Sweet oceanside dreams await.
As you drift to sleep with a calm bedtime story for grown-ups.
You are listening to.
The Driftwood Cottage.
And tonight we venture to a remote barrier island.
The last golden days of summer.
A prelude to autumn weaves through the evening hours with its cool kiss,
But the warmth of summer's breath still lingers in the sand,
The porch boards,
The salt water,
And billowing seagrass.
You arrive with a beloved dog and the single intention to find peace and presence as the waves lap against the shore.
Revel in one last beautiful day of swimming,
A sunset picnic,
A moonlit sea,
And a cottage abundant with driftwood treasures.
Every moment sets the stage for a perfect night of sleep.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle and I hope my voice greets you like a longtime friend.
The story was inspired by a request for a journey into the winding down of summer.
And I hope you make it uniquely your own,
Falling asleep whenever you like.
Before we arrive.
Let's settle into the night.
With a few relaxing breaths.
Inhale slowly.
Taking your time.
Sense your room filling with the imagined scent of saltwater air.
The faint mineral sweetness of a low tide slipping out beyond the sandbar.
And whenever you exhale.
You may sigh it all out.
Long and slow.
The way a breeze moves through seagrass.
Bending it.
And then letting it go.
Breathe in once more.
Somewhere far off,
An island is waiting.
The ocean is a soft grey-blue murmur just past the dunes.
Maybe a sleepy yawn arrives and sigh again,
Releasing anything from today.
Doesn't need to come with you.
As you sleep.
Let's settle now as I count us down from five to one.
Five.
Feel the warm afternoon air resting against your face and forehead.
Soft as a hand.
Carrying with it that faint saltwater sweetness.
4 Release your shoulders.
As they loosen and drop from your ears.
As if the island breeze has found every last knot of tension.
And is combing it slowly loose.
Your spine settles with the ease of smooth stones.
Forming a line across the sand.
3.
Your arms and hands grows heavy as a sun-warmed piece of driftwood.
Resting along the dunes.
2.
Your legs and feet release completely.
Sinking the way bare feet sink into warm sand.
That has been holding the day's heat since sunrise.
When.
Your whole body settles.
To the rhythm of the sea.
Rising and falling with the tide that brings you to sleep.
As the story begins.
The winding road to the island.
Narrower the farther you drive.
Until it isn't really a road at all anymore.
Just two pale ribbons of sand-dusted asphalt.
Threading between the dunes.
The houses have thinned out behind you.
First the tall new ones with their many windows.
And then the older cottages.
Weathered to the color of driftwood.
Till soon,
There are hardly any houses at all.
Sea oats lean over the shoulder of the road.
Bowing towards you like members of a royal court.
Welcoming you home.
A lone teal vintage bicycle leans against a faded fence post.
In a place where dozens once swarmed the shoulder.
The only traffic comes in the procession of geese along the grass.
Daring to cross the moment you pass.
Your dog sniffs enthusiastically.
The partially cracked windows.
Their tail wagging in the moment the first salty notes land.
They know the time to frolic in the surf is near.
Catching glimpses of the ocean.
Which keeps appearing and disappearing.
Behind the sun-kissed dunes.
It's a tease,
Really,
For both of you.
As you long to stare out at the sparkling blue expanse and get lost in its mesmerizing songs.
The mainland already feels inconceivably far away.
Like a distant,
Chaotic story you once heard about,
But never truly belonged to.
This beautiful escape.
What you wish to remember and savor.
A lifelong reminder.
Of our self.
Delicious this life can be.
As if conjured by your awareness of the island's beauty.
Do monarch butterflies come into view?
They drift along the white stone driveway that leads to the cottage.
Low and vibrant.
Their glittering orange wings reflecting the late day sunlight.
And as you slowly turn.
Sound of tires meeting gravel.
Dozens more appear.
Soft burnt orange and black hues,
A stark contrast to the pearly white stones.
Even in the warmth of the late summer afternoon.
They seem to know what comes next.
Their silent flutters for a small reminder.
The season is beginning to turn.
You roll the window down further.
And let your hand ride the warm air.
As the cottage suddenly comes into view.
It sits back from the dune line.
Weathered to a soft driftwood gray.
Its windows facing the Atlantic.
With a gaze that feels as tranquil.
As the face of a woman.
Who has spent many seasons here.
Simply being.
Daydreaming.
And getting lost in the rhythm of the tides.
A porch wraps around the front of the home.
As the railing gives way to its namesake.
Large,
Unique pieces of driftwood,
Irregular in design.
Are brought together.
To form the railings of Driftwood Cottage.
Smoothed and shaped by decades of water,
Sun,
And salt.
They fit together in a way that looks as though they are a gift from the sea.
Two rocking chairs sit angled toward the sparkling blue waves,
Dressed in cushions and pillows with coastal designs.
Small table between them.
Holds nothing but a jar of sea glass.
Catching the light.
A wind chime made of smaller,
Pulled-through shells.
Hangs from a porch beam.
Stirring now and then with the softest tinkle.
Your dog is out of the car.
Racing toward the porch.
Before you've even had a chance to gather your bags from the bag.
Nose down.
Tail up.
Their personal sniffari begins.
As they take in stories from every trace of sand and grass.
You meet one another at the front door.
Landing on a rugged beige and teal welcome mat that reads,
Driftwood Cottage.
Step inside.
Taking in the exposed ivory beams.
Soft white wood panel doors.
The light pouring in through the skylights and windows.
You set down your bags.
Make your way through the space.
Easing open the windows and sliding doors to fill the cottage.
With the sea air.
Circulates instantly.
Catching share curtains.
Below like Gossamer.
Light and airy as you will soon feel.
There will be time later.
To settle in completely.
But for now,
The surf calls to you.
It will feel so wonderful.
To stretch your legs.
And dig your toes in the sand.
And assure.
Happy bark from your pup reveals.
You're both on the same page.
You step out onto the back deck.
Descend the steps to the sand.
With a bag prepared for a picnic.
Your pup bounds ahead.
Turning back.
Imploring you to catch up.
As you walk down through a gap in the dunes.
The beach opens in front of you.
The way it always does.
All at once.
Seemingly endless and golden.
The beach is entirely yours.
Now the frenzy of high summer.
Is long since over.
Up and down the shore.
The few visitors that remain.
Are packing away the season.
Umbrellas come down.
And slow practiced motions.
Chairs are folded.
And carried under arms toward waiting cars.
A cooler is dry.
Leaving a shallow trench in the sand.
A mother calls her children in.
From the reflective tidal pools.
Announcing it's time to go.
Even they couldn't resist one final dip into the salt water.
Their pockets overstuffed with shells.
Will leave a trace of sand in the backseat of the car.
A reminder.
Throughout the autumn months.
They were here.
Few cottages behind the dunes.
Already have their shutters latched.
Storm ready.
Sleeping.
Only a handful of houses along this stretch.
Will stay awake through the winter.
And the residents that remain.
Know the island more intimately.
Aware of its harshness.
Today.
Everything is so tranquil.
The warm air causes your linen shirt to billow.
Reminding you of how good it can feel.
Be in your body.
The end of the season.
Is when the island returns to itself.
And it invites you to return to yourself as well.
Deer begin to dapple the dunes.
Coming out and curling up in the sun.
The beach is now quiet.
You place your bag.
Far enough from the water's edge.
And aware.
Of whether the tide is coming or going.
You stretch your legs from the drive.
And indulge your breath.
With a few rounds of fetch.
Their tiny blue squeaky ball.
You walk barefoot.
Sinking through the top warm layer.
To the cool silky damp sand below.
Your dog runs ahead and circles back.
Checking in after every few yards.
Their bubblegum pink tongue lolling in the air.
The Monarchs are out.
Fluttering through the dune grass.
And hovering above the scattered glittering shells.
The ocean stretches ahead of you.
Endlessly ebbing and flowing.
Leaving its salty perfume.
The promise.
That its vastness can hold anything you send its way.
Your beach walk.
It always is,
Brings a series of small revelations.
A trio of sandpipers.
Stitches a frantic,
Skinny line along the wet sand.
Retreating each time.
A wave reaches for their feet.
A single sand dollar.
Whole and pale.
Rests half buried near the tide line.
And you bend to turn it over gently.
For setting it back down.
Exactly where you found it.
Little bubbles rise and vanish.
For the Coquina clams.
Have already tucked themselves out of sight.
And the retreating foam leaves behind.
Faint lace patterns.
Dissolve before you can really study them.
The air smells of drying seaweed and warm sand.
Something sweeter underneath.
The last of someone's Hawaiian tropic sunscreen.
Maybe just the beach itself.
Imparting memories of the busiest season into the air.
There's nothing you need to do here.
Nothing to accomplish.
Just this.
The last hours of summer.
Your bare feet in the sand.
And the dreamy golden hour light.
Eventually,
You and your furry companion decide to swim away.
Your dog stays mostly behind on the sand.
Standing guard by a glassy tidal pool.
Mirrors the deepening blue sky.
And puffy clouds.
The pup watches you with the patient concern of a lifeguard.
Not daring to let you slip away.
As they run parallel along the shore.
At the edge of the surf.
You wait and slowly ankles first.
The water sparkling and bright around them.
Then knees,
Then waist.
Particular held breath.
Everyone takes right before.
The water reaches your chest.
And then a wave cascades over your shoulders.
You're swimming.
Floating.
Weightless.
The salt holds you the way nothing on land ever quite can.
You don't know it at the time.
But this is the warmest.
The ocean will be all year.
Spent the entire summer gathering heat.
And right now.
Gives all of that warmth back to you.
You float on your back.
And look toward the horizon.
Where the water and sky blur into the same baby blue.
And there is nothing behind you.
Nothing ahead of you.
Requires anything of you at all.
No schedule.
No next thing.
Just the enormous,
Generous waves.
Holding you up.
And in your peripheral vision.
Your faithful dog waiting on the shore.
You float there.
Knowing that before long.
.
.
The warm lights of Driftwood Cottage.
Will be waiting for you.
It's the end of the day.
Even though the season may end.
Right now.
You get to rest completely inside it.
You come in slowly.
Salt-crusted skin.
With muscles softened.
By travel,
Warmth and exertion.
It's a pleasant tiredness that comes from swimming.
Your dog meets you at the waterline.
Wiggling with excitement.
And covered in wet sand.
Together.
You make your way back to your bag.
The Sun transforms.
To a brilliant palette of peachy pinks and fiery magenta.
Your pup trots slowly beside you.
Clearly tiring out.
And ready for dinner.
With a carton sheet.
Spread across the powdery sand.
You settle and feed your dog first.
Before setting up an easy picnic.
Simple Gnoshes.
Summery pleasures.
Taste of a season.
Makes everything feel.
Vibrant and refreshing.
Your dog's chin rests on your knee.
Hopeful and patient.
As the tide comes in.
The sunset sky continues.
It's long,
Slow change deepening into bands.
Swirl like pools of melted raspberry and mango sorbet.
Sparse cottages along the dune line.
Become silhouettes.
One by one.
Dark comforting shapes on rolling mounds.
With feathery grass set against a bald sky.
Soon enough.
Snow will blanket the shore.
Now it's delightfully warm.
For the slightest hint of a cool breeze.
Promising the best weather for sleep.
Your dog yawns.
And you can't help but to stifle a yawn as well.
Rising slowly.
Stretching your arms up.
As a hint of sea mist lands on your lips.
You tidy up and put things away.
Your dog leads the way back to the driftwood cottage.
The sky becoming a gradient of blues.
As the first faint stars come to life.
The air has cooled.
Just enough to notice.
The seagrass moves beside the path with sleepy whispers.
That join the soft shuffle.
Powdery sand.
Single golden light.
Within the driftwood cottage.
Stands out against the darkening blues.
A small beacon guiding you home.
Once back,
You place the bag in the cubby on the desk.
Knowing it can wait until tomorrow.
You approach the outdoor shower.
As the moon rises.
Private enclosure.
With an open air top.
Gives views of the sky.
The water becomes steamy in mere moments.
And you step beneath the cascade that falls like rain.
As your pup stands guard once more.
The hot water rinses away the salt and sand.
And slow rivulets down your arms and legs.
The mango coconut body soap.
Creates a lush lather.
Filling the air with its tropical notes.
Your dog curiously noses around beneath the shower door.
Darting back.
And some water lands on their nose.
The moon rises slowly and full over the ocean.
When you step out.
And stand barefoot on the porch.
Towel dog and wrapped in a robe cinched tightly around your waist.
You look up to see.
The whole sky has filled with stars.
The cottage doors stand open behind you.
Beyond them.
The ocean has gone.
Dark blue-black and silver and endless red.
And behind you.
Warm light spills out onto the deck.
Gold against blue.
Celestial dream of opulent hues.
Step inside the cottage.
Where the air has become quite cool and start a small fire in the hearth.
Beneath a driftwood mantle.
Cottage is abundant with driftwood pieces.
Transformed into side tables and artwork.
Illuminate it.
By the blue and gold stained glass lanterns and lamps.
Throughout the main room.
Driftwood cottage.
The soul of the sea.
Each weathered piece collected through decades.
Transformed into something useful.
Some pieces are as large as the antlers of a buck.
Others small enough to hold in your palms.
Driftwood shells line one wall.
Holding jars of shells and sea glass.
Sorted by color.
Perfectly arranged little collections.
Of blue and green and milky white.
A mosaic table by the window.
Inlaid with seaglass pieces as well.
A reminder.
Along with the driftwood.
How wonderfully the ocean may smooth out the harshness of the world.
You settle in a deep sea green chair by the fire.
Outside the open sliding glass doors.
The night has gone fully nocturnal now indigo.
Maybe.
Than a deep moonlit turquoise.
Fading into black water.
The moon laying a long silver road across the surface.
Inside.
Orange marmalade firelight.
Moves warm and low.
Across all that pale,
Seaworn wood.
Feels more than anything.
Like the place where the sea and the fire meet.
Agreed to commune.
Your dog circles twice.
Curls at your feet.
With a long,
Contented sigh.
Fire crackles low you watch it burn into smoldering embers.
Doors stay open to the water and slowly the waves Become the loudest sound in the room.
Be patient.
Steady.
The way they always are you pick up a book of Virginia Wool.
Its pages dog-eared and aged.
Your eyes wander across a passage about the sea.
For a moment.
You consider the way the ocean.
Can be both restless and enduring.
Forever moving and yet somehow.
Forever the same.
The words on the page begin to blur.
From the deep,
Sweet tiredness.
Comes from a full day.
Given entirely to sand and salt.
And sun.
You rise and wander down the short hallway toward the bedroom.
Feels like stepping into.
Another smaller world entirely.
The wood-paneled walls are coastal-like.
And the room offers small accents.
Of sea green and turquoise.
Beams cross overhead.
Inhale and expose.
And Driftwood shows up again here too.
In a mirror frame.
A shell.
Delicate curl of a seashell mobile.
Turning slowly.
And whatever night breeze moves through the room.
Patches of the starry sky.
Peer through the skylights.
And they angled the ceiling You change out of the role.
Into your beach pajamas.
Breathable.
And lightweight.
King-sized mattress.
Plush and inviting.
Sits on a driftwood frame.
Silvery and smooth.
Curved where the wood wanted to curve.
Rather than where anyone forced it to.
The curtains lift and settle in the sea breeze.
Moonlight falls in a long stripe across the duvet.
Your dog finds a spot at the foot of the bed.
Turning as they always do.
Before settling with a final sigh.
A slide beneath the bedding.
The pillows receive your head the way sand receives a footprint.
Completely,
Gently giving.
Without resistance.
From the pillow through the open window beside it.
You can see the ocean.
Dark and glinting.
Endlessly flowing.
The air coming through the window is cool now.
In a particular way.
Forewarns of the autumn the heat of summer loosens its hold.
The waves ebb and flow.
Crashing onto the barrier island.
The settling sound.
Your dog presses against you.
As their breathing settles.
To its own slower rhythm.
Somewhere out past the tombs.
The sea oats rustle.
And the sand shifts.
And whispers.
Summer.
Eventually.
Become nothing but memory.
Tonight.
Is yours to hold on to a little longer.
As you drift into the deepest slumber.
Finding bliss.
Finding comfort.
Finding sleep It's time to dream away.
