Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary,
Where the Places of Wonder Sleep Stories Collection is waiting to take you somewhere extraordinary.
My name is Michelle and tonight I invite you to leave the familiar world behind for a little while and discover places that feel wonderfully different from everyday life.
Think of my voice as your sleep ally and trusted friend.
Here to help you cross the threshold from today's demands.
And enjoy a mental holiday.
As you drift to sleep.
Before we begin.
Now snuggle up and settle.
As we wander through a collection of beautiful and usual.
And unexpected destinations,
Each offering its own atmosphere and little world to discover.
From lakeside retreats to grand halls,
Regal castles,
And magic fjords,
The world reveals its awe-inspiring beauty one fascinating place at a time.
Harness your imagination,
No longer wasting its power on worries as you envision these perfect getaways,
So real you feel you've been there before.
It's time to dream away.
Let's take a few moments for some soothing breaths.
And a little countdown to set the tone for the night.
Release a sigh.
Allowing your breath to become a mistral wind that carries away all concerns.
As you inhale.
Imagine the feeling of arriving somewhere you've never been before.
First quiet moment.
When you look around.
And notice the little details.
To make this place unlike anywhere you've been before.
And as you exhale,
Let out a long,
Comfortable sigh.
As the day feels farther and farther away,
Inhale slowly,
Welcoming the simple pleasure of curiosity,
Discovery,
And not knowing exactly what you'll find.
And let it go with a sigh.
Your breath returning to what's familiar as I count us down.
Five,
The air in the room begins to stir.
Carrying the essence of somewhere exotic.
Kissing your skin.
With an invitation to relax.
4 Your face softens your jaw releases.
Your neck,
Shoulders,
And spine sink into the support below you,
No longer needing to hold anything up.
Three,
A feeling of wonder moves through your arms and hands.
Your legs and feet.
Relaxing your muscles.
And every joint in your body.
Your heart feels warm and open.
The space between your brows tingles with aliveness.
While all of you becomes peaceful and still.
One,
Every breath and every thought conspires to bring you bliss tonight.
There are places waiting to be discovered.
Places of beauty.
Places of curiosity.
Places of wonder.
And this is where our story begins.
The candle glow in.
There are places in this world.
That hold you differently than others.
Places that you hold in your mind differently.
Returning to them with your imagination.
When traditional travel.
Just as impossible.
There's always a twinge in your heart.
A sense of sadness when you leave.
And this,
Of course,
Is a sign that you must return.
The candle glow in on Lake Michigan.
Is one of these places for many souls.
And has been such a place.
For longer than any of us can remember.
In the latter half of the 19th century.
When the heat of summer.
And the pressures of industrial cities.
Became too much.
There is no greater tonic.
Than an escape to the homes and inns.
Charming lakeside communities.
Even then.
Visitors knew the lake restored something.
Families came,
Season after season,
Generation after generation.
Passing down the ritual of return.
The way you pass down a family recipe.
When Francis first opened the heavy oak doors of the Candleglow Inn.
She knew that true comfort isn't merely found in novelty.
But in the soft,
Lived-in layers of a home.
That truly welcomes you.
And even now,
When the world feels fast and ever-changing,
You find yourself thinking about her inn.
Longing for the steady creak.
Of their app around poor.
And the scent of lavender and cedar.
That drifts through the kitchen on a quiet spring morning.
Your heart knows what it wants.
And what it wants is the candle glow in.
You have been here before,
More than once before.
And hopefully many more times to come.
You wake slowly.
The way you only do when there is absolutely nowhere you have to be.
And your body knows it.
You awaken at a time.
Well later than usual.
Surprised by how deeply you slept the night before in a bed not your own.
The crimson rose sweet.
Invites in the morning gently.
Sunlight filters through the lace curtains.
And scatters across the old hardwood.
In a trembling golden mosaic.
That shifts and breathes.
With a breeze coming off the lake.
You lie still and watch it for a long while.
Without any reason to dart up and go.
There is a particular quality to the light in this suite.
You have never been able to fully describe.
To anyone who hasn't seen it.
Something to do with the way the lace curtains catch it.
The way the old glass in the window bends it slightly.
And offers an iridescent sheen.
The way it lands on the floor.
In a dappled display.
Softly muted.
By the hardwood floors and sturdy bones of the inn.
You can hear the faint familiar sounds of morning activities in the candle glow kitchen soft musical clink of ceramics.
The low peaceful classical music from the kitchen radio.
And the rich smell of coffee and toast.
Threading its way through every other sensation.
The way it does on a morning that asks nothing of you.
As you stretch and yawn,
You reflect on the drive here.
The way the highway thinned into the two-lane road.
That runs north along the lakeshore.
And how the trees appeared like powder puffs in the moonlight.
Creating a long canopy of cherry blossoms.
In your memory.
They become a tunnel.
Passageway.
A corridor into a world.
Where everything feels melodic and kinder.
You had slowed down without meaning to.
The way you always slow down on this stretch of road.
Not wanting to arrive too quickly.
The end of something so beautiful.
That was yesterday evening.
And already the world you came from.
Feels like it belongs to a different life.
It's here.
That you feel so connected.
To the truest parts of yourself.
When you are at last dressed and come downstairs.
Francis is at the stove.
Carefully balancing a floral white ceramic tea kettle.
As the water spills into a mud.
And steam rises toward her aged hands.
Delicate wisps of white.
She turns when she hears you.
And her smile is the same.
Her kind eyes offering a special welcome.
Her warmth and generosity is authentic.
Never performative.
She inspires deep trust.
Just by being.
In most of our life.
She has received the stories from people.
Who are typically the most closed books.
The kitchen is everything.
It has always been.
Copper pots hanging above the old range.
The hand-painted tiles along the backsplash.
Each one slightly different.
Roosters and wildflowers.
In the very serious rabbit.
That was placed to honor the rabbit who kept sneaking into Francis' garden.
Decades ago.
The windows are pushed open to the morning air.
And the sheer curtains drift and settle.
There's still a cool bite in the air off the lake.
But the warmth of the sun is softening it with haste.
You hear the sweetest little meow.
And look down to find a small fluffy white kitten.
Pawing at the laces of Francis' gardening shoes.
As you help yourself to a warm beverage.
And peruse the generous layout of breakfast at the kitchen island.
You hear a small voice from the other side.
Ahead of rich brown curls,
Pops up from behind a basket of croissants.
They belonged to Gabby,
A six-year-old neighbor who is now a familiar face at the inn on mornings like this.
That's Pearl and I'm Gabi.
Her yellow rubber gardening boots already on.
A thin line of garden soil.
Has already left its mark on her forearm.
Francis explains that Gabby lives next door.
And is the inn's newest gardener.
She comes around in the mornings.
So her father can sleep in after his overnight shifts at the firehouse.
Gabby loves to share Frances' stories as much as her own.
Talking reverently of Francis's late husband.
Who was also once a member of that very same firehouse.
Gabby crouches beside the kitten,
And the kitten comes to bump noses with the little girl.
Gaby lowers her voice with great seriousness as she speaks to her furry companion.
You have to be gentle with the worms,
Because they're the Earth's helpers.
She looks up at you then,
And her face opens into the kind of smile that only belongs to children.
Who have not yet learned to be sparing with them.
We're planting roses today,
" she says.
Do you want to garden with us?
Francis explains that you are enjoying your holiday and might not want to work.
She catches your eye with a look of quiet delight.
And a reassuring glance as if to say,
You're by no means required to help.
But you promised to join in after breakfast.
Connecting with the earth.
Has a great appeal.
On this perfect spring day.
With your mug and breakfast plate carefully balanced in your hands.
Eva's open the screen door.
That leads to the wraparound porch.
Timeless and appeal.
It offers floral upholstered chairs and couches.
Nestled amongst white metal tables.
The fabric is the kind of pattern that belongs to the 1990s.
Small cabbage roses and dusty pink and sage and ivory.
Slightly faded deeply familiar.
Kind of upholstery that makes you feel.
Without being able to say exactly why.
That you have always been here.
It have always been welcome.
Two other guests are settled at the far end of the porch.
A retired couple from the UK.
Making their way across the country toward the West.
Collecting what they call the real places.
Their accents are soft.
And velvety.
Drift through the morning air.
With melodic lilts.
That Gabi does her best to emulate,
Much to their delight.
Frances has already worked her particular magic on them.
You can tell by the way they hold their mugs.
Lean slightly toward her when she speaks.
The way everyone does.
Gabi settles in the grass.
Singing a made-up song to Pearl.
As the kitten rolls on her back.
Belly up to the Sun.
Frances soon joins her with gardening tools.
An array of things that need to be planted now that the earth has thawed.
" You eat slowly.
And let the morning be generous.
Feeling the warm light blanket your arms and face.
The promise that cold days are behind you.
Now is the ideal time to visit.
As the weather is nice.
The shoulder season offers these unique intimate moments at the inn that become more bustling.
In the summer season.
The rose garden runs along the south side of the inn.
Tucked against a low stone wall.
That has been catching the afternoon sun.
And holding its warmth.
Since long before Francis became its keeper.
It's an area that often attracts butterflies in the summer months.
Something Gabi is eagerly awaiting.
The soil there is dark.
And cool and rich.
With everything that has grown here before.
And when you press your hands into it.
Seated beside Gabby.
The grit and the give of it.
And the smell.
Clean.
Deep.
And ancient.
Settle something in you.
You didn't realize needed settling down.
Francis instructs the young girl.
And in turn,
Gabi instructs you.
On how to make a good home for the roots.
As you plant the seedlings.
The kitten naps in the sun.
Curled up in the grass.
Unaware of a small fly that circles her.
Gabby pats the soil with her tiny palms,
Satisfied.
The roses being planted here.
Are the same variety.
That have always grown at the candle glow.
The same deep crimson.
Fills the glass frames on the walls of your suite upstairs.
Pressed and preserved.
Unperfect bloom.
For every summer,
Francis has kept this in.
You think about that.
As you work the soil.
About all the seasons.
Represented on that wall.
About all the mornings.
That began the way this one is beginning.
About the particular continuity of a place.
That has been loved by the same careful hands.
For so long.
And then the wind comes.
A warm,
Slow breath.
Rolls in off Lake Michigan.
Carrying a rich mineral smell of the water.
It finds the cherry blossoms.
Along the edge of the lake.
And the branches shiver.
And the petals take flight.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
Spiraling and looping through the golden air.
In every direction at once.
A drifting flurry of petals.
Gabby giggles with delight.
Francis smiles with reverence.
Petals land on your shoulders.
And in your outstretched palms.
They speckle the sleeping pearl.
Who stirs.
As the little girl begins to twirl in the grass.
Her face turned up toward the pink cascade.
She sweetly laughs.
In the uncomplicated way.
Of someone who has not yet learned.
To be anything other than completely present.
To a spectacular moment.
The sound of her unbridled glee.
Is something that will stay with you for a long time.
You stay in the middle of this cherry blossom storm.
Your heart warm with appreciation.
The world right now.
Is exactly as it is.
Lunch is light and easy on the porch.
And Gabi becomes silent as she eats.
Frances settles on the porch swing with her tea.
It's the kitten Pearl.
Between the chair legs.
And slow figure eights.
Brushing against your legs.
While the afternoon lengthens into gold.
The other guests.
Have settled into the comfortable rhythm of the inn.
There is laughter from their corner of the porch.
And the sound of it mixes with the breeze.
Into the lapping lake waves.
As you sink into the cushions.
You feel the years.
Held in these chairs.
In the wooden beams of the porch.
Hundreds of people.
Have sat here over the years.
Hundreds of people.
Have carried something of this place.
Back with them into their ordinary lives and routines.
Francis has been.
The reason for all of it.
Steady.
And warm.
And then hurry.
The soul of the inn.
The way the inn is the soul of the shoreline.
You walk to the lake.
In the mid-afternoon.
Down the familiar path.
Through the greening trees.
There it is Lake Michigan.
Heal and clear.
And lit from somewhere deep within itself.
Moving in long,
Easy waves.
That roll toward the shore.
And spend themselves completely on the sand.
They retreat with a soft,
Satisfied shush.
That has been the last sound you hear.
Every night you have slept at the Candle Glow Inn.
The beach is wide and clean and mostly empty.
And you walk it slowly with your shoes off.
The sand cool and firm near the waterline.
The sun warm on your shoulders and the lake breeze crisp enough.
To keep the air from ever growing heavy.
The village opens up.
At the end of the beat.
The same storefronts.
I've been here since always.
Thrive and dime with its hand-lettered signs and creaking floors.
The bookshop.
Were the tabby cats.
Still holds court near a stack of paperbacks beside the register.
The ice cream parlor window.
Freshly opened for the season.
With its hand-painted menu board inside.
You settle for a while.
On a bench at the edge of the village green.
Watching the afternoon go by.
Thinking about nothing in particular.
Which is its own kind of extraordinary.
The walk back to the inn in the early evening.
It's one of those moments that marks itself in memory,
Without asking permission.
The light has gone amber and long.
Angling through the cherry blossoms.
And catching the last of the petals.
So that everything glows.
The road.
The old houses.
The white clapboard storefronts.
The warm and golden light.
Is slightly unreal.
In the way that the best hours of the best days.
Are always slightly unreal.
Then you come around the bend in the rope.
You see the candle glow.
And it stops you instantly.
As you take in its historic charm.
The Queen Anne stands against an apricot sky.
In a silhouette of gables and angles.
And the wide welcoming arms.
The wrap around port.
And in every window.
A single candle burns.
Long ago they were lit nightly.
Now they run on batteries.
And seem just as warm and steady.
And view from outside.
Francis turns them on at dusk.
Checking the rooms and turning down the beds.
A ritual that began when she and her husband took over the inn.
Seeing the light from the road.
She has said more than once.
With that small private smile.
That was all it ever took.
Feel like coming home.
Inside.
The evening arranges itself.
With the easy grace of the candle glows best hours.
This is where the most unexpected memories are often made.
Francis has laid out snacks and bites by the fireplace.
Molly and Sam,
The guests from the UK.
Have settled in the love seat.
And arranging a board game.
For you and Francis to join in.
An old coal train record crackles with a fire.
And the night wears on with ease and laughter.
And as you catch the glint in Francis' eyes.
You see how she has chosen to stay vibrant.
She has actively steered her life.
In a direction.
Of community and connection.
And their very presence.
Her legacy.
Inspire you to do the same.
You look around at all of it.
The Sleeping Kitten travellers from the other side of the Atlantic,
Laughing together.
The fire.
Candles in the windows.
Francis refilling a glass.
Catching your eye with that quiet smile.
Candle glow in.
And the charming bed and breakfasts across the world.
Serve to offer the sense of connection.
Spontaneous family dynamics.
Where for but a night or weekend.
Fellow travelers,
And once strangers.
Become friends.
As quiet conversations are taken over by yawns.
Everyone stands and stretches.
Says good night.
Before retreating to their respective rooms.
The crimson rose sweet is waiting.
Quiet.
And glowy.
The lace curtains moving slowly.
And the cool night air.
That comes through the slightly cracked window.
You're in the shower,
Very hot.
Stand in the steam.
Letting the heat go all the way through you.
The honey almond soap.
Releasing into the warmth.
The old pipes knocking softly.
Reminding you that they are there.
Only when you are ready.
And sleepiness becomes too much.
You step out of the shower and towel off.
The window has gone completely soft with fog.
So you draw a circle in it.
Just large enough.
There is the lake.
Dark and moonlit.
And silver.
Rolling in long,
Slow lines.
Cherry blossoms along the shore.
Thousands of pink and cream petals.
Float on the water now.
Drift in the moonlight.
Spinning slowly.
Going wherever the water goes.
Cozy in pajamas.
You peel back the covers of the antique bed.
And settle into the mattress.
The heartfelt moments of the day.
Drift through your mind as you settle.
So safe and protected.
And the candle glow in.
And you can gently drift off to sleep.
Or simply continue on.
To the next place of wonder.
Lake Como.
Known in Italian as Lago di Como.
Has been shaped by thousands of years.
Of natural forces.
And human ingenuity.
Like many beloved links.
Its origins traced back nearly 10,
000 years ago,
To the last Ice Age.
Glaciers carved out,
Its distinctive inverted Y shape.
And immense depth.
Making it one of Europe's deepest lakes.
The lake provided an ideal place to settle.
Beginning with the Romans.
Under Julius Caesar.
The town of Novom Komom.
Modern-day Como was established.
Becoming a vital trade route.
Between the Po Valley and the Rhine Valley.
The Roman influence is still visible in ancient roads and villas.
Hinting at the lake's long-standing appeal.
As a retreat that continued through the Middle Ages.
Renaissance.
And into the modern era.
Nestled in the southern end of the Alps.
In the Lombardy region of Northern Italy.
The dramatic mountains loom protectively around the lake.
Lush Mediterranean vegetation.
Including cypress,
Olive.
And oleander trees.
Grow alongside the more typical alpine flora at higher altitudes to create a unique and picturesque scene.
Lycomo holds a romantic allure.
Its sun-dappled,
Cobbled streets and pastel-colored villas.
Define charming lakeside towns.
The grandeur of nature.
From wild flora.
To cultivated gardens.
Meets the elegance of villas and trendy shops.
It's a destination for those seeking a cherished escape.
A place to disconnect.
From the glamour of the modern world.
And connect with Italy's easygoing pace.
The soft light of dawn.
Is just beginning to filter through the narrow,
Cobbled lanes of Arena.
Painting the ancient stone facades in hues of soft pink and gold.
As you step out into the waking day.
Perhaps solo.
Enjoying the quiet solitude of this Italian escape.
Or with the comforting presence of a loved one by your side.
Or even a beloved pet.
Trotting happily at your heels.
A sense of anticipation.
Hums in the crisp morning air.
You revel in these moments.
Before the bustle of visitors.
Brings a festive energy.
For now,
The village is merely warming up.
Like the soft strains of an orchestra.
Preparing for a show.
This holiday.
A journey of serene discovery.
And heart slowing peace.
Promises a day packed with soul-lifting moments.
Unfolding like a lifetime.
From dawn to dusk.
You begin the first full day of your Italian holiday.
Walking through the charming lanes of Arena.
A fine balance on the uneven cobblestones.
Beneath your comfortable sandals.
The winding lanes feel solid and old beneath you.
Smooth to a polished sheen by millions of steps through time.
The air is fresh and invigorating.
Carrying the promise.
Of a perfect weather day.
As you move through the village.
Sounds begin to stir and layer.
The faraway chime of a church bell.
Faint murmurings of awakening life.
A dog's distant bark.
The scent of damp stone,
Still cool from the night.
Mingles with the first tantalizing hint.
Of baking bread.
You wander through Varena.
Its narrow,
Curving alleys.
Revealing hidden courtyards.
And invading doorways.
Sun-drenched facades in ochre,
Terracotta,
And faded pastels.
Rise on either side.
Each adorned with vibrant geraniums.
Fuchsia bougainvillea.
And delicate white petunias.
Cascading out of rustic wooden window boxes.
Through our choice.
In between buildings.
Tantalizing glimpses of the shimmering lake appear.
A dazzling sapphire against the silhouette of mountains.
From certain vantage points within the village.
The iconic silhouette of Bellagio.
Across the water begins to emerge.
Framed by the majestic peaks beyond.
Pops of bright pink,
Sea blue,
And teal accents on its dwellings.
Mirror the vibrant hues of Bougainvillea,
The lake,
And the sky.
Ancient wooden doors.
Some intricately carved.
Others simply weathered.
Bare ornate brass knockers,
Many worn by the hands of people.
In the hands of time.
Everything about this village.
Offers a sense of permanence.
And an enduring,
Resilient spirit.
As you come closer to the popular shops.
The unmistakable yeasty aroma of fresh pastries.
Wafts from a shark.
Followed by the rich,
Roasted scent of strong Italian coffee.
From a tiny bar.
Sweet oleander blossoms.
Perfume the air.
Their fragrance mingling with the clean,
Crisp mineral essence of the lake.
Sounds fill the space.
The clinking of cups.
The rhythmic sweep of an old broom on a stone path.
Cheerful bird song.
And always,
The gentle,
Hypnotic lapping of the legs.
The lake's calming presence.
Becomes especially noticeable.
As you near the lower parts of town.
That hug the shoreline.
On this morning walk.
You spot a little local girl.
No older than seven.
Sitting on a low stone wall.
Overlooking a particularly stunning view of the lake.
Her bright,
Curious,
Espresso-hued eyes,
Framed by dark thick lashes,
Rise to meet yours.
She holds a well-loved doll.
Its long curly hair slightly disheveled.
Murmuring to it with a sing-song voice.
You say hello.
And her beaming smile reveals a missing front tooth.
In a rapid torrent of Italian,
Words spill out.
Accompanied by enthusiastic hand gestures.
Describing her doll's fantastical adventures.
La mia bambola bella,
She begins.
Her voice a melodic stream.
You can only make out a bit of what she details.
Beglean that her baby doll has taken great adventures to a castle and loves to swim in the lake.
Her mother soon comes out of a shop to join her.
Their resemblance to one another is uncanny.
Her mother's warmth genuinely shines through.
You smile in return.
As the little girl begins asking her mother.
When she and her baby will have a chance to go swimming.
You bid them a friendly ciao.
And continue on to explore.
You reach Varena's charming lakefront promenade.
The air immediately cooler and slightly humid.
Carrying the distinct clean scent of fresh water.
Small Wooden Boats painted in vibrant blues and greens.
Up gently in their moorings.
Their reflections dancing on the calm surface as the sun rises higher in the sky.
The vastness of the lake stretches before you.
An expanse of sparkling cerulean blue.
With the majestic peaks of the pre-Alps.
Rising dramatically on all sides.
Offering a truly panoramic view that is characteristic of Arena's enchanting location.
You breathe deeply.
Feeling the cool air fill your lungs.
A profound sense of peace settling over you.
As you gaze across the water towards the villas that dot the opposite shores.
Thoughts of a leisurely lakeside lunch begin to form.
Perhaps even back.
Amongst the rose and salmon hues of your own villa,
Rosie.
And you return.
Retracing your steps.
Through the captivating lanes of the village.
Noticing new architectural details on the return journey.
The intricate carvings on a marble fountain.
Vibrant shades of laundry drying on a balcony.
The sleepy eyes of a cat bathing in the sun before the entrance to a stone cottage.
Back at Villa Rose.
Nestled on the slopes,
Overlooking Varena.
The fragrant manicured gardens greet you with lingering perfume.
And a rainbow sea of fluttering petals.
Roses and shades of deep crimson.
Muted pink and buttery yellow climb trellises.
Their perfume mixing with the calming aroma of lavender.
And the bright,
Zesty fragrance of lemon trees,
All set against the stunning backdrop of Lake Como.
The Garden Terrace.
Shaded by an ancient wisteria vine.
Offers breathtaking views.
And is set for lunch.
Crisp white linen tablecloths.
Pillow gently in the breeze.
Silver cutlery gleams.
And a simple vase of freshly cut garden roses adorns the center.
Your flowy,
Light linen attire.
Is breathable and perfect for the warm afternoon.
Lunch is a delightful affair.
Offering the fresh,
Summery tastes of Lake Como.
Pasta with sun-ripened tomatoes and basil.
Perfectly grilled local delicacies.
And a vibrant salad bursting with greens and herbs.
Through the open doors of Villa Rose.
You glimpse its cool,
Inviting interior.
The expanse of polished stone floors.
The lofty vaulted ceilings.
Gleam of antique furniture.
Perhaps even a hint.
Of a faded fresco on a distant wall.
The Fresco.
A watercolor painting on the plaster depicts a summery scene.
Not unlike your experience today.
Every detail speaks of timeless elegance and quiet luxury.
A perfect compliment.
To the beauty of Arena and Lake Como spread out before you.
A feast for the eyes.
The afternoon unfolds in tranquil repose.
You settle into a cushioned lounge chair.
In a secluded,
Shaded nook of the garden.
The pages of a favorite book.
Rustling between your fingers gently.
In the intermittent breeze.
From this serene spot.
You can still admire the charming rooftops of Arena cascading down towards the lake.
A picturesque scene that distracts you from time to time from your readings.
But as you unwind.
You feel every muscle in your body melting into the chair.
Time passes with ease.
As you sense the historic villa's energy.
Envisioning young children running through the garden.
Whether laughter or echoing.
Throughout the centuries.
The sounds of magical gatherings.
And hours-long meals seemed to linger.
Especially when you close your eyes.
And the soft lake wind caresses your skin.
The surrounding landscape.
Is a constant,
Calming presence.
Where nothing is asked of you.
And you may simply be.
For a moment.
It feels almost silly.
Consider a world of pressures.
Of constantly being busy.
Connected.
Are working towards something else.
Right now.
There is no work to be done.
The world breathes around you and with you.
Cypress trees swaying in the breeze.
As the lake laps against the shore.
In a blissful,
Unhurried rhythm.
This is a moment of pure contentment.
A quiet interlude before the evening's magic begins.
A blaze you may always return to in your mind.
When you need to remember.
Beauty and peace.
That unfolds in its own time.
As the sun begins its slow descent.
Painting the sky in ever-changing hues.
That reflect beautifully on the waters of Lake Como.
As seen from your vantage point.
You anticipate the sunset cruise you've scheduled.
A$AP indoors.
And change into an outfit waiting for you on the first floor.
It's both elegant and comfortable for the evening's gentle chills.
Tailored linen trousers in a deep navy and a flattering long-sleeved shirt.
That offers versatile comfort.
You make your way to the small private dock near the villa.
The air now infused with a cool crispness.
Stepping onto the polished wooden deck of the waiting boat.
You're greeted by other visitors.
Some Italians.
Some.
Having traveled far for this moment.
You feel the gentle rock beneath your feet.
A deep sense of gratitude fills you.
As the boat takes off on the silky water.
And begins to cruise.
Like Como transforms.
Into a canvas of fiery oranges.
Soft rose golds.
Deepening purples.
As the sun dips lower.
Reflecting the dramatic spectacle of the sky.
And gasting a warm glow.
On the charming facades of Arena as you glide past.
The vast panoramic views of the distant mountains.
Their majestic peaks.
Silhouetted against the vibrant horizon.
Offer a different perspective of the landscape.
You admired from the village.
The cool air brushes against your face.
Carrying the faint,
Clean spray of the lake.
Quiet hum of the boat's engine.
Is the only mechanical sound.
As the waves against the hull.
Make gentle sloshing and slapping sounds.
As you glide along the shoreline.
Other historic villas.
With vibrant pops of pinks,
Purples,
Blues,
And greens.
Against pale ivory,
Yellow,
And pastel facades.
Begin to twinkle.
As lights turn on in the deepening twilight.
Each window opens onto the lake.
Pouring out a warm,
Inviting glow.
The village of Arena sparkles with lights.
Creating a romantic ambience.
Where honeymooners die.
And perhaps a surprise proposal occurs.
You return to Vila Rose.
As darkness fully settles over the lake.
And say ciao to fellow cruisers and the captain.
Strings of golden orb lights.
Guide you on the ascent.
To your private terrace.
Colorful strategically placed lanterns.
Cast jewel-toned light on the stone terrace.
Inviting you to relax.
In the comfortable outdoor seating.
And admire the enchanting views.
Of the illuminated village.
Nestled along the shoreline.
Above the sky is a velvet canvas.
Rapidly filling with countless stars.
That glitter with an astonishing intensity.
Undisturbed by city lights.
Awaiting spread.
A vibrant concoction of fresh lemon sparkling water.
And delicate floral essences beckons.
Set alongside a basket of fresh,
Seasonal fruits.
The clinking of ice against the glass.
Is a refreshing sound.
And a bright,
Zesty aroma.
Fills the air.
You take a long,
Satisfying sit.
The cool liquid,
A perfect counterpoint.
To the dry evening air.
Gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.
Becomes more pronounced.
Joined by the rustling of the ancient cypress trees.
That stand guard over the villa.
Their dark,
Conical silhouettes.
Reaching toward the starlit sky.
You lean back.
Cupping your head in your hands.
To reflect on the day's beauty.
You feel profoundly grateful.
For every sensory delight.
And a world.
That can feel so soft.
So colorful.
And so restorative.
As the evening wanes on.
You leave the starlit terrace.
And enter the cool,
Quiet air of Villa Rose.
Circulates effortlessly.
Through the tall floor to ceiling windows.
Left open throughout the day.
Your bare feet glide across the cool,
Smooth stone floors.
A refreshing sensation,
After a day of walking in the summer heat.
The villa unfolds around you.
In a series of cool,
Dimly lit rooms.
Each revealing architectural details.
That speak of centuries past.
Wide graceful arches Impressive vaulted ceilings.
And intricate patterns.
In the inlaid stone floor.
Shadows play on ancient textured walls covered in art.
Even on the hottest of days.
The stone walls remain cool and soothing.
Standing in quiet grandeur.
And move slowly.
Through the main room and library.
Every room offers serene views of the lake.
Or the lake and the garden.
And feels open and airy.
Moonlight guides you.
To a wide marble staircase.
That winds its way up to the second level of bedroom suites.
You reach your bedroom.
Where moonlight streams through the expanse of windows.
Casting a silver glow.
Upon the crisp linen of your bed.
The room.
Illuminated by the soft light.
Feels like a serene,
Dreamlike space.
A few beeswax candles.
Flicker gently on a small,
Inlaid wooden chest.
Their warm glow adding depth.
Dancing Moonlit Shadow.
You step into the ensuite.
And a refreshing shower.
Washes away the last traces of the day.
The warm water.
A gentle cascade over your skin.
You feel your muscles relax.
Under the soothing flow.
The day's pleasant exertions fading away.
The cleansing water invigorates you,
Leaving your skin tingling and fresh.
A local olive oil soap.
Leaves a delicate,
Earthy scent on your skin.
You step out onto a plush mat and towel off.
Moisturizing with a Sicilian orange lotion before slipping into silky pajamas.
The fabric is a soft,
Cool,
Barely there whisper against your skin.
Reminding you of the lightness.
You feel on this journey.
The cool night air from the open window.
Carries the faint,
Sweet scent of the lake and distant blossoms.
You climb into the bed.
The Cool Crisp Linen inviting you into its comfort.
The rhythmic,
Distant lapping sounds of Lake Como gently lead you toward slumber.
You close your eyes.
Feeling the profound peace of this tranquil haven.
As the memories of the day.
Flit across the backs of your dark lids.
And you remember once more.
As you have always known deep down.
That this world can be.
Beautiful.
Healing place.
Feel free to slip into slumber.
Or let your imagination carry you onward.
To the next extraordinary place.
The pajama ball at the castle.
Amethyst Castle has stood at the foot of jagged mountains.
Nestled in the verdant,
Rolling lowlands.
For longer than its oldest records can account for.
Its pale stone walls seem to rise from the earth.
No matter the light of day,
Sunset,
Or nightfall.
They always take on.
A shade of purple.
Lavender mornings.
Give way to lilac afternoons and violet evenings.
The cherry orchards that circle its grounds.
Were planted by the castle's first keepers.
Who believed that beauty was a form of welcome.
The magnolia trees.
And lined the inner courtyard.
Have been blooming every spring.
Without interruption.
For 200 years.
Amethyst Castle has always carried a certain feminine softness.
One that seems to settle gentle over its ancient stone foundation.
And for nearly as long as the magnolias have bloomed.
It has hosted an annual pajama ball.
The gathering began.
As the best traditions do.
With a simple and generous idea from Princess Eugenia.
She was a plucky young visionary.
Often left alone in the castle with its staff.
For long stretches of time.
In an effort.
To soothe her loneliness.
She began hosting gatherings.
Noticing guests often arrived from long journeys.
Some on horseback through mountain passes.
Some by river along slow winding routes.
Some on foot through forest paths.
And that what each of them needed most upon arriving.
Was not grandeur,
But rest.
It was certainly a more modest time.
And not all the villagers were so keen about the pajama ball.
But it was such a charming and innocent affair.
That it continued despite the gossip.
Held in the gardens rather than the ornate and austere ballroom.
Guests would arrive.
In their traveling night clothes.
While the castle's keepers passed cups of warm,
Spiced milk between the blossoming trees.
There is no music that first night.
Only the wind moving through cherry blossoms.
It was,
By all accounts.
The most peaceful gathering the castle had ever known.
And it has returned every spring since.
The castle has 100 rooms and suites.
And tonight.
Every one of them is occupied.
Fellow dreamers have traveled from every corner of the world to be here.
And ensuites along the eastern and western wings.
They are resting.
Napping has always been part of the itinerary.
Even before the term disco nap.
Was ever coined.
At the midnight hour.
The castle doors open into the gardens.
And the procession begins.
There's something about awakening in the night.
That seems to deepen the dreamlike quality of the affair.
You rest first.
And then you celebrate.
The celebrating is itself a form of rest.
The honeysuckle sweet,
And the third floor of the eastern wing is yours.
" and you know it the moment you step inside.
The way that a place so far away from home feels familiar and safe.
The ceilings arch high overhead.
Their plaster were carved with boughs of tiny honeysuckle blossoms.
Captured in eternal bloom.
The room smells of freshly cut logs for the fire,
Beeswax candles,
And of course,
Honeysuckle.
Beyond the mullioned windows.
The snow-capped mountains rise against the starry indigo sky.
Framing the land.
Like a protective gate.
Below.
Cherry blossoms encircle the castle grounds.
In tufts of white.
And the palest,
Most tender pink.
And the low table between the armchairs by the window.
A tray has been left by the castle's keepers.
A tall ceramic cup.
With steam rising in slow spirals.
The small card in copper script that reads.
Lavender and turmeric.
With a whisper of honey and cardamom.
Having risen from a nap.
You settle into the armchair nearest the fire.
And the cup.
When you wrap both your hands around it.
The precise temperature of comfort.
Warming your palms,
Your chest,
And somewhere deeper still as you take the first slow sit.
Freshly laundered pajamas.
Drape over a puffy silk hanger.
Dangles from an antique armoire.
Painted with honeysuckle vines.
They are the finest silk.
Cool and liquid against your fingertips when you lift the sleeve.
The kind of fabric that mirrors the silky softness.
Of a running stream.
The color suits you.
Bringing a sense of ease and comfort.
While also gently complimenting your features.
Out of habit,
You bring the fabric to your nose.
Catching a hint of lavender.
From the satchels of dried petals it was stored with.
Many of tonight's pajamas.
Are rendered in shades of mountain rivers.
Breaking free of winter ice.
The creams and deep pinks of blushing magnolias.
And the softest coral.
Each one is made with the care of something truly loved.
Pajamas have not always been silk.
And the history of what guests have worn to this ball.
Is told in paintings and photographs.
That hang in the castle's main hall.
In the earliest years,
Guests arrived wrapped in hand-loomed wool.
Heavy,
Warm.
And dyed in the deep colors of the surrounding forest.
Castle's seamstresses.
Stitched protective runes along the hems small spiraling symbols.
Meant to invite good dreams.
And turn away restless ones.
These garments were treated with great seriousness.
The armor of the night.
The wool heavy enough to feel like an embrace.
Holding the sleeper through the night.
Then came the Victorian era.
Which softened everything.
Velvet and lace replaced wool.
Appearing at every cuff and collar.
Smoking jackets arrive.
Deep plum and midnight navy.
Their lapels embroidered with climbing ivy.
While women's robes trailed long and luminous.
Sleeves cuffed in ivory.
Even children wore miniature versions.
Solemn.
And a little wonderful.
Buttons fastened all the way to the chin.
But then at last came silk and silk has remained.
Because some discoveries are so perfectly suited to their purpose.
That nothing that follows will improve upon them.
The castle's clocks begin their midnight song.
Low dulcet tones rising through the stone like a monastic song.
From the corridor beyond the door.
Comes the first soft patter of footsteps.
As the procession begins.
The grand staircase spirals down through the castle's center in white marble.
Lit from below by hundreds of silk lanterns.
Strung between carved stone banisters.
In gold,
Cream,
And pale pink.
Swaying softly in the warm air.
Rising from the gardens.
The other guests descend in their silks.
A slow,
Quiet river of dreamers.
Anari.
Murmuring in gentle tones.
As though they've arrived somewhere.
They've long been waiting for.
The procession moves through the Grand Hall.
Past oil paintings,
The formal Victorian balls,
And the playful flapper gatherings of the roaring 20s.
And then,
Just before they open French doors,
Three baby goats appear.
Small.
Cream color.
Wearing a wreath of woven cherry blossoms.
As though they are the hosts of the gathering.
Their soft bleeds weave through the crowd.
As they meander across the marble.
Pausing to press velvet noses into outstretched hands.
And investigate the hems of trailing robes.
A little girl in powder pink crouches to meet one.
And the baby goat studies her with great seriousness.
Before resting its forehead gently against her knee.
And closing its eyes.
As if deciding she is safe.
The goats drift through the procession.
Like small,
Cheerful chaperones.
Guiding everyone out into the night.
And as you step outside.
The air shifts.
Defying the snow-capped peaks.
Meeting you instead.
With the softness of a May afternoon.
Or a sun-warmed window seat.
Or a kitchen where bread has just finished baking.
Cherry blossoms are at their peak.
Their branches arch overhead.
And a soft rustling cathedral.
Blossoms so dense.
They soften the sounds of the night petals drift constantly on the air.
Landing on shoulders,
Faces,
Silk sleeves.
And even the goats.
Do not seem to notice at all.
A keeper passes with a tray of sparkling botanical tonic.
Pale rose with suspended edible flowers.
You take a glass flute.
The drink tastes of elderflower and rose.
A whisper of orange.
The bubbles landing on your tongue like tiny celebrations.
And for a moment,
You simply stand there.
Letting the night hold you.
As you take in the beauty of the season.
Music drifts from the gazebo.
A familiar modern tune.
Slowed and softened into something elegant.
The loach hello is soon answered by Bramble.
The castle sheepdog.
Whose bark is more playful than piercing.
He moves through the garden like a slow lumbering white cloud.
Gently herding guests and goats alike.
Bramble has always been this way.
Steady.
Grounding.
He finds those who need comfort.
And simply stands beside them.
Leaning his weight in.
Until their breathing changes.
He greets each guest in turn.
Accepting their hands with quiet patience.
Tail sweeping slowly behind him.
When he reaches you.
He presses his nose into your palm.
And looks up with calm,
Amber eyes.
You rest your hand.
Against the warm silk of his ears.
For a moment.
Everything moves around you.
And a self.
Easy rhythm.
Two lambs follow at a slight distance.
Their steps tentative.
Each one a small act of trust.
Woman in a rose gold robe kneels to greet them.
And they explore her hands with soft tongues.
While she laughs.
Her friend dressed in aquamarine.
Joining in beside her.
They take turns.
Holding the gentle weight of these newly born lambs.
Further through the orchard.
Garden stations unfold.
Guests paint night-blooming flowers or capture them on film.
At the pressing tables.
Heavy parchment and wood presses wait.
You choose the magnolia.
Lay it down and close the press.
Weird meeting would.
Quiet,
Lasting sound.
It will be waiting tomorrow.
Flatten and preserve.
A small memento of the night.
At the copper fire pit.
Lavender and sandalwood.
Feed a slow,
Steady flame.
Sending trails of smoke through the orchard.
You warm your hands there.
Breathing in.
As a keeper offers a small cup of evening tonic.
Rose,
Ashwagandha,
And honey.
With a single violet floating on top.
You drink it slowly.
Feeling warmth spread through you.
Across the fire pit.
Guests speak in low voices.
About a dream one of them had.
Leaning in with quiet attention.
Nearby,
One of the goats sits very still between them.
Its wreath slightly askew.
Gently falling asleep to their tales.
You move on to the blossom swings.
Great silk rope swings.
Hung from the oldest,
Strongest oak branches.
That are wrapped in twinkling fairy lights.
Their seats are wide.
And cushioned in lush mauve velvet.
You settle into a swing.
And softly propel yourself forward into the orchard.
Where lanterns glow between the branches.
As you rise higher.
The shimmer of the moat.
Becomes visible at the garden's far edge.
You move slowly.
Going forward and back.
The fragrant breeze kissing your cheeks.
Massaging your scalp.
Blossoms fall.
The mountains stand reverent.
Lavender smoke drifts through the trees.
And somewhere.
In the direction of the moon.
Different song begins.
Like a conversation between a heart.
And the spring wind.
It calls you eventually,
That music.
And the way the moat catches the moonlight.
A long silver rose gleam.
Through the tufts of blossoming petals.
You drift toward it.
When the trees open onto the water's edge.
You pause for a moment.
Simply to take in this timeless scene.
The moat encircles the castle.
In a wide,
Still ribbon.
Transformed tonight.
Stone lanterns along both banks.
Cast soft pink light onto the surface of the water.
Tiny blossoms.
That have been falling all evening.
Now rest in constellations.
Of pale pink and cream.
Floral Garland Canoes.
Are tethered along the near bank.
Lily pad rafts drift nearby.
Their cushions deep green.
And lined with a plush fabric.
On one of them,
A pair of guests reclines side by side.
Faces turned toward the mountains.
And lit by the ethereal moonlight.
A half-dozen lotus-shaped vessels wait quietly along the bank.
A keeper offers a steady arm.
And you step into a vessel of your choice.
Join the others languidly drifting on the water.
Bramble settles at the moat's edge.
Watching guests drift gently out into the night.
The vessel glides.
The moat seems to know its own course.
Carrying you in a slow,
Wide arc.
Along the castle walls.
Above you,
The battlements rise ancient and more straight.
Their torches reflected in the water below.
And as you flow.
The petals fall like warm snow.
Onto the surface of the moon.
And your silk pajamas.
And into your open hands.
Ready to receive them.
The vessel completes its slow,
Gracious circle.
And the keeper brings you back in to a docking point.
The base of an ivy-clad tower.
Wisteria hangs thick over the entrance.
Forming a perfumed curtain.
Blossoms releasing their scent.
As you part them.
And step through into the castle's quiet interior.
The hallway is hot this hour.
Are deep golden and hushed.
Torches burned low.
The long taper candles.
Approaching the brass of the candelabras.
One by one,
The guests return to their suites.
The peace of spring.
Settling into your bones with each step.
As you ascend the stairs to your floor.
Feeling as though you are floating across the marble.
Your sweet is as you left it.
Except warmer now.
And transformed in the small ways that matter most.
The bath has been drawn.
It steams softly in the tiled room.
Rose petals scatter its surface.
As well as a long handful of dried lavender.
Two beeswax candles burn.
On the wide stone edge of the tub.
You settle into the healing waters.
The memories of mere moments ago.
Beginning to feel like a recent dream.
As you surrender to the silence of this space.
The bath offers permission.
To be finished with the effort of thinking.
Permission.
Be warm and held.
And beautifully,
Completely.
Still.
As sleepiness arrives.
Soft and delicate at first.
Than heady and heavy.
You rise and tell a lie.
And change back into your pajamas.
You slowly move toward the bed.
Where the duvet has been turned back.
Reveal the cool,
Crisp interior of the linens.
Why does Magnolia You slide between them gradually and gratefully.
Your whole body extends in two.
The enormous and welcoming space.
You peer out the windows at the night once more.
Then press a button.
And the thick velvet drapes are closed.
You place the silk eye mask.
And your tired eyes.
The last sound is the gentle wind.
Moving through the cherry blossoms.
In the garden below your window.
The softest possible hush.
The world outside encourages you.
To drift to sleep.
And you are still floating.
So light.
So fulfilled.
So carefree.
You arrive at the soft,
Ethereal edges of slumber.
You might doze off peacefully.
Remain with me as we discover where the next story will take you.
In a city like New York.
That requires so much walking.
A soul becomes quite aware of the elements each day.
The moodiness of the currents.
The intensity of the seasons.
Require constantly adapting.
One day you may find yourself blown down Broadway.
Only needing to extend your arms to nearly take flight through the concrete canyon.
Other days may bring a deluge of horizontal rain.
And you find yourself tucking under and awning until the moment passes.
But these trying moments often conjure humor and humility.
And allow the city's museums and historic dwellings.
To offer magical refuges.
From the fickle weather.
This particular summer has been an intense one.
With air as heavy as a hot,
Wet wool blanket.
You find yourself.
Walking along the edge of Central Park.
The tree is rustling,
Ever so slightly.
As a breeze from the east side stirs the humid air.
The sun is long gone.
Yet the heat rises up out of the pavement.
Surrounding your bare legs.
As you walk along the Beaux-Arts buildings on Central Park West.
The low buzz of cicadas.
Drifts out from somewhere deep in the greenery.
As a yellow cab speeds up the street.
Many residents have taken off for the Catskills or Hamptons.
And the city becomes quieter at night.
As so many apartments remain dark.
In the Dakota and San Remo.
Look at those who remain.
Move at an unbothered pace.
Adapting.
As they always do.
A doorman in a long summer coat.
Holds a door open with patience and extends a smile in your direction.
Sweat beads faintly at his temple.
Before he can tuck back into the air-conditioned marble lobby.
An older woman,
Wearing perfectly pressed white slacks and a blue blouse,
Walks to Poodle's.
Who trot along the avenue.
Grateful the sun is gone.
And they may now run leash-free in the park.
Their pink tongues hang out.
Their perfectly manicured tails move like white flags in the shadows.
Somewhere behind you,
A bus sighs to a stop,
Its brakes exhaling in one long breath.
A sound echoing amidst the drone of air conditioners.
A pair of young teens.
Clearly infatuated with one another.
Share a single pair of earbuds on a park bench.
Everyone seems to be moving slowly tonight.
Unwilling to hurry themselves any further into the heat than they have to.
Content instead.
To let the evening simply happen around them.
And as the Strawberry Moon.
Rises above the dark silhouette of the trees in the park.
Everyone pauses.
To look up at its peachy pink glow.
Some may say,
New York is an unnatural place to be.
In nature.
Can be just as beautiful.
And awe-inspiring here as anywhere else.
For those who choose to stop and look.
You continue north.
Until the Museum of Natural History.
Rises before you.
Its grand stone entrance.
Catching the amber glow of street lamps.
The steps are wide and pale.
Beneath a row of tall doors.
That at first appear closed for the night.
Twin banners hang still.
As the air becomes still as well.
Either side of the entrance and above the columns.
Carved letters catch the gold light.
In a way that makes the whole building look for a moment.
Like something magical lit from within.
This museum has stood at the edge of the park.
For well over a century.
And for just as long.
It has been one of the neighborhood's favorite hideouts.
Whenever the weather outside has stopped being anyone's friend,
You climb the wide steps slowly Feeling the stone still warm beneath your feet.
Even this late in the day.
You approach the closest door.
As if entering a speakeasy.
And are granted access by the building's guards.
Who greets you with a smile.
And check you in.
On rare occasions like tonight.
The museum offers a sleepover.
For those seeking a uniquely urban camping experience indoors.
The moment you pass through the doors.
Everything changes.
Cool air meets your skin.
As if standing before an open refrigerator door.
The marble underfoot.
Is smooth and faintly echoing.
Cool as well.
Above you,
The ceilings rise high.
And the noise of the city.
Falls away behind you.
Almost as if.
It was never there at all.
It's been left behind on the sidewalk outside.
You wander in slowly.
Past a small cluster of families.
Arriving just ahead of you.
And you notice the quiet smile.
That everyone here has come dressed for sleep.
Pajama pants and slippers,
Soft flannel and worn cotton.
Few bare feet already tucked into someone's arms.
Toddler in footed pajamas.
Printed with tiny stars.
An older gentleman near the Kochek.
Wears a robe over striped pajamas.
Or the unhurried dignity of someone.
Who has clearly done this every year.
For a very long time.
You glance down at yourself.
A cozy old t-shirt.
Soft enough from years of washing.
That it barely feels like fabric at all.
And a pair of soft shorts.
The kind of outfit that has always promised comfort.
Arriving in the museum's main lobby.
You're met with a towering skeleton.
Of a great prehistoric dinosaur.
Rising high into the vaulted space.
On the floor below.
A few kids wiggle.
And sit crisscross applesauce.
Before appearing upward in quiet giggles.
The creature's impossible enormity.
It feels like a dream.
To wander the halls.
Alongside other souls in their pajamas.
Such a grand,
Serious building.
One that often hosts some of the city's most refined events.
At night.
The energy is allowed to be different.
There's a softness moving through the galleries.
As if the space itself.
Remembering older stories of people.
Gathered by firelight.
Finding their way together through the wilderness.
Building a different kind of community.
Seeing those who've come for the sleepover.
Shuffling across marble floors in their fluffy slippers.
Makes it feel as though the museum itself has agreed.
Just for tonight.
To let its guard down.
Along with everyone else Tonight is the one night.
This museum belongs entirely to its neighbors.
These neighbors congregate?
A few toting,
Worn stuffed animals tucked under their small arms.
That there are no phones raised to capture the moment.
No screens glowing in anyone's hands.
It's an old-fashioned kind of gathering.
Sort that existed.
For anyone thought to document every single moment.
Instead,
Everyone is fully present.
And living inside it.
People nod to one another as they pass.
When they speak,
Their voices stay in the whispers,
Often saved for libraries.
A volunteer near the entrance.
Hands out small paper maps.
Printed in soft sepia ink.
As though the building has decided.
Tonight calls for an older,
Gentler kind of guidance.
Some groups embark on a scavenger hunt.
While you leisurely allow your footsteps and curiosity alone.
Guide you.
The entire museum.
Become a small nighttime village.
And everyone inside it has agreed.
Without ever saying so.
To move slowly.
To take up space beside one another.
To let the night.
Belong to all of you.
At once.
You explore gallery after darkened gallery lit only by the faint glow.
Of emergency lighting.
And the ambient shine of light.
Reflecting off the glass enclosures.
Your footsteps make a padded,
Echoing sound against the stone.
And somewhere ahead of you.
Other footsteps do the same.
In no particular direction.
With no sense of time.
Is simply meander.
Once more.
As if in a dream.
Time doesn't move.
In the usual way in here.
A minute could be five.
An hour could be a single breath.
There's no map you need to follow.
Or exhibit you're required to see.
Instead,
The whole building simply exists.
For wandering,
You drift first into a hall of dinosaurs.
Taking pause at the triceratops with wonder.
For a moment.
You imagine the time when these great beings wandered the same planet.
That now spins beneath you.
In the dim light.
The dinosaurs look almost like sleeping giants.
Entirely at peace.
A small boy in his dinosaur print pajamas.
Can't stop his animated chatter.
Arms spread wide as he offers an air hug.
To his prehistoric heroes.
You rest a palm against the base of a great stone pedestal.
Feeling the age of the object.
Settle into your hands.
The way touching something truly solid and old.
Can make your own worries.
Feel briefly,
Mercifully small.
The hall is so quiet.
That you can hear the white noise of the cooling system.
That keeps the museum.
At the absolute ideal temperature.
And there's hot.
Humid night.
Further along.
You find yourself in the gemstone room.
Breathtaking.
In its quiet,
Sparkling diversity.
Where light seems to be more enchanting.
Than elsewhere in the museum.
It settles into glass cases.
Smooth stone surfaces.
And lingers there.
As if it has nowhere else it needs to go.
Your mind can't help but be drawn to favorites.
Colors,
And cuts.
Attract you with their intricate beauty.
There are deep violets and pale rose tones.
Rich rubies and dark reflective surfaces.
Translucent forms.
All evidence some of the world's most beautiful gifts.
Come from pressure and time.
At the center of the room.
A great geode.
Size of a bathtub.
Reveals its remarkable purple crystals within.
And a resting display.
Of the old adage.
That beauty comes from within.
Nearby.
Unpolished gold.
Catches a thin thread of light.
Appears like luminous tinsel in the shadows.
As you move through the room.
Your attention begins to slow with it.
As though the space is gently guiding you with its own pace.
It's more than a room of sparkling things.
It feels like a promise.
Patience can bring.
The most unexpected gifts.
Everything reveals itself.
Its own time.
As though it has always known.
There is no need to rush.
Past the gemstones.
You wander into a hall built around an old exhibit.
Of woven shelters.
Gathering spaces.
Round structures made of bent branches and hide.
Circle of stones.
Where a fire might once have been lit.
The lighting here.
Is warmer than the rest of the museum.
A soft buttercream.
You find yourself thinking.
Without meaning to.
About how old the idea of shelter really is.
Long before this museum.
Long before the city.
People built small,
Round,
Protected spaces where they could lie down together.
Feel warm and rest.
There's an unspoken feeling.
How many people across time?
Needed the same simple things.
Warmth.
Shelter,
The closeness of others.
The place to finally stop moving for a while.
Long before cities.
Long before displays.
And small groups gathered by a fire.
And learned how to rest together in the dark.
You pause at the edge of the exhibit.
Close enough to see the careful weave of branch and cord.
Though aren't smoothness,
Where hands must have touched it.
Again and again.
Over some long ago season.
Eventually your feet.
Or maybe the pull of the whole building.
Leads you toward the planetarium.
Its seats recline.
In a wide,
Dark circle.
And you settle into one.
Sinking back until you're looking straight up.
Into a domed sky.
The stars begin to appear slowly.
One by one.
Within in soft clusters.
Then in whole drifting rivers of light.
Spiraling gently overhead.
A deep familiar voice begins to nary.
But only briefly.
He offers a quote from Van Gogh.
The sight of the stars makes me dream.
And then there's a brief pause.
Before soothing music.
Mystical and meditative.
Plays throughout the celestial display.
A few seats away.
A little one has already fallen fully asleep.
Head tipped sideways.
Against a grandparent's shoulder.
No one moves to wake her.
Couple.
Further along the row.
Speak in low voices.
About a constellation.
Neither of them can quite name.
Laughing softly when they give up trying.
You let your own eyes drift the same way.
Following one thread of light.
As it arcs slowly overhead.
Disappears behind the curve of the dome.
There's no beginning or end to the sky.
There's merely a why.
Endless drift.
The wide seat beneath you.
Cradles your whole body.
The way a hammock might.
And your arms grow heavy.
Resting against it.
You let your head fall back fully now.
No longer holding.
Even the small effort of posture.
And the stars blur softly.
The edges of your vision.
The way things do.
Just before sleep arrives.
Feeling it may be hard to resist these heady waves of tiredness.
Arise and make your way to the Great Hall.
Where tonight's sleepover takes place.
Intuitively.
You navigate along with others.
Sleepy steps.
Padding their way to the camping space.
Some take the stairs down.
While others enjoy a ride in the glass elevators.
As you arrive.
You're given a sleeping bag and pillow by a volunteer.
Some have settled beneath tents.
While others are already dreaming in their plush sleeping bags.
An array of blue and green sleeping bags.
Spread out in loose rolls across the floor.
Each one a little island of color in the dim blue light.
Somewhere nearby.
The parent hums a lullaby.
To a child already half-way to sleep.
Series of small nightlights shaped like stars.
Have been set at the edges of the space.
Casting the faintest goal.
Across the nearest sleeping bags.
You find a perfect spot and settle.
Grateful for the warmth of the bag.
As you snuggle against the museum's coolness.
You peer up at the majestic blue whale.
A hundred feet.
Of smooth,
Dark blue.
Suspended from the ceiling.
And nearly invisible wires.
So that it seems to hang there entirely on its own.
Drifting slowly.
Through some enormous,
Silent sea.
Soft ocean sounds.
And the low moans of a whale.
Play throughout the hall.
Despite the lofty ceilings.
There's a cozy,
Cavernous feeling.
And as you get comfortable.
Your sleepy eyes become heavier with each breath.
You feel safe.
Parts of a community.
In an experience that was once universally shared.
Tribes of souls resting together.
Having made it through yet another day.
In the singular.
Spectacular Around you,
The last small sounds of the night are winding down.
A few feet away.
Someone reads the final page of a picture book.
A whisper so soft.
Barely reaches you.
And closes it gently.
And sets it aside.
Somewhere behind you.
Teenaged Twins.
Falling asleep back to back.
One hand.
Holding loosely the edge of the sleeping bag.
Your breathing slows further.
Matching itself.
The slow imagined rhythm.
Of the whale drifting above you.
The murmured conversations around you.
Of viewer.
Fainter.
And stop altogether.
The soft shuffle of sleeping bags.
Settles into silence.
Somewhere far above you.
The whale is steady and unmoving.
Dark,
Calming shade.
Keeping watch over the whole quiet hall.
Your eyes are so heavy.
There are words to describe the sense of protection you feel in this room.
In this sturdy,
Beloved museum.
The last of the light.
Softens into something.
Can barely make out.
Sound falls away.
First,
The songs of the whale and hum of the building.
Than even the sound of your own breath.
As you drift closer.
The bridge.
To sleep.
There's nothing left to do tonight but rest.
And so you surrender.
To its natural pull.
With a sense of gratitude and wonder.
Gratitude for this special moment in time.
You get to share.
Beauty.
Of life on this planet.
Planet shared with beings.
As impossibly large as a blue whale.
Shared with unassuming gray rocks.
Creating beautiful gemstones within.
Shared with like-minded souls.
Who seek beauty like you.
On this special night at the museum.
These waves of gratitude.
Gently guide you to slumber.
Allow yourself to surrender to sleep.
Or follow your curiosity.
To the next story.
Waiting to unfold.
The midnight fjords,
There are certain destinations we reach with ease.
Planned and anticipated.
And arrive on schedule.
Then there are the ones.
That live for years.
A feeling.
And atmosphere.
An image glimpsed somewhere.
And never quite forgotten.
A photo of dark,
Gleaming water between rising cliffs.
A sentence or paragraph in a novel.
Coffee table travel book.
At a cozy bookshop.
A friend's voice.
Saying you simply have to go.
Of the look that tells you.
They mean it.
And then there are the rarest ones of all.
The journeys that exist at the very edge of the real.
So vivid and complete when we find them.
That it is difficult to believe.
We have never been there before.
They haunt us in a particular way.
Like a memory of an old fairy tale.
Or dream from another life.
Insisting that we find our way back.
The Ethereal Maiden Promises more than delivers.
With its midnight cruise through the Norwegian fjords.
Speaks to something deep.
A longing for wildness,
Witnessed from safety and beauty.
Held at just the right distance.
There's a moodiness here.
In this place of lingering darkness and fickle currents.
That allows you to be moody.
If you'd rather.
There's no pressure to smile and play the part.
And the elimination of such expectations.
Makes it all the easier to surrender.
And find serenity and bliss.
With a most natural ease.
The particular sweetness of warmth.
Is made meaningful.
By the cold.
Just beyond the glass.
As the vessel ventures.
Beyond the perimeters of land.
So you may be somewhere and nowhere.
All at once.
Whether this journey becomes when you take in waking life.
Are one you return to.
Again and again.
In the quietest rooms of your sleeping mind.
It will always feel as real.
As your next breath.
The Evening on the Ethereal Maiden.
Begins at a small timber harbor on Norway's coast.
Or the late afternoon light of October.
Has turned the water.
To hammered copper.
The wooden duck planks.
Still faintly warm beneath your feet.
Leaving the smell of sun-kissed pine.
Contrasting the coolness in the autumnal air.
In this picturesque quietude.
There's nothing to distract from the evolving peace within.
You feel the pace of your own inner life.
Slowing down to match the gentle ease.
Of the dark waves,
Lapping against the dawn.
There is a small gathering of fellow travelers.
12 at most.
Assembled near the gangway.
With that particular quality of ease.
That belongs to people who have made a deliberate choice to step away.
Journey to the start.
As an act of self-care.
The setting of an intention.
To simply arrive.
And to simply be.
Someone catches your eye and smiles,
Without needing a reason.
And you smile back.
Imbued with camaraderie.
And a shared silent thrill.
For this beginning of a holiday at sea.
Modest in size,
The ship is anything but modest in presentation.
The brass trim of the navy hull.
Is polished to a warm,
Honeyed gleam.
Its lines are clean and elegant.
Ready to slip quietly into the landscape.
And assuming amongst the towering fjords.
To attendance in freshly pressed ivory and navy dress.
Greet the group at the gangway.
Addressing each guest by name.
From a handwritten manifest.
In a worn leather portfolio.
Your cabin is one of only twelve aboard.
Stepping inside.
Feels like stepping into the most considered version of comfort.
You have ever encountered on a boat.
The room is arranged like a song.
With attention given.
To every note and space between every detail.
The air circulates gently.
And carrying the smell of fresh linens,
Roses,
And springs of juniper arranged in a vase near the entry.
The walls are panels.
In polished mahogany.
A deep and inviting clover honey.
Shifts with the light.
Warm as firelight in some angles.
Almost cognac.
Others.
The linens on the wide beds.
Or a softer shade of white.
Not quite buttercream.
With the same deep navy trim.
Found throughout the vessel.
The duvet is marshmallow-like.
Piled with four pillows.
In Chaos's Edge.
With a fine embroidered border of thin dark blue.
And sparkling gold threads.
On the nightstand.
A brass lamp.
With a cream colored shade.
Casts a warm and gilded circle of light.
Across a silver tray.
Holding a glass carafe of water.
And a small single glass.
Above the bed.
Hangs a single framed artwork.
Of a large format photograph.
Printed in deep blue and silver tones.
Of the surface of a northern fjord at dawn.
The water is perfectly still.
The cliffs reflected in it.
In a way you cannot tell.
Where the sea and sky begin or end.
The floor beneath your feet.
Is a warm tea.
Scattered near the bed.
Is a small run.
In deep ink blue and ivory.
Its pattern a traditional Nordic geometric.
That is both ancient and modern.
Entirely at home here.
A narrow,
Built-in bookshelf.
Beside the porthole.
Holds a handful of cloth-bound volumes.
A novel.
A collection of Nordic folklore.
A slim book of poetry.
With a forest green cover.
And on the shelf below them.
A folded blanket.
And a heather charcoal wool.
Thick enough to sleep under.
On its own.
The porthole frames the harbor.
Darkening into evening.
The last amber light.
Ripples on the water.
From the first lamp.
Lit somewhere in a building on the shore.
A faint trail of wood smoke.
Lingers in the harbor.
Trailing the ship.
And curling just above it,
Toward the sky.
You change into something soft.
Loose trousers that whisper against your legs.
Downy soft pullover and warm oatmeal.
That settles around you like a second skin.
The sweater and matching thick socks.
But pad quietly against the teak floor.
Were purchased from a small boutique.
Just outside the harbor.
Each layer offers its own small pleasure.
Tactile comfort.
Is one of many on this journey.
That act as a form of self-care.
That serve as a reminder.
Of how wonderful it can be.
Be alive.
You ascend the spiral stairs to the main deck.
Moving carefully just as the ship begins to gently move.
Departure is so smooth.
It is almost imperceptible.
Just the gentlest shift in the harbor lights.
In the dark beginning.
Its slow,
Backward drift.
And then the open water ahead.
And why.
Perfectly still.
The fjords receive you gradually.
The landscape at first,
Simply vast.
Broad sky.
Low mounds losing their color to the dusk.
Then the cliffs begin to rise.
Appearing first as shadows.
At the outer edges of your vision.
But in mere moments.
They become completely present.
Sheer walls of ancient rock.
Ascending on either side of the ship.
With a quiet grandeur.
Something in your chest stirs.
Brought by a warmth and gratitude.
For this beauty.
The moment conjures.
The same wonder.
Is when a whale reaches the sea.
And you are reminded.
Of how remarkable.
And how fantastic it is.
To share a planet.
Was something so majestic.
In these magical encounters.
The noise and the urgency of ordinary life.
Are quickly put in tune.
A new perspective.
It no longer has.
The same intense pull on you.
An attendant appears at your side with a tray.
Offering a glass of something sparkling.
Very calm.
And you take it.
The first sip is extraordinary.
Effervescent and clean.
Infused with a song.
Floral sweetness of elderflower.
And the most delicate whisper of lavender.
You lean against the railing.
And watch the sky perform its slow transformation above the cliffs.
The last orange gold.
Drains from the horizon.
Deepening into amber and amethyst.
And then into something richer.
Stranger.
More saturated.
Radiant indigo arrives first at the heights.
And melts downward.
Soon the entire sky,
Between the cliff walls,
Is that deep and luminous color.
Pearly plum.
Warming the upper edges of the stone.
Where the light still lingers.
Below the superyacht.
The water deepens from Pewter.
Dark silver.
To a black so complete and so still.
It becomes a perfect mirror.
In moments.
When the water becomes still.
Cliffs and the first flickering stars.
Are replicated in a precise and breathtaking reflection.
Attendant drifts past and tells you unhurriedly,
That the fjords you are moving through.
Were carved over 10,
000 years ago.
By glaciers miles thick.
They were never rushed.
Patiently form.
With a force,
Slow and persistent.
You find yourself sighing without warning.
Imagining the same slow shifts within you.
And how so many could be better enjoyed.
Are the same.
Patience.
Approach.
Cool air kisses your face.
With a hint of mist.
The attendant.
Noticing the shift in temperature.
Invites you to make your way to the wellness spa.
Where an appointment has been prearranged.
She leads you back inside.
Where you descend a narrow staircase.
Into a low ceiling.
Beautifully warm space.
Feels entirely removed.
From the world above.
The walls are clad.
In rustic pale birch planks.
With a soft grain.
You can't help but run your fingers across.
The ceiling is fitted.
The deep vault of hammered copper.
That has oxidized over time.
Into a warm verdigris.
And surface catching and scattering the candlelight.
And dozens of constellations.
Across the walls and floors.
And there are candles everywhere.
Tea lights nestled in shallow stone dishes.
Pillar candles of varying heights.
Grouped on a low shelf.
All protected within clear,
Glass hurricanes.
They add a subtle green scent to the air.
Something is soothing.
As the golden.
Thermal embrace of the spa.
The air also carries the scent.
Pine resin and warm oil.
And something floral beneath it.
Threading through the deeper,
Woodier base.
You breathe deeper.
Taking it all in.
Fantastic air.
Imbued with the intention.
Of cleansing.
Creating a sense of ease.
Along one wall.
A narrow table.
Holds a collection.
Stone apothecary vessels.
In a matte grey.
Deep forest green.
Their labels handwritten in ink.
Containing the oils,
Scrubs,
And salt.
Used in each treatment.
The massage therapist greets you.
Invites you into a cozy wood-paneled room.
Gently giving you instructions to prepare.
With a subtle accent.
That's posh and hard to trace.
When settled on the table.
She returns and works slowly.
And with great intention.
She begins at the base of your neck.
And moves outward across the shoulders and down your arms.
As she does.
You feel the constant,
Gentle rug of the boat.
And the subtle vibrations.
Of the engine.
Her strong hands continue.
With just the right pressure.
As she uses a warm pine-scented oil.
She works into your muscles.
The patient confidence.
Of someone who understands.
That the body stores its tensions.
In hidden.
And surprising places.
And she finds every one of them.
She moves through the familiar knots along the trapezius.
And the stubborn holding at the tops of the shoulders.
Each one releasing.
And as she does.
A voice in your head whispers.
That it's okay to receive.
You deserve every moment of letting go.
Your body transforms.
Entirely surrendering.
And entirely different.
From the body that boarded this ship.
A few hours ago.
The cedar-lined finish sauna receives you next.
Small and deeply fragrant.
The walls a pale honey gold.
Deepens to warm orange hues around the stones.
The air is so dry.
And so intensely hot.
It's almost like a physical texture against your skin.
You sit on the upper bench.
And close your eyes.
And let the heat press against you.
From every surface at once.
Draws the last of the cold and tension upward.
And outward.
And away.
Prepares you for a night.
Deep sleep.
Your thoughts grow thin and quiet.
Widely spaced.
Like the last few utterances before sleep.
The sound of the ship and the water is muffled here.
Replaced by the occasional hiss.
Water meeting hot stone.
A sound that is deeply,
Inexplicably comforting.
After.
A warm shower rinses you clean.
To towel off and dress in a robe.
The attendant leads you up another narrow staircase.
To the rooftop hot tub.
Set deep into the very top of the vessel.
And open entirely.
The northern sky.
You lower yourself into it.
Slowly.
.
.
The water bubbles up to your collarbones.
The heat rising around you like an embrace.
Your body releases.
Its last remaining held breath.
In one long and audible sigh.
That leaves you feeling.
So deservingly unstuck.
The air above the water is cold.
Genuinely,
Bracingly calm.
Carrying the bite of open water.
A mist that nearly freezes on your lips.
Contrast between the heat that holds you and the cold that grazes your face.
Is so perfectly balanced.
That it draws your attention.
Entirely into the present moment.
Your mind lives here.
Aboard the ethereal maiden.
Cruises through the ebony waters below.
You get lost in the sky.
Black mirror of water stretching between the formations on either side.
The stars emerging in their thousands above you.
And once you've so.
As long as you can.
Your body feeling like jelly.
You rinse off upstairs in the wood-paneled shower beneath the stars.
You bury yourself.
A fluffy,
Heated towel.
As your breath condenses.
And steam rises off your skin.
You wrap once more.
In a plusher,
Oversized role.
Swaddled against the night.
Once back you find.
The energy of your room has shifted.
The attendants have been here in your absence.
Turning down the bed.
So that's the white duvet.
It's folded back in a perfect diagonal.
The linen sheet beneath it.
Smooth and cool and waiting.
A single sprig of lavender.
Laid across the pillow.
The lights are dimmed to their lowest settings.
In the room as a palette.
Of sleepy golds and deep shadows.
And the nightstand beside the caress.
A small card has been left.
And the same careful handwriting.
You noticed when you first checked in.
Sleep well You notice the glass balcony door.
Set seamlessly into the far wall.
Nearly invisible in its frame.
And you slide it open.
Step out into the dark.
The balcony is made entirely of clear glass.
Railing,
Side panels.
Floor beneath your feet.
Standing on it.
Like standing on nothing.
Suspended in midair.
The dark rise of the cliffs.
In the glass that you see below.
The vessel moves forward with a low hum.
Parting the water.
And a long white V that fans out behind you.
And then disappears.
You stand with your robe pulled close.
Cold air moving softly against your face.
Peering out at the fjords.
Star.
And glistening water.
That offers more depictions of the color black.
Than you have ever seen before.
Hints of obsidian.
Tints of dark purple.
Deep blue.
Then something begins to change.
At the horizon.
Just above the line where the formations meet the sky.
A light arises.
Slowly.
Without announcement.
Simply appears.
The way a feeling arrives.
For your mind can even form the words for it.
A ribbon of pale,
Luminous green.
Undulate softly.
In the upper atmosphere.
And it stretches and unfurls.
With a finger like grace.
A second ribbon joins it.
Lower and wider.
Its edges shading from green.
To the most vibrant and luminous violence.
Almost neon.
The two of them move together.
In a dance above the fjords.
The northern light.
The Aurora Borealis.
Perform without a care about their audience.
They shine because they were meant to.
The colors reflect on the water below.
The sea.
Which was black.
Impenetrable.
A moment ago.
Now holds wisps of the green and violet lights.
They shift and reform.
Rippling with a quiet movement.
Of the ship's weight.
You can hear a few gasps of awe.
Why?
It's there.
From other guests aboard.
But now take in the majestic lights.
Is stay so long as the chill will allow.
Before stepping back inside.
Once indoors.
Your pajamas wait.
Kept warm.
You slip into them.
And then gleefully pull back.
The heavy duvet.
You surrender to the cool and quiet luxury.
Of the pressed linen sheets.
And the weight of the comforter.
Settles over you from above.
Like a long and final exhale.
You turn off the lamp.
And your eyes softly closed.
The images of the Northern Lights.
Now dancing through your mind.
As you drift to the soft.
Edges of sleep.
Rocked and low.
By the motions of the bow.
You breathe it in.
Not knowing when or how.
But knowing the beauty of this night.
Will greet you again soon.
Whether you fall asleep now.
Continue wandering.
Through the wonderful places that await you.
The choice is always yours.
The tea fields.
James Norwood Pratt expressed,
Tea is quiet.
And our thirst for tea is never far away from our craving for beauty.
There are places on this magical and diverse planet where the mountains pierce the endless cornflower blue sky,
Where heaven meets earth.
The Celestia Greenfields is one of these remote and exotic storied landscapes.
This ancient tea-growing region is nestled high in the mountains.
A hidden paradise where the air is filled with a calming scent of morning mist on tea leaves.
The mountains serve as protectors,
Boundaries between the chaos of modern life,
With a terrain that gives no choice but to slow down.
The energy of this pristine valley.
Permeates every tea leaf.
Remaining even as the leaves are dried and transported around the world,
Bringing the same message.
You deserve to slow down.
Ti's history is rich and mysterious,
Stretching back over 5,
000 years.
The Legend of Emperor Shen Nong reveals the accidental discovery of tea.
Quite similar to the discovery of mozzarella.
When cheese curds happen to cascade off a shelf into a pot of boiling water in southern Italy,
Leaves from a wild tea tree drifted into his hot,
Bubbling water.
So many happy accidents from many millennia ago.
Have evolved through time.
Enhancing the human experience.
Since the first sip of accidental tea.
The steeped beverage has become a symbol of reflection.
Connection and ritual.
Cherished worldwide for its calming effects.
It has traveled near and far.
From the bustling tea houses of Japan to quiet afternoon tea ceremonies in English palaces.
At the same time,
It has been a symbol of escaping the rule of a monarchy.
Filling a harbor with defiance and liberation.
Yet it has brought peace to countless souls.
Made the toughest conversations easier,
Filling the moments of silence with its steamy presence.
It has been an easy excuse to get together and catch up.
But have you ever wondered about the journey those tea leaves have made?
To arrive in your cupboards contained in silk bags or loose in canisters.
Celestia Greenfields is a beloved magical place where the earth and sky seem to merge and he has been grown in harmony with nature for generations.
Journey to this remote valley.
It's not easy.
Nor without many modes of transportation.
But this makes arriving.
Feel all the more wonderful.
Like falling into a soft bed at the end of a stressful day.
The tea fields greet you with a similar dreamy softness.
Approaching the gates of the tea estate.
Your feet land on the loose gravel road.
Sparkles in the late morning light.
As you stand and take in the quiet valley.
It feels like you've entered a different realm.
There are no cars,
No screens.
No harm of electric devices.
Just nature's soundtrack of birds singing their songs of praise.
In a gentle,
Susurrating breeze.
That carries an intoxicating smell.
That is both familiar and at the same time,
New and exotic.
In this timeless place.
Protected by mountains rising around you.
Let the tea field stretch endlessly before you.
Rows of tea bushes gently swaying in the breeze.
Tiny fragrant leaves.
Still glistening with morning dew.
The Earth becomes concave.
Widening before you into an inverted dome.
Like a round,
Deep pool.
With a shallow layer of verdant tea shrubs and cultivated stripes of rich brown earth.
The families here have tended these fields for generations,
Each one passing down the knowledge and rituals of tea cultivation with eyes closed.
Their calloused,
Sun-bronzed hands know the tender leaves of healthy oolong,
The right humidity of the earth.
As it sifts through their fingers.
For so long as their memories.
Hold the feeling of the earth.
The Earth holds the memories of their touch even longer.
Per centuries.
They have understood the delicate balance of sun and soil.
The way the mountain mist nourishes the plants.
And a perfect moment.
To harvest each leaf.
There is a reverence in the way they work.
Slow,
Deliberate,
And intentional.
You hear the sputtering of a tuk-tuk.
As it comes up behind you.
Driven by Navi.
A young man who spent his childhood dreaming of a sophisticated life beyond the mountain peaks,
Somewhere far away in a cosmopolitan city.
By 19,
He found himself in a smog-filled city,
With access to the education he pined for,
Barely sleeping as he dared to catch up.
This lasted for many years,
As he traveled the world.
Working on a cruise ship.
But it wasn't long before he realized.
Nothing could compare to the quiet beauty.
Of the Celestia Greenfields.
Beneath a blanket of stars staring at the vast deep blue ocean.
On the other side of the world.
He envisioned the rolling green hills.
The mere mention of tea service caused him to long for the comforting smell of the tea leaves in the cool mist that hung over the valley in the morning.
And the daily pleasure of watching the sun rise and set over the mountains he called home.
And so he returned.
Discovering all the education he acquired abroad.
Could not quite replicate the innate wisdom he gleaned from the land.
Just as his ancestors once had.
With a warm smile,
He helps you with your bag and invites you to hop aboard his old denim blue painted tuk-tuk.
It's paint chipped and worn,
But decorated with vibrant hand-painted celestial designs.
An antique moon pendant dangles on a blue suede strap from the rearview mirror.
Hovering over the sunlit dashboard.
An omen for Navi.
He received it as a gift from a shop owner in Amsterdam,
Where he wandered the cold and rainy streets while the ship was in the port.
The owner had visited Celestial Green as a child.
And they had met in their youth.
She could sense his desire to return home,
And spoke lovingly of the crescent moon rising over the valley,
And how it was the first time she ever remembered really seeing the moon.
She gifted him the silver lunar pendant.
A good luck charm.
You sit in the front passenger seat of the tuk-tuk as it sputters and navigates the narrow pathways between the tea plants.
Let the air swooshes through the open-air automobile to feel the cool breeze on your face.
Carrying with it the scent of tea leaves mixed with the soothing notes of lavender.
And chamomile.
Which grow in shaded groves nearby.
The evening air is fresh and clean.
Far removed from the polluted city.
And bustling ports Navi briefly knew.
The afternoon world around you.
Quiet.
So quiet that you can hear the distant call of a bird.
This peaceful soundtrack.
Is only interrupted.
By the squeaking brakes and funny pops and puffs of the tuk-tuk.
Navi's vehicle has a personality all to itself.
The deeper you travel into the valley.
The more you feel the weight of the world.
Slipping away.
Replaced by the calming energy of the deepest parts of the valley.
He has a gleeful,
Childlike way of driving around the tea fields.
And slows and reaches out his fingers to lightly brush them against the leaves,
Inviting you to do the same.
You smile.
Feeling the soft breeze caressing your skin.
The sun pouring onto your face and the tea leaves gently weaving between your fingers as you descend down the winding path.
Into the belly of these fields.
You can taste the tea on your lips.
Carried on a thin veil of mist.
It slips between the rows like a benevolent spirit,
Urging them to grow.
As you near the heart of the Emerald Rose,
You notice small cottages scattered among the tea fields.
Each one belonging to a family that has lived here for centuries.
These cottages are modest but warm.
Their stone walls covered in vines.
With smoke curling from the chimneys.
The tea rituals here are sacred.
Passed down from mother to daughter,
Father to son.
Rituals that involve not just drinking tea,
But preparing it with intention and care.
The water is removed from a wood-burning stove.
Before it begins to boil.
And the tea leaves freshly picked from the field.
Are placed in hand-painted ceramic pots.
As the tea steeps,
The scent fills the room.
A fragrant reminder to slow down.
To breathe deeply.
And to be present in the moment.
Navi's tuk-tuk slows as you approach a rustic farmhouse table that hosts afternoon tastings for visitors.
He parks the vehicle and gestures to a stone cottage.
Just beyond a patch of chamomile flowers.
Basking in the gilded light.
An orange gold aura.
Creates a halo around the delicate white flowers and stone dwelling.
As the mist captures and reflects the light.
He tells you.
At this cottage.
Like many others here.
Is a sanctuary for travelers seeking peace.
It is the quietest.
One of the most calming places.
You've ever visited.
The kind one might discover in a fairy tale.
You gather your bag.
And follow a stone path to the cottage.
Noticing how nearly a dozen similar paths lead to other cottages.
Tucked at the edge of the fields.
You step inside the modest dwelling.
That features exposed wooden beams.
And an open-concept layout.
A small bathroom in the corner stands opposite a simple kitchen with a stone hearth between them.
A bed adorned with a jewel-toned quilt.
With varying patches that depict a celestial night sky,
Is tucked in a cozy nook,
Surrounded by billowing cotton curtains that may be drawn closed for privacy.
A rocking chair with handmade cushions sits near the largest window in the room that peers out onto the fields and mountains.
Next to it is a chaise lounge.
You place your bag down on the lounge.
And go to the bathroom sink.
To wash away all the travel from your face.
Tasting the fresh mountain water on your lips.
You remove a favorite knitted sweater from your bag.
Sensing the shift in temperature about to come.
This afternoon fades into night.
And return outside for the tea tasting.
Navi has already begun his afternoon tea ritual.
As the late day sun pours over the valley.
You sit at the table to discover a small feast.
A hearty meal prepared by Navi's wife,
Isabel.
Who joins you with their two-year-old daughter.
Balancing her on her hips.
As a white fluffy dog named Soul runs around,
Weaving around the table legs.
With a big burst of energy.
Isabelle describes how she met Navi during his travels.
And years of letter-writing led to something more.
One day,
Isabel traveled around the world to visit the valley.
Ultimately falling as in love with the land.
As she was with Navi.
As you savor each bite of the hearty meal before you.
A delicate sigh escapes your lips,
And you admire the fields,
Watching the mist disappear around you.
Navi brings over three kettles,
Each steeping with its own unique offering,
A large cast iron pot holds the oolong tea,
Rich and aromatic.
Next to it,
A slender,
Hand-carved wooden teapot holds a delicate white tea infused with dried strawberries,
Its scent both floral and fruity.
A small porcelain kettle cradles chamomile.
It's soothing liquid gold,
Ready to calm your spirit.
As steam rises from each pot.
The diverse aromas of the teas mingle with the fresh mountain air.
Navi pours each tea into small,
Matte ebony cups without a handle.
This enables you to wrap your fingers fully around the hand-painted,
Gold and pink swirls and petals.
The steam rises up your nose.
Causing you to breathe deeper.
And connect with all your senses.
Navi implores you to try the teas in order of increasing intensity.
From mild to wild.
Starting with the chamomile.
That you try on its own.
And then with a touch of honey.
That drips down a spiral wooden dipper.
It brings out the natural honey notes of the steeped flowers.
Even more.
As the silky warm liquid soothes your throat.
You move on to the white tea It's more floral,
With a strawberry addition,
Bringing out the vibrance of spring and summer.
With more tannins than the chamomile.
It feels a bit weightier.
But goes down smoothly.
Filling your mind with strawberry memories.
You haven't thought of in some time.
Navi offers the tea Celestia Greenfields is most known for.
The Oolong.
Use hip slowly Sensing this tea is more robust.
And the hue of hazelnut.
As the oolong tea coats your palate with its smoky depth.
You savor it Realizing how often you may ignore the subtleties.
Of all you consume throughout the day.
But now you slow down.
Taking your time,
Feeling the silkiness.
Tannins softly grip your saliva.
As Navi explains Oolong's tannic potency,
Is between that of black and green tea.
There's a present sensation of velvet on your tongue.
Pleasant and attention-consuming,
Isabel smiles.
Serving the oolong with you and Navi.
As their toddler reaches toward the honey stick.
You feel an instant connection with all of them.
A camaraderie brought by this ritual.
That is sacred.
And yet known for simplicity.
Honeyed light pours over the weathered wood grains of the table as the sun descends toward the mountain peaks.
Navi asks what tea you most prefer,
And then prepares a full cup.
You may carry with you.
He then clears the table.
Isabelle rises,
Saying it's time for the little one to take a bath.
Navi wishes you a good evening.
Inviting you to explore the fields and meet them for breakfast in the morning.
Before he disappears into his family's cottage.
Alone now.
With a warm cup in your hands.
You take his advice.
And wander through the fields.
As evening falls,
The sky transforms,
Bathing the valley in its gilded light.
Cornflower blue of day fades.
Gradually dissolving.
Into shades of oolong amber.
Golden and warm.
The air becomes brisker,
Contrasting the warmth of the light.
Gentle strokes of peach and rose swirl like freshly spun sugar on wispy and dreamy incoming clouds.
The saturated light makes the world more beautiful.
Your own skin glows.
As the light spreads across the landscape,
A sparkling caramel hue reflects off the tea leaves.
Becoming prismatic.
Lingering dew.
You sip as you meander the skinny path.
Winds through the tea fields.
Some destinations.
Hold more weight and meaning.
Taking more planning and effort to get there.
And they elevate your appreciation and sense of pride for the independence that brought you to this remote,
Exotic place.
Your feet sink ever so slightly into the damp earth.
The world is quiet.
So quiet that even your own thoughts seem to slow,
Becoming reflective.
Yet at the same time,
You discover new parts of yourself.
The fields seem to breathe.
Folding before you like sea green waves.
You feel a bone-deep sense of respect for the landscape.
Stories woven into the fabric of Celestia Greenfields.
Your mind wanders to Navi's ancestors.
Generations before that rose each day to truly understand this place.
Where heaven and earth merge.
These fields were loved by many hands.
Never rush.
Always intuitive and gentle.
Each day in the valley was a moving meditation.
With steady and rhythmic actions.
And a keen sense of what the weather and soil were revealing.
As you sip the tea and continue onward.
Each step.
Grounds and balances you.
In the silence of the tea fields.
Long purple shadows stretch across the fields like velvet drapes.
As the sun lowers.
Seconds away from eclipsing the mountain peak.
The light shifts from amber to green.
To the delicate pinks and golds.
Of dried chamomile flowers,
Steeping in hot water.
You pause atop a small knoll.
Finishing your tea.
And saying a silent thank you for the day as the sun disappears.
Valley is bathed in the soft light of early twilight.
And the nocturnal sounds of native bugs begin to warm up.
With a low buzz.
The sky is now a soft gradient of colors.
Rich caramel near the horizon,
Blending into strawberry blush.
And finally fading.
Into the deep lavender of evening.
When the first stars begin to twinkle faintly overhead.
You make your way back to the cottage.
You revel in the sense of solitude you have.
The freedom to let the evening unfold.
However you like.
Without demands or compromise.
You enter the cottage.
And its modest charm and warm ambience.
Become even more inviting than before.
You walk to the heart.
And ignite the kindling already arranged,
Watching sparks shoot toward the soot-covered walls.
You bask in the firelight.
Noticing the black and white photos on the mantle.
Showcasing the fields throughout the last century.
Your attention turns to the kitchen that is full of character.
With shelves lined with glass jars of tea leaves and dried herbs collected from the valley.
Black labels describe the content written in chalk.
Featuring appealing flavor combinations.
You hope to enjoy.
When the sun rises over the mountains.
You stretch your arms overhead.
Step into the small bathroom to enjoy a long,
Hot shower.
As steam clouds the room.
Dancing against the stone walls,
The scent of oolong tea lingers in the air.
The soap handmade.
And infused with tiny bits of tea leaves.
It lathers gently against your skin.
Its rich fragrant aroma,
Soothing and grounding.
Your muscles surrender to this moment.
After a long day of travel and new discoveries,
A sleepiness takes hold.
You step out of the shower,
Toweling off.
Enwrapping yourself in a thick heavy robe.
As you nestle your feet.
Into cushioned slippers.
The fire has settled into a low,
Steady glow.
And you add a fresh law.
You saddle into the deep green velvet chaise lounge by the window.
That frames a dreamy view of the fields.
Quiet and still.
Crescent moon illuminates the deep,
Green rose.
The sky is clear.
The stars bright and countless.
A canvas for wishes to be made.
Your eyelids start to betray you.
No fight is left to keep them open.
And so,
You walk to the bed.
And go under the heavy quill.
The fire continues to crackle,
And the faint sounds of the wind through the valley,
Stirring the tea leaves,
Enter the cottage like a somnolent whisper.
You welcome the gift of sleep.
The gift of resonating tiredness that courses through you.
Heavy and pleasantly relentless.
Slumber comes with complete ease.
As you drift along.
Enjoying its sweet and natural pull.
To a dreamscape as tranquil.
A Celestia Green feel.
Finding solace.
Finding balance.
Finding comfort.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
Good night.
