a heavy Montauk sweatshirt.
Bundling yourself until it's thick.
Cozy,
Please.
It is a welcome shield.
Against the sudden chill.
You walk down to the shore.
Your arms hugging your body.
As the thunderous waves land on the cool sand.
Low vibration.
More intensely felt than heard.
And it's no wonder Ditch Plains is a surfer's mecca.
But as the coolness of early evening arrives.
Only you and a woman with her small Pomeranian take to the sand.
Walking amongst the ancient,
Towering bluffs.
You feel delightfully small.
Against walls of carved clay and sand.
That rise nearly a hundred feet.
Straight up from the shore.
Their rugged faces are sculpted into dramatic sweeping crests.
By centuries of Atlantic winds.
Wild ocean spray.
As the mist causes your vision to softly blur.
You make out faces and designs.
These giant weathered fortresses.
Guarding the southern edge of the island.
Clouds roll in.
Making their own ethereal formations.
The fading blue denim sky.
You approach the water.
Curious to dip your hand.
Into the sprightly cold surf.
Grateful for your fleas.
You close your eyes.
Just inhale deeply.
Taking it all in.
Faint glittering mist.
Drifts inland.
Hmm.
Mineral.
Clean against your face.
The coast breathes alongside you.
A slow,
Deep inhale and exhale.
With each incoming.
Retreating way.
You open your eyes.
Longing for the warmth of your car.
And head back towards.
The shelter of the harbor.
The time you return to the harbor on the north side of Lake Montauk.
It's as though you've returned to summer.
No longer concealed by the bluffs.
The sun falls across the water.
Inopulent deep shades of gold.
As you park at your inn.
And walk along the aptly named Flamingo Road.
The entire world is awash in pink.
Sky is so pink.
Reflects and puddles along the grassy shoulder.
Quiet beach beyond a collection of cottages.
Offers ribbons of raspberry sand.
The delicate ways.
Are a liquid metallic rose pink as well.
Only a few restaurants.
Have begun to open for the season.
Their windows spread open wide.
To allow in the last rays of light.
And a gentle breeze.
Your sweatshirt is no longer needed.
You find a seat on the upper deck of a marina restaurant.
Staff is just returning.
Still finding their rhythm.
And being the only guest.
You're invited to grab a menu.
And see it yourself.
You settle at a table facing the water.
The sky continues to transform.
Watercolor pinks blooming upward into coral.
And then into a luminous apricot.
That sets the clouds glowing like lanterns of their own.
The water below,
Catching all of it.
Turning silver blue.
And then to something warmer.
A faint rose gold.
Shimmers and shifts with a current.
Ropes tap gently against massed poles.
And a few fishermen make their way down the docks.
With their cool layers of ice.
And catches of the day.
Yacht rock tunes play throughout the restaurant.
Celebrating Long Island's most beloved artists.
Harbor lights begin to appear in the darkening water.
Their reflections rippling.
And doubling in the time.
And the waitress comes to greet you.
Casually dressed in leggings and a hoodie.
Service is slow.
But you're in no rush.
And you know soon enough guests will spill out over the decks.
And down by the water.
With palpable excitement.
The anticipation of what's to come is in the air.
As the waitress jokes that she's slowly transitioning back into the rhythm of work.
A few other guests arrive.
And everyone has made the same unspoken agreement.
Nobody will be the first to leave.
Light sweaters and denim jackets.
Peering from bags and the backs of chairs.
As the warmth of the day recedes.
Inch by inch.
Back into the cool.
The East End holds.
In its forest.
Dunes.
And bodies of water.
The evening unfolds around you.
As you enjoy the ideal ending to the day.
With a leisurely coastal meal.
The walk back to the inn is a slow one.
And you mean it to be.
The gravel softly beneath your feet.
In the darkness.
The mist has thickened over the bay in a ghostly way.
And now travels over Flamingo Road You can feel it at your cheeks.
Cool and gentle.
The night's reclaiming the warmth.
The day held so generously for so long.
Into the anus quiet.
With colorful lights and a rainbow array.
Illuminate the chocolate-hued walls.
The rattan chairs are empty now.
And soft meditative music.
Plays throughout the garden.
You pause before going inside.
Standing on the grassy path as a bunny hops across the dewy blades.
Gather your witness to a sliver of a crescent moon.
In the deepest shade of crimson.
Rising over the water.
It breaks through the clouds.
With its fingernail curve.
Magical.
And almost unreal.
As it reflects on the darkened bay.
A wave of tiredness takes hold.
As you ascend the carpeted outdoor stairs of the inn.
To your little hideaway.
The night goes quiet.
You feel that you are on the very edge of the world.
In the dreamiest way possible.
Inside.
The inn room holds you like an old friend.
The wooden floors creak softly underfoot.
As you slip out of your shoes and prepare for a shower.
Warm lamplight gathers in the corners.
The linen has been turned down.
Pillows arranged with care.
And as you step into the steamy warmth,
Of the shower.
You wash away the salt and sand.
Enjoying the fragrant,
Clean smell.
Of the lush ivory lather.
That cleanses your skin.
A yawn escapes.
And then another.
Your muscles melt in the heat.
And the lovely headiness takes hold.
You dry off with a plush luxurious towel.
Change into your pajamas.
The air is chilled and ideal for sleep.
The faintest trace of the sea and fresh clean linen lingering as the ceiling fan spins.
You climb into the cool,
Crisp sheets.
And feel the duvet settle around you.
Wait.
And grounded.
This sleepy moment.
All of the East End dreams.
One of its last,
Quiet,
Pre-summer dreams.
Before they arrive.
For the liveliness of another high season.
The lighthouse tower light is turning far to the east.
Steady beam crossing and re-crossing.
The blue-black Atlantic.
But you are held here.
In this warm and quiet place.
Beneath the scarlet crescent moon.
Settled in an inn.
Cloaked in a ethereal mist.
And lantern glow.
Memories of this healing.
And fulfilling day.
Drift softly away.
As you effortlessly drift along toward slumber.
Finding peace.
Finding serenity.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
