Enjoy a sleepy holiday with this cozy bedtime story for grown-ups.
You are listening to The Candle Glow Inn.
In this heartwarming spring sleep story,
You return to the Michigan Lakeshore during the height of cherry blossom season for a nostalgic getaway.
A historic Queen Anne Inn is a vibrant sanctuary where the air is sweet with the scent of pink petals drifting from the heavy budding trees.
The warmth of a grandmotherly innkeeper and the pluckiness of a spirited six-year-old neighbor named Gabby bring heartwarming moments in the garden.
Ground yourself in these precious moments and settle into the softness of a dreamy escape alongside the teal waters of Lake Michigan.
After a day of small-town charm and a cozy evening of board games by the fire,
You retreat to your suite and settle into a deep sleep.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle and as you listen,
I hope you think of me as the voice of a compassionate friend who is here to remind you of your imaginative powers.
As your sleep advocate,
I encourage you to relax and feel as good as you can in this time before you drift into a dreamscape.
Everything else can wait.
Your only job is to welcome rest as you celebrate making it through another day.
Tonight's story was inspired by my step-grandmother,
Fran.
It was so very patient and compassionate when she entered the life of a grief-stricken ten-year-old.
She handled my pranks and with humor,
Knowing some relationships simply take time.
She was often called Granny Franny,
Whether by her many grandchildren or those souls who gravitated toward her generous energy.
This story brings to life the small-town experiences of my youth and a reminder of how the briefest encounters can create the most enduring,
Beautiful moments of a lifetime that we return to often in our mind.
I invite you to get as cozy as you can,
Finding peace in the sanctuary of your room and mind.
Let go of the weight of the world,
The weight of your day,
And any lingering thoughts that come up as thoughts are known to do.
With your eyes closed,
Feel your lids become heavy and enjoy a brief relaxation exercise.
Connect with yourself right now as if to say,
Hey friend,
How are you doing tonight?
Notice any place that holds tightness so you may let it go.
Let out a sigh,
Casting away everything.
And as you inhale,
Send the air to the deepest parts of your belly,
Letting your abdomen and diaphragm rise like the slow roll of a Lake Michigan wave.
Open your mouth in the kind of yawn that says you haven't a care at all right now and will yawn and sigh all you like.
Continue to enjoy these deep healing breaths as I count us down.
Five,
Bring awareness to the crown of your head,
Your brows,
And the small tired muscles around your eyes.
Imagine a gentle evening mist resting there.
Feel the tension in your face melt away.
Four,
Your neck and shoulders,
Those faithful and overworked places,
Release their hold.
Imagine the branches of a cherry blossom tree in full bloom,
So heavy with blossoms that they bow and drape in graceful arcs toward the earth.
Let your shoulders do the same,
Surrendering to the weight of something beautiful.
Three,
Your back,
Your belly,
And your hips grow heavy,
Sinking into the mattress.
Your breath finds a steady,
Effortless rhythm,
Sinking with a soft,
Familiar shush of the lake water moving against the shore.
Two,
Your hands and feet grow heavy and warm,
As though you've pressed them into cool,
Dark soil of a freshly turned garden bed.
The earth holds them there,
Patient and sure,
As you reconnect with the grounding peace of the lakeshore.
One,
Find total surrender.
Your entire body is supported.
The world of the day has faded and you are ready to enter the storybook sanctuary of the Candle Glow Inn.
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 isn't possible.
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 Inn 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 was no greater tonic than an escape to the homes and inns in 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 Frances first opened the heavy oak doors of the Candle Glow 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 the wraparound porch 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 Inn.
You have been here before,
More than once,
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 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 that 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,
The soft musical clink of ceramic,
The low peaceful classical music from the kitchen radio,
And the rich smell of coffee and toast threading its way through every other sensation like 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,
A 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 at 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 mug and steam rises toward her aged hands in 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 her 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.
And 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.
A head of rich brown curls pops up from behind a basket of croissants.
They belong 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 Gabby.
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 Francis' stories as much as her own,
Talking reverently of Francis' 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.
Gabby 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?
She 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 promise 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 hand,
You push open the screen door that leads to the wraparound porch.
It offers floral upholstered chairs and couches nestled amongst white metal tables.
The fabric is the kind of pattern that belongs to the 1990s.
The small cabbage roses in dusty pink and sage and ivory.
Slightly faded,
Deeply familiar.
The kind of upholstery that makes you feel,
Without being able to say exactly why,
That you have always been here and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 Frances 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 Gabi,
The grit and the give of it,
And the smell,
Clean,
Deep,
And ancient,
It settles something in you that you didn't realize needed settling.
Frances 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 and unaware of a small fly that circles her.
Gabi 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 that fills the glass frames on the walls of your suite upstairs.
Pressed and preserved.
One perfect bloom for every summer Frances 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.
Gabi giggles with delight.
Frances smiles with reverence.
The 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.
That 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.
And the kitten pearl weaves 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 and 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.
Frances has been the reason for all of it.
Steady and warm and unhurried.
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.
And there it is.
Lake Michigan.
Teal 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 beach.
The same storefronts that have been here since always.
The five and dime with its hand-lettered signs and creaking floors.
The bookshop where the tabby cat 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 is 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 road and you see the candle glow.
And it stops you instantly as you take in its historic charm.
The queen and stands against an apricot sky in a silhouette of gables and angles.
And the wide welcoming arms of the wraparound porch.
And in every window,
A single candle burns.
Long ago they were lit nightly,
But now they run on batteries.
And seem just as warm and steady when viewed 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 to feel like coming home.
Inside,
The evening arranges itself with the easy grace of the candle glow's 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 loveseat and are arranging a board game for you and Francis to join in.
An old Coltrane 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 her very presence and her legacy inspire you to do the same.
You look around at all of it.
The sleeping kitten,
The travellers from the other side of the Atlantic laughing together.
Here,
The candles in the windows.
Francis refilling a glass,
Catching your eye with that quiet smile.
The candle glow in,
And the charming bed and breakfasts across the world serve to offer the sense of connection.
The spontaneous family dynamic where for but a night or weekend,
Fellow travellers and once strangers become friends.
As quiet conversations are taken over by yawns,
Everyone stands and stretches,
Says goodnight before retreating to their respective rooms.
The crimson rose sweet is waiting,
Quiet and glowing.
The lace curtains moving slowly and the cool night air that comes through the slightly cracked window.
You run the shower very hot and 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.
And there is the lake,
Dark and moonlit and silver,
Rolling in long,
Slow lines.
The cherry blossoms along the shore.
Thousands of pink and cream petals float on the water now,
Adrift 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,
Floating like petals.
Soft as the waves against the moonlit shore,
You drift to sleep.
Finding hope.
Finding peace.
Finding comfort.
It's time to dream away.
