Drift to sleep with a cozy autumn bedtime story for grownups.
You are listening to The Rooftop Pumpkin Patch,
A journey to a splendid city,
Where gardens and farms have flourished high above the urban canyons for more than a century.
The vines.
And candlelit nooks offer little places to hide away.
Warm your hands around a festive drink from the tiny rooftop cafe.
Settle in a plush swing beneath the changing leaves and take in the glittering skyline as music floats softly through the cool night air.
When sleepiness finds you,
Retreat to a tiny gardener's cottage nestled among the pumpkins where you may spend this blissful October night.
High above the sleeping city.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle and I hope you think of my voice as that of an autumn-loving friend,
An imaginative guide.
Here to keep you company.
As you cross from your waking life into your sleeping life.
However your day played out.
You have arrived at a time that belongs entirely to you.
Honor making it to the end of the day by exploring enchanting places hidden within the familiar.
Wander wherever your imagination leads you,
Falling asleep at any point.
As you settle into the support beneath you,
Take a slow,
Satisfying breath inward.
Imagine the cool clarity of an October evening filling your space with a hint of pumpkin.
Baking Spice and the sugary decay of fallen leaves.
Hold this autumn air for just a moment.
And then let out a sigh.
As the day leaves you.
Draw in another deep breath.
Perhaps a yawn arrives with it.
Stretching through your jaw and cheeks.
And as you breathe out.
Imagine a few crisp leaves caught in a passing breeze lifting from the pavement.
In a graceful pirouette.
Dancing down the lane.
Take one more deep breath.
At your own pace.
Feeling your lungs comfortably.
Before releasing it.
With an exaggerated sigh.
As I count us down.
5 energy stirs at the crown of your head.
Your forehead your eyes,
Cheeks,
And jaw.
Bringing an invitation.
To surrender.
Feel the cool kiss of autumn on your face.
Replenishing you on this bridge to sleep.
4 Feel ease in your neck and shoulders.
Down through your arms and into your hands.
Let your shoulders fall away from your ears.
As though you've just slipped off a coat after coming in from the cold.
Your arms become pleasantly heavy against the bed.
And your palms are soft.
And open to enchanting possibilities.
3.
.
.
Your heart center is warm as a hearth.
Inspires your upper and lower back to release.
Your spine settles.
Feeling warm support it and say,
You.
Allow all that comforting heaviness.
Travel through your hips,
Your legs.
And all the way to your feet.
Decompress beneath the comforting compression of your blanket.
Feeling snug.
Serene.
One.
From the ground of your head.
To the tips of your toes.
You settle into the sanctuary you have created.
Your breath finds its own sleepy rhythm.
Your body succumbs to delightful stillness.
As your mind becomes wonderfully free to wander.
Somewhere.
In a splendid old city.
Glowing beneath an October sky.
Candles are being lit.
One by one.
And a rooftop high above the streets.
Pumpkins rest beneath sprawling vines.
Scarecrows nod in the cool breeze.
Soft music begins to play.
The noise below fades into the background.
And the journey begins.
Rush hour has taken hold of the city.
As you make your way down the four-lane Avenue.
Swept along by the exhilarating current of people heading home from work.
Meeting friends for dinner,
Shopping for something to bring home.
Leisurely strolling on this October evening that is far too beautiful to hurry through.
The sidewalks still hold the warmth of the afternoon sun beneath your feet.
Releasing it slowly into air.
That has turned wonderfully cool and crisp.
You feel the contrast against your cheeks when a city bus rushes past.
Stirring a brisk current that tugs at your scarf.
Sends a gathering of leaves at the curb tumbling around your boots.
For a few seconds.
The leaves follow in the wake of the bus.
Skittering across the pavement.
Lifting into the air.
Before settling.
Wherever the wind decides they belong.
You have waited for an evening like this.
Finally pull your favorite overcoat from the back of the closet.
Where it has been tucked away through the warmer months.
There is something satisfying about its familiar weight across your shoulders.
The way it falls around you.
Tell her just enough.
To make you feel a little more pulled together for the adventure tonight.
A soft scarf warms your throat.
Its fringe occasionally fluttering in the breeze.
Your boots are even more comfortable than you remembered.
Their leather softened and shaped over many autumns.
Until they seem to know the contours of your feet.
Supporting you in all the right places and encouraging you to stand a little taller.
Your footsteps join the shuffle of many others.
As you move through the crowd.
With your knapsack slung over one shoulder.
Carrying everything you need for a night away.
Perhaps this is why autumn can feel so much like a homecoming.
All the while remembering.
How delightful a home can be.
It's chilly outside.
Time to get cozy indoors.
Favorite things return from closets and drawers.
Soft fuzzy sweaters.
Perhaps oversized and knit.
Fleecy hoodies.
Feel like a blanket against your skin.
The season asks you to add another layer before stepping outside.
And somehow.
That extra layer makes wandering through the cooler city.
Little softer and a welcome time of transition.
The city's ever-changing palette transforms.
As the setting Sun fractures the western sky.
Into saturated bands of orange gold and peachy pink.
Deepening toward persimmon near the horizon.
While tufts of lavender clouds Curl and swirl higher above.
Their edges catching the final light.
Before violet evening overtakes them.
The glass windows of the tallest buildings borrow these impossible colors and scatter them back across the skyline.
Panes of rose gold,
Molten orange and shimmering mauve.
Older buildings absorb the light differently.
Their limestone facades.
Turn the color of honey.
While weathered brick glows a deeper russet.
Green copper cupolas.
Rise into the pink sky.
Like something painted there.
Closer to the ground.
The entire city is gilded in bronze and gold.
The broad avenue stretches ahead.
Through blocks of grand department stores and smaller shops.
Old cafes.
And neighborhood markets.
Their windows already glowing against the approaching evening.
Succession of narrow planted medians.
Runs through the center of the avenue.
Filled with mums in every shade.
Yellow taxis swerve through the intersections.
Agitated bumblebees.
Buzzing and rushing when the stoplights allow.
Finding pockets of space amidst the traffic.
Hundreds of footsteps and engines,
Snippets of conversation.
Breaks and bells and opening doors.
Gather into one great urban soundtrack.
What bothers you?
Without asking for your attention.
Fruit stands spill color onto the sidewalks.
Beneath striped awnings.
Where shoppers fill brown paper bags with pink lady apples,
Green pears,
Ruby pomegranates.
A nearby bakery.
Releases a current of warm air.
Scented with butter,
Cinnamon and caramelizing sugar.
Into the cool avenue.
Autumn has been equally generous with the leaves.
Scattering magenta and auburn,
Sienna,
Hazel,
Mustard yellow and burnished copper across the sidewalks.
Where the street sweepers can hardly keep up.
There's something wonderfully futile.
Even trying.
So Autumn is determined to cover the city in color.
And the city for all its industry and modernity.
Simply accept it.
I cannot keep up.
You continue through it all.
With your knapsack over one shoulder.
The warmth of the pavement still rising faintly through the soles of your boots.
While the crisp air finds your cheeks and lifts the fringe of your scarf.
Your chosen refuge reveals itself on the corner.
A grand Beaux-Arts building rising sturdily above the avenue.
A stately confidence of something that has watched more than a century of autumns sweep through this city.
You enter the marble lobby.
Decorated with autumn leaves decor and an air of timeless elegance.
Step inside the ornate elevator.
You press the button for the highest floor.
Catching your reflection in gold mottled mirrors framed by brass fixtures.
Strands of tiny orange and golden fairy lights wind their way around the upper molding.
And their reflections multiply.
Until the little car seems filled with floating embers.
The doors close.
And the elevator ascends.
You feel yourself growing lighter with every floor.
Leaving the rush of the avenue farther below.
And rising toward an urban paradise.
When the doors open.
Onto the highest floor.
Arched window at the end of the corridor.
Holds the last fiery pink and lavender remnants of sunset.
Within its antique glass.
A narrow black staircase.
Spirals upward.
Beneath a hand-painted sign.
Bearing a pumpkin and an arrow.
And you follow it.
The door opens.
And October rushes in to greet you.
Carrying the notes of pumpkin spice.
Faint peppery sweetness of wood smoke.
And hot cider.
The air is cooler here and a brisk breeze tickles the fringe of your scarf.
You step on to the roof.
Take it all in.
Autumn oasis.
Flourishes before you.
With a pumpkin patch.
Stretches and reaches into every corner of the rooftop.
The vines seem to reach out for everything in their way.
Spilling around old brick chimneys.
And pouring out along the winding wooden paths.
Pumpkins rust everywhere.
Among their enormous green leaves.
Some round and deeply ribbed.
The most brilliant shades of bright orange.
Other's creamy way.
Dusty blue.
Pale sage and softly striped.
Tiny pumpkins.
Tucked beneath leaves beside magnificent heirlooms.
Broad enough to serve as seats.
Chrysanthemums bloom.
Velvety shades of magenta and wine.
Antique gold and buttery mustard.
Candlelight flickers throughout it all.
Protected within old glass lanterns that lie in the path.
And hang from weathered wooden beams.
Strings of golden Edison bulbs.
Swoop overhead.
Pergolas to brick walls.
Disappearing into changing vines.
Before emerging again.
Their gilded warmth.
Glows against the deepening blue of the twilight sky.
Soft vintage jazz music.
Plays from hidden speakers.
Creating a romantic feel.
Amidst the rustling leaves.
Susannah.
The caretaker.
Sees you and instantly smiles.
Welcoming you to the patch.
Her tousled gray curls.
Or piled high on her head.
She wears the chicest purple overalls and floral blouse you have ever seen a gardener wear.
Her fluffy white rescue pup,
Cornelia.
Shadows her every step.
Wearing a playful pumpkin bandana.
Tied around her neck.
Susanna lets you know that the guest cottage is ready whenever you wish to settle in for the night.
And places a cool metal key in your palm.
You tuck it safely into your pocket.
Knowing there is no need to hurry.
Cottage will be waiting.
Whenever sleepiness finds you.
But for now.
.
.
You explore.
Other guests are tucked in alcoves and wander the gardens.
Bringing a sense of camaraderie and peace.
A few silhouettes wander between the pumpkin vines.
With warm mugs in their hands.
While others have disappeared.
And a candlelit nooks beneath the pergolas.
And farther across the roof.
Can make out the slow movement.
Of enormous hanging egg chairs.
Piled with autumn-colored cushions.
Along the perimeter.
Tiny wooden shaft.
Rustic as a farm stand selling eggs in the countryside along a dirt road.
Stands out against the twinkling skyline.
Pumpkins are stacked around its entrance.
Dried leaves and cornstalks.
Frame the little awning.
And a hand-painted menu.
Hangs beside shelves of mismatched autumnal mugs.
From somewhere within.
Comes a fragrance of pumpkin and cinnamon.
Warm milk and maple.
Drifting across the rooftop.
Whenever the breeze turns in your direction.
You step up and order the autumnal drink.
Meets your mood.
On this crisp October night.
Martina the barista is a local college student.
With a black pixie cut and a brown velvet beret slightly askew.
She attentively starts mixing hot elixirs.
Frothy creams,
Caramel drizzles.
A silver shaker of a secret autumnal spice blend.
As you wait.
The curious little creature wanders directly across the path before you.
The low golden light.
She looks almost like a ball of pale feathers.
Or a miniature Muppet.
Rolling along on tiny feet.
Until she pauses beside a pumpkin.
That's Jasmine,
And the white one is Blanche.
Martina pipes in.
Explaining their silky chickens.
And very friendly.
You're welcome to pet them and say hello.
She informs you.
Jasmine's extravagant plumage.
So soft and abundant.
That even her legs appear to be wearing little feathered trousers.
Blanche appears a moment later.
Scratching beneath a small tree.
Her snowy feathers almost glowing beneath the strings of Edison bulbs.
You reach down to stroke Jasmine.
Surprised by just how incredibly soft she feels.
Beneath your fingertips.
Before she loses interest in you.
And toddles off toward Blanche.
With a few contented clocks.
Martina calls you back.
She places your drink on the counter.
The ceramic mug warming your palms.
As soon as you wrap both hands around it.
Final dusting of her secret spice blend.
Floats across the creamy top.
Carrying the fragrance of cinnamon and nutmeg.
Toasted sugar.
Something you cannot quite please.
You take your first sip.
Taste the richness of autumn.
Sweet and warming.
Without being too much of either.
You feel the heat follow.
All the way down.
As the cool October air on the roof.
Brushes against your cheeks.
With your mug between your hands.
You set out for someplace cozy to settle.
The wooden pathways.
Wind rather than lead.
Encouraging you.
To follow whatever catches your eye.
Pumpkin vines have escaped their raised beds.
And curl around the legs of benches and old brick chimneys.
Climbing wooden trellises.
Before spilling back toward the pathway and tangles of enormous leaves.
You carefully step over a thick green runner.
To admire an heirloom pumpkin.
Almost hidden beneath it.
Its deeply ribbed skin a dusky shade.
Somewhere between sage and blue.
When you run your fingertips across its cool waxy surface.
You feel every subtle rise and hollow beneath your palm.
Before reaching its rough,
Woody stem.
Nearby.
Little ivory pumpkins gather.
Alongside unique gourds.
Some resembling the warts on a witch.
While broad Cinderella pumpkins.
Glow burnt orange in the candlelight.
Among fallen leaves.
Shades of sienna and copper.
You wander farther.
Occasionally stopping for another sip from your mug.
Truly notice how much life exists.
Within this rooftop garden.
Rosemary releases its sharp green fragrance.
When your coat brushes against it.
Fallen leaves crunch beneath your boots.
Gather in the corners of the wooden paths.
The smell of cool soil rises from the beds.
Mingling with mums.
Pumpkins.
Into the occasional ribbon of wood smoke.
Drifting from somewhere deeper within the room.
And above it all.
The music continues to float through the garden.
A warm saxophone.
And jazz piano.
Softened by the open air.
Until it seems less like something being played.
More like an integral part.
Of this autumn night.
You come upon a sheltered corner.
Beneath an old wooden pergola.
Or an oversized egg-shaped rattan swing.
Hangs among vines.
Turning crimson and gold.
The seat is wonderfully indulgent.
Deep enough to curl your entire body into.
And piled with plum,
Cinnamon,
And forest green cushions.
You find your balance.
And settle deeply into the support.
Your drink carefully balanced in your hands.
With a smallest ship.
The swing begins to move.
Gently rocking you.
Pumpkins and mums fill most of your view.
Candle flames flickering and reflecting on their leaves.
While the skyline twinkles beyond them.
Other guests.
Have found their places to settle.
Some tucked into neighboring swings beneath blankets.
Others lingering at cafe tables with steaming mugs.
Their quiet conversations.
Blending with the music.
No single voice or sound.
Lies for your attention.
And you can just get lost in the ambience.
And then Familiar flash of white appears between the pumpkins.
Cornelia trots toward you.
As though she has spent the evening wondering where you went.
Her pumpkin bandana,
Slightly crooked now.
She greets you with a wag of her tail.
As if she's known you all her life.
Your feet become the brakes that bring the swing to stillness for just a moment.
Without hesitation Cornelia hops aboard.
Quickly curling into the space beside you.
With a satisfied little sigh.
You run your fingers through her fluffy coat.
Soon the two of you are swaying together beneath the pergola.
Surrounded by pumpkins and candlelight.
While somewhere nearby.
Jasmine and Blanche offer the occasional sleepy cluck.
And the wind rustles through the patch.
The city fades into a glittering,
Bleary world.
Beyond the autumnal oasis.
That now holds you as the night deepens.
You are not sure how long you remain in the swing.
Only that your drink gradually disappears.
And the conversations around you grow fewer.
Empty chairs sway where other guests once sat.
Every now and then,
Susanna passes by.
Noticing how snug and comfortable Cornelia is with you.
Soon sleepiness.
Begun to find you too.
When you finally stop the swing.
And place your feet on the wooden deck.
Cornelia stirs.
Immediately hops down beside you.
The moment she realizes you are ready to move.
She races ahead her fluffy white body.
Disappears between the pumpkins.
The little orange bandana.
Flashing beneath the string lights.
She trots along the winding path.
Complete certainty.
You follow behind.
Your boots crunching through fallen leaves.
Skornelia occasionally pauses to look back.
Making sure you are still there.
Before bounding onward through the patch.
She leads you.
Beyond the pergola.
Deeper into the gardens.
Or two little cottages.
Sit at opposite ends of the rooftop.
As though they have been plotted.
From somewhere in the countryside.
Placed high above the city.
Cornelia races.
Toward the warm glow of Susanna's cottage.
You watch until her fluffy white form disappears inside.
Before turning toward the little guest cottage.
Waiting for you.
Clapboard siding has weathered softly through the years.
While a wraparound porch embraces the cottage.
Beneath a steeply pitched roof.
An old chimney.
Cornstalks rise around the porch railings.
Their papery leaves whispering.
Whenever the breeze passes through.
Pumpkins rest upon the steps.
You can imagine.
The same little cottage.
At the end of a country lane.
Surrounded by acres of farmland.
Rather than a glittering metropolis.
For a moment.
Seems surreal.
Impossible that all of this exists.
So many stories above.
The bustling concrete canyons.
You reach into your pocket.
And pull out the cool metal key.
It slips easily into the old locks.
And with one turn and click.
The door opens.
Into your quiet home for the night.
Inside.
The faint fragrance of wood.
And dried herbs welcomes you.
A small farmhouse table.
With four chairs and a cornucopia.
Fills one side of the open space.
While a hearth adorned with autumn decor and candelabras.
Face is a plush loveseat.
Draped in an autumnal afghan.
Piled with velvety pillows.
You shed your layers and slip out of your boots.
Carrying your knapsack upstairs.
Or a cozy bathroom beneath the eaves.
Offers the simple pleasure.
Of a hot shower.
Steam gathers around you.
As the water falls across your shoulders.
Down the length of your back.
Cleansing away the city.
And the day.
When you emerge.
Warm and refreshed.
You slip into soft pajamas.
And walk down the short hall to the bedroom.
The hearth is prepared for a fire.
With kindling and wood.
Already stacked.
You strike a long match.
And holds the flame beneath the kindling.
Watching it catch and climb.
Until the first soft crackles filled the bedroom.
Orange gold light dances across the floorboards.
Your bed waits beneath the sloping ceiling.
In an antique brass frame.
It's time worn metal.
Gleaming softly in the dim light.
An autumn patchwork quilt.
Has been spread across the mattress.
Peace together.
Wine and plum,
Faded gold and forest green.
Its cotton patches softened by many washings.
They feel as smooth as that team beneath your palm.
You turn it back.
Climb between fresh crisp shades.
And pull its comforting weight over you.
Sinking into the mattress.
As your head settles into the pillows.
You nestle more deeply beneath the quill.
Surrounded by all the improbable comforts of this little country cottage in the sky.
Beside the bed.
Tall old windows.
Frame a cinematic view.
Cornstalks frame the scene.
Their dry leaves moving in the breeze.
Among the dark shapes of pumpkin vines.
You make out the shadowy roundness of pumpkins and gourds.
But beyond it all.
The city has lost all definition.
Buildings and avenues.
Dissolve into a distant canvas of blurred gold,
Silver,
And red lights.
Softened by the old window glass.
The city glows so far in the distance.
It may as well be another planet.
And high above it all.
You and sleep.
May reunite.
And the perfect autumn dream.
Finding comfort.
Finding magic.
Finding bliss.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
