Winter Dreams On Lake Michigan

Enjoy a winter weekend retreat at the Candleglow Inn. Frances, the grandmotherly owner of the historic bed and breakfast, introduces you to the sleepy village. You walk along the Lake Michigan shoreline, where tufts of snow are like marshmallows weave with caramel bands of sand. Frances joins you at sunset and you discover a mystical surprise in the ice. What we forget, nature remembers. You cuddle up in your cozy suite at the inn as a snowstorm rolls in. It's time to dream away.

Transcript

Fall asleep with this cozy bedtime story for grownups.

You are listening to Winter Dreams on Lake Michigan.

In a snowy sleep story,

You enjoy a lazy weekend getaway at the Candleglow Inn,

A cozy lakeshore bed and breakfast.

The owner,

Francis,

A widow and long-time resident,

Is a kindred spirit and you instantly bond.

She introduces you to the loving community in the sleepy village before a storm rolls in.

You sightsee in town and walk along Lake Michigan as milky green waves crash on the icy jetty.

The snowy dunes swirl with the frozen sand like tufts of marshmallow wrapped in caramel and graham cracker ribbons.

Francis joins you to watch the sunset and you discover a magical surprise frozen in nature.

You return to your historic quarters as a blizzard arrives and fall asleep.

So find a place to relax and snuggle.

It's time to dream away.

I would like to welcome you to Michelle's Sanctuary.

I am Michelle and as you listen,

Think of my voice as that of a loyal friend who is here to remind you of your imaginative powers.

As your advocate,

I encourage you to relax and feel as good as you can in this time before you drift to a dreamscape.

Everything else can wait.

The only job you have right now is to spoil yourself with the waves of relaxation that flow over you.

Let go of the weight of the world,

The weight of your day,

The weight of thoughts that linger and interfere.

You deserve this mental vacation every single time you prepare for bed.

You earned it.

Customize the sleep story and meditation to your preferences.

Skip ahead to the story if you wish to disregard the breathwork or relish each conscious breath in the introductory meditation.

I am here to remind you that your needs matter and you know them more than anyone else on this planet.

It is time to cater to them and let your imagination fill in the gaps with pleasant memories and sensations.

And should you fall asleep,

You are always welcome to return to listen again.

The story may play on and inspire your subconscious mind to conjure soothing dreams should sleep come fast.

With your eyes closed,

Feel your lids become like heavy sandbags that block out the activity of the outside world.

Surrender and release tension in your body.

Connect with your body right now as if to say,

Hey friend,

How are you doing tonight?

Notice any place with tension or in need of a little kindness.

We go and make yourself as comfortable as you can.

And take in a deep,

Nourishing breath.

Send the air to the deepest parts of your belly.

Feel your abdomen diaphragm and then ribs rise like the Lake Michigan waves.

In your mouth in a yawn.

Not just any yawn.

The kind of yawn that says,

I haven't a care at all right now.

Everything can wait for another time.

This is my time.

That yawn becomes a sigh of surrender.

You sink deeper into the comforts of your bed.

You feel safer in the sanctuary of your room and mind.

Take in a second conscious breath.

Make this one decadent like you are savoring your favorite dessert.

See if you can sip in more air than your last breath.

Open your mouth and yawn.

Let the world know that you are all about you right now.

And sigh.

Release.

Surrender.

One more sip of air,

This time through pursed lips as if sipping through a straw.

Your lungs fill with oxygen.

And then you yawn.

And then you sigh.

And then you let go.

Notice how much more relaxed you feel than when we first began.

The state of mind and sensation will give your imagination freedom without bounds as you embark on a weekend retreat as this story begins.

Historic charm may be found in the abundant bed and breakfasts located throughout the Michigan lakeshore.

Directed in the 19th century by lumber barons,

Preservationists restored the homes and became innkeepers along the lake.

You arrived at the Candleglow Inn late on a frigid February night.

Biting winds whipped across the lake,

Making for waves as grand and powerful as those found in the Atlantic Ocean during a storm.

It was a long,

Tiring trip that ended on a dark cul-de-sac where you arrived at the inn.

For Michiganders,

The winter had been quite mild until deep into the season.

You drove on winding country roads,

Through villages in darkness,

And welcomed the amber glow of the inn that promised a safe refuge.

The Queen Anne home appeared whimsical and storybook-like,

With an asymmetrical design.

Bicycles hung from the edge of the roof,

A glow with white holiday lights that lined the perimeter of the home.

The lights brought attention to the triangles and nooks,

The parapets and balustrades painted in shades of burgundy and gray.

The wraparound porch glowed with hope and made the house appear plump and wide.

You were surprised by the attention to detail you had in such a tired state.

It was time for a getaway,

And you did the right thing without hesitation,

Booking a stay that would change the slump that sometimes comes in winter.

Frances the innkeeper welcomed you late in the evening in a grand motherly way.

Awaiting your arrival,

She dozed by the fire in a rocking chair.

Wrapped in the first afghan she knitted when she took up the hobby,

You rang the doorbell and she opened the door as a sharp wind penetrated your winter parka.

The foyer smelled of cinnamon,

Nutmeg and burning wood.

A staircase made of mahogany rose to the second floor like a surfer's perfect wave.

The cozy bed and breakfast felt like traveling back in time to the Victorian era.

Face doilies sat under rich greenhouse plants that thrived and offered promise in the winter months.

A series of oil paintings depicted four seasons of sunsets on Lake Michigan.

The landscape changed with the weather patterns.

The sun blazed similarly in saturated hues of tangerine,

Magenta and gold.

Frances had a soft and easy smile and curious eyes.

She offered to take your coat and scarf and hung them on an antique cherry wood coat tree.

Due to the incoming storm,

Other guests had cancelled their getaway.

You had the inn to yourself.

A small white cat named Lilia walked out to greet you,

Arching her back and extending her front paws as if awakened from slumber.

Frances was intuitive and sensed your need to rest.

She led you up the stairs to the crimson rose suite.

All the rooms at the inn were named after Frances' most beloved flowers grown in her summer garden.

Your heavy feet climbed the stairs with your weakenter bag hanging from your shoulder.

Your eyes were tired after hours of concentration and squinting as your headlights illuminated the long drive through a dark,

Wintry landscape.

Crimson velvet and silk wallpaper covered the walls.

Stained glass lamps poured a kaleidoscope of light into the dim room.

A single tapered candle sat atop the mantle of a fireplace and flickered.

Frances explained a ritual at the candle glow inn.

She lit a candle each night during turndown service so that guests could blow it out before bed to give gratitude for the day and to make a wish for tomorrow.

Frances explained she was more than happy to light the fire,

But also sensed she may be ready to sleep.

The room was toasty and warm,

So you said it could wait for your second night.

She told you to call for her if you needed anything,

And explained she had left a tray with sleepy-time tea and a basket of warm scones if you were hungry.

The moments to follow were a dreamy haze of warm,

Soothing liquid down your throat and scones melting on your palate.

Of sluggishly changing into your pajamas,

Washing your face in the antique sink and brushing your teeth,

You blew out the candle,

Grateful for the safe journey,

With a wish that the following day would be memorable.

You then collapsed on the king-sized canopy bed.

The bed was so plush and high that it was like getting lost among crimson clouds.

You are out as quickly as the candle's flame.

You make sense of all of this as golden morning light pours through the chiffon drapes that hang around the canopy bed.

When you first awaken,

You forget where you are.

Your sleep was sound and deep,

And you instinctively feel that more time has passed than you realized.

The antique clock that sits on the bed stand reveals it is after ten.

You do the math to realize you have slept nearly twelve hours uninterrupted.

A voice of a loved one from your memory bank chimes in to say,

You must have needed it.

What a silly society to live in that shames those who need sleep.

Of course you needed it.

Life can be stressful and overwhelming.

Sleep is wealth in a world where sleep deprivation is common.

You yawn and stretch,

And look out the bay window onto a scene you would have never imagined in the darkness of night.

A snow covered hill flows towards the icy lake.

The waves are more subdued than the night before,

But white crests are as ubiquitous as clear patches of ice.

You had not noticed the glass frames on the wall that encased pressed crimson roses.

Each summer for as long as Frances has run the inn,

She plucks the most beautiful rose as a memento.

And to remember that summer,

Dozens of pressed roses are on display and reveal the nurturing love bestowed on them.

You slowly get ready for the day as the steam radiator hisses.

You feel at home in a place you have never been.

It's as though those 12 hours of sleep acclimated you with a deep sense of familiarity and peace.

You dress in thermals and your thickest sweater that fits like a glove and was gifted to you by someone you love.

When stressed,

You leave your room and enter the hallway that sparkles in winter light shining in through the picture windows.

Prisms hang on a delicate string and create tiny rainbows on the hardwood and mint green and gold hallway runner rug.

The inn has a different feel during the day.

Gold glittering sunlight makes it impossible to believe it could be winter outdoors.

You glide down the stairs and Frances is seated in her rocking chair.

Lilia sits on her lap as she sips tea.

You wish her a good morning and she asks how you slept.

Your face beams in a smile.

So broad it surprises you.

As you tell her you slept better than you have in years.

Frances says there are more scones and baked goods in the kitchen for breakfast,

But she wonders if you might prefer a trip into town to enjoy a pancake breakfast at the local firehouse.

You agree that would be lovely as you hoped to explore the sleepy village in the off season.

Frances offers to drive,

Although it is a walkable distance,

And you thank her.

In moments you are riding through the quaint streets of sprawling historic homes in a rich palette of periwinkle,

Slate blue,

Maroon,

Lavender,

Ivory,

Grey,

And pale yellow.

An old song plays on the radio of her gold sedan and competes with the sound of the heat fence that douse you both in a blast of hot air.

Frances reveals that the inn was often closed in the winter.

She would help cook at the weekly firehouse breakfasts with her husband,

Who had been a volunteer fireman since they met in high school.

You had not realized how much the simple excursion meant to her until she pulled into the driveway of the brick firehouse and her eyes lit up.

You make your way into the old building and enter the first floor,

Where two cherry red fire trucks glisten in sunlight that pours through the windows of the garage door.

The firefighter gives young children a tour of the truck.

They try on fire hats and struggle to pick up the hose that drags on the cement floor.

Older kids attempt to climb the fire pole and unsuccessfully slide down it.

Frances leads you up the beige carpeted steps and her petite wrinkled hand glides up the smooth painted banister.

The staircase railing is as detailed as the staircase at the inn,

And the craftsmanship shows a great level of care and artistry that existed when buildings were erected long ago.

Every detail mattered.

To maybe people paid more attention to these details,

They were more aware of the beauty that surrounded them.

The cool air and smell of oil from the garage are quickly replaced by a warm breeze carrying the fragrant aroma of pancakes,

Coffee,

Maple syrup,

Tea,

And melted butter.

You follow Frances into the common area,

Where firefighters often gather and socialize when not on a call.

Long folding tables are placed atop the beige carpet that so plush your boots sink into it.

Overflowing bookcases rise towards the high ceilings.

Firefighters dressed in navy blue t-shirts with a station number and white aprons are busy cooking on the other side of a counter at the end of the room.

They laugh and chide one another like family.

Everyone knows Frances.

They greet her with smiles and hugs,

And she introduces you as her new friend as you take a seat near a window that looks out on Main Street.

A firewoman greets you with two glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice.

A thin layer of pulp coats the glass,

And you take a sip of this liquid sunshine after you place your orders.

Similar to the golden morning light,

The juice is a reminder that winter's darkness will once again be replaced with summer's warmth.

The soft murmurs of conversations between longtime friends and neighbors are accompanied by the clanking of utensils and spatulas tapping against the grill in the kitchen and flipping pancakes.

You relax and observe,

With no pressure to be anyone but yourself.

You are taken in by the warmth of the people and firehouse.

It is as much a social club as it is a place of service.

The sunlight is dreamy and soft,

And pours in from the multi-paned windows to create gold dust auras around everyone gathered.

Time passes fluidly with laughter,

Camaraderie,

And recommendations on where to visit from lifelong residents who love the town as much as their children.

But one thing is for sure,

You must not miss the sunset on Lake Michigan.

You finish the last sips of your warm beverage and bundle up for the cold.

Frances asks if she can drive you anywhere,

But you decide to spend the afternoon exploring the town on foot.

With your scarf wrapped around your neck and face,

You inhale the smell of fresh laundry as you walk down Main Street.

A bustling vacation spot in summer.

The winters are quiet and stores close early.

You enter a bookshop and are greeted by the owner Ipsen Chatfield.

You gravitate towards a display of coffee table books that capture the beauty of the Great Lakes.

You open a book and turn page upon page,

Showcasing the teal and sapphire blue waters captured at the peak of the four seasons.

The lakes appear like pots of honey surrounded by changing leaves of autumn.

The water is like turquoise glass in an image from spring,

And the shoreline is covered in melting ice and sprouting buds.

Ipsen asks where you are from.

You answer,

And he points to the book.

Lake Michigan is the moodiest of them all,

But that's why we love her.

She can be the most serene lake you ever saw one day,

And crash against the shoreline in a tantrum the next.

I think she understands all the emotions we go through.

It's funny a lake can understand us more than some people can.

Lake Michigan,

Like most of nature,

Has the freedom to express itself and thrive however it sees fit.

It's a freedom that this trip has reawakened in you.

The ability to feel and connect and be present to every moment as it unfolds.

You allow yourself to feel,

Tune into your body,

And listen to what it says.

And whereas many winter days are best spent hibernating,

A weekend retreat like this opens your mind to being out and exploring.

The day is cold yet tolerable in the warm sun.

You peruse a five-in-dime full of knick-knacks and necessities,

And purchase a postcard and fountain pen.

You walk to a coffee shop and order your favorite hot drink that brings warmth.

You sit by the window and look out on the quiet street,

Now dappled with mounds of dirty snow that will be refreshed by the incoming storm.

A soft rock ballad that plays on the radio is interrupted by a weather report that warns that at least a foot of snow is on the way.

Yet looking outside at the late afternoon sun,

It's hard to imagine a storm coming.

You pick up your pen and slowly write a message on the postcard to someone you love.

Someone who would most benefit from a surprise card in the mail.

It fills your heart with warmth to think of this person and your relationship.

In sending this card,

You hope to remind them how much they matter.

Sharing this love reminds you of how much your generosity and how much you matter as well.

It doesn't take much to make someone's day brighter.

The barista notices you writing and offers up a postcard stamp she happens to have on hand.

You're surprised by this random kindness and thank her.

She brings it over and you place it on the top right corner,

Ready to send.

You grab your unfinished drink and return to the outside world,

Serendipitously coming upon a mailbox on the corner.

You place the card in the box.

The street leads to the shoreline and you decide to walk along the lake back to the candle glow inn.

The wide bands of sand wrap around the snow drifts like caramel ribbons.

The snow is clean and untouched by people,

But rife with the prints of seagulls and deer.

Ice forms in many glaciers and once flowing ripples of water are now frozen like wax drippings down a candle.

The sun is inching its way towards the horizon and the sky is a dark blue.

Waves crash against the frozen shore and mounds of jagged silvery ice.

Your feet crunch on the firm,

Semi-frozen earth.

The layers of ice and frigid air diminish the salty,

Fishy aroma of the lake.

Evergreen trees aromatize the air with hints of pine and spruce and mint.

White birch trees are caked in a layer of frozen snow.

Pillowy mounds cover their slender,

Barren branches.

The snow comes out of the white papery bark and strangely looks more natural and fitting than the verdant leaves of summer.

You find your balance with each careful step,

Aiming to not slip on the ice.

The concentration soothes you and silences the monologue that often runs in your head.

You are present to every sensation at this sacred moment.

A seagull walks on a patch of ice and fiercely cries out towards the sun.

This bird is a survivor,

Fierce and resilient,

And is happy to let the world know that it is still here.

The tawny sand and glistening ice form a pattern like the teal waves and ivory crusts.

Hypnotized by the powerful waves,

With a bleary gaze it looks like the waves become the beach,

Frozen in time.

You arrive at the lakefront beach outside of the candle glow in as the sun begins to set.

A flash of red spots on the beach catches your attention.

You are closer to investigate and discover dozens of crimson rose petals captured in the ice,

Frozen in time.

They remind you of the pressed roses in your room.

Bend down and run your glove across the ice,

Mesmerized like a child by the beauty of the delicate silky petals made strong by the thick ice.

The sun casts the beach in a peachy pink hue.

Frances walks down a path of stairs to the beach to join you.

You show her the petals and ask if she saw them.

Her eyes begin to tear from the cold and the cascade of memories that the crimson petals conjure.

She runs her fingers across the ice,

Just as you did,

And smiles.

This is the first she has been to the beach this year.

Over sixty years ago,

In the same spot her husband had proposed at sunset,

She had created a trail of rose petals from the heart of town in crimson.

She had created a trail of rose petals from the heart of town in crimson,

Her favorite color.

A hue that inspires passion,

Love,

And courage.

She looks at you and smiles and says,

We may forget,

But nature keeps track.

Sky erupts in a fiery blaze of magenta and orange sherbet hues as the glowing orb of the sun lowers behind the lake.

The lava-like glow illuminates the bobbing cornflower blue and white ice masses as if they are dipped in mandarin orange syrup.

Lavender gray clouds roll in from the west and bring with them the first flurries of snow on Lake Michigan as the sun disappears.

You return to the inn and spend the early evening hours by the fire,

Sharing stories and parts about yourself you have not remembered in some time.

There is an ease that comes with talking to a kindred spirit who has yet to hear all the stories of your life.

Frances shares stories of her life,

And through them she is insistent that you continue to live the life you desire.

She buries in her words the hope that you will look back on your life with the same gratitude and peace she looks back on her own.

It is never too late to change the course of your life or try something you always wanted to do,

She insists.

The wind whips around the historic inn,

And the snow falls steadily.

You walk to the window and it is a total light out.

The holiday lights that once lit up the candle glow in are barely visible beneath the fresh and fluffy snow.

Frances says she is ready to retire for the night.

You thank her for the most wonderful day.

You put on your boots and step outside,

Leaving your coat inside for this brief encounter with the blizzard.

The rush of the wind and snow makes you feel alive.

The blowing snowflakes hit your skin like grains of sand against your legs from an incoming wave.

You open your mouth and taste the snowflakes as they land on your tongue.

The harsh wind cuts through your sweater,

But you welcome this feeling fully.

It brings you into the spectacular now.

You return inside as your face and fingers start to prickle and welcome the warmth.

The spontaneous ceremony has prepared you for sleep.

You walk up the stairs and run your hand across the banister.

You imagine all the hands who came before you and enjoy the sense of peace fostered by the candle glow in.

You return to the crimson rose suite to find the bed turned down with chocolate truffles on the stand.

The tapered candle on the mantle flickers and flames dance in the fireplace.

Francis prepared the room while you were out in the snow.

And the room is cast in the rainbow glow from stained glass lamps and the incandescence of the fire.

You feel as if you have fallen asleep in this room hundreds of nights before.

You go to the bathroom and fill the clothwood bathtub with hot water and lavender bath salts.

You light candles around the bathroom.

The windows look out onto snow capped evergreens and the quickly accumulating snow.

The bath water relaxes your muscles and you float in the water beneath the flickering shadows and candlelight reflections.

And you float in the flickering shadows and candlelight reflections on the water.

You surrender and drift.

Your body feels more relaxed than it has been in a long time.

When you finish the bath,

You dry off with a fluffy ivory towel and change into your pajamas.

You breathe deeply and your stomach ebbs and flows beneath the soft linen.

You blow out the candles in the bathroom and then walk to the tapered candle on the mantle.

You take time to give thanks for all you have experienced.

Things flash by in your mind's eye in rapid succession.

Handrails made with care.

New encounters.

Frozen caramel and marshmallow bands of sand and snow.

Sunsets and rose petals.

A sense of community.

A feeling of independence.

Romantic love.

Self love.

And self discovery.

Many minutes pass as the stream of images and sensations fills and warms you from head to toe.

Your eyes rise to the flickering flame and you take in a deep breath and blow it out with a single wish.

For your days to be as rich and lived in as your time was on this weekend retreat.

Snow softly pelts the window panes as you settle into the bed and close your eyes.

You sink down,

Drifting,

Listening to the sounds of the crackling fire and the whistling winds.

You feel safe,

Loved,

Cozy,

And ready to fall asleep.

And I am going to count you down to a night of deeply restorative sleep.

Your dreams will soothe you and transport you through the most beloved details of a winter retreat on Lake Michigan.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Nine.

Nine.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

Ten.

You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You You

Reviews

Best!

So happy you chose Lake Michigan! It’s one of my favorite places. Loved your description of the water and the lake shore.

Wonderful as always
Thank you
Namesta

🙏 thank you

Thank you, Michelle🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻Ah, the excitement when a new story is posted...I knew, when I hit play at 4:50am this morning, that I would finally hear the full story. So, a moment hesitation: go for it or wait. I pushed the button. And then the story unfolds, and it keeps on amazing me how quickly I have fallen asleep each time, never hearing consciously any of the richness of it at all. Amazing. What a fabulous storytelling gift you have. Thank you for sharing🙏🏻😴😘🙏🏻

Oh how I love your stories. Especially ones of witches, fairies and being single (not into the couples stories but they're nice). You bring out my spiritual desire for being outside.