Hello.
My name is Susan.
And tonight I'm going to help you drift off to sleep.
A sleep story just for you.
With all the busyness of your day.
I know how hard it can be to get to sleep.
So thank you for choosing this story.
And me.
To help you.
Make yourself comfortable because tonight you're going to go on a journey.
There is nowhere you need to hurry.
Nothing you need to remember.
Nothing you need to work out.
You only need to listen.
I want you to feel the weight of your body sinking into the bed beneath you.
Notice the softness of the pillow against your head.
The warmth of the covers resting over you and take one slow breath in.
In a long,
Gentle breath out.
And again.
And slowly close your eyes.
Outside the world is becoming quiet.
And somewhere between waking and sleeping,
Between summer and autumn,
Between light and darkness.
A pathway is waiting for you.
You find yourself standing at the beginning of a narrow country lane.
It's early evening.
And the sun is low in the sky.
Casting long ribbons of amber light.
Across the field.
The ear has The unmistakable feeling of early autumn.
Cool enough to touch your cheeks?
But still carrying a little memory of summer warmth.
And you begin to walk.
The path beneath your feet is soft and slightly uneven.
Tiny stones crunch gently beneath your shoes.
There's no traffic here.
No phones.
No demands.
Only the quiet rhythm of your footsteps.
Beside you tall grasses move in the breeze.
Can you reach your hand out and let your fingers brush against them?
Some are silky.
Others are dry and feathery.
And now and then,
One tickles the palm of your hand.
And you smile.
Ahead of you,
The countryside is changing colour.
From deep green to varnished gold.
Copper and Just.
And here and there.
The first flashes.
Of Scarlet.
The sun catches the leaves.
In forever,
Right?
They're almost translucent.
And you stop.
And listen.
A blackbird calls somewhere in the distance.
Dave's Russell.
And a breeze moves through the branches.
And far away you can hear water.
Perhaps it's a stream or a river.
You don't need to know.
You simply listen.
And breathe.
The lane eventually brings you to an old wooden gate.
You place your hand upon it,
And the wood feels smooth in some places and rough in others,
Polished by years of hands pushing it open.
You lift the latch.
And it gives a small metallic click.
And beyond lies an orchard.
Rules of apple trees.
Their branches.
Bending beneath the weight of fruit.
You Red.
Green.
Golden Apples.
Some touched with pink.
And the air smells wonderful here.
And somewhere nearby.
Good smoke.
That rich autumn scent.
Earthy.
Sweet.
Comforted.
As you walk beneath the trees you notice a few fallen apples lie in the grass.
And then you see one hanging from a low branch,
Perfectly ripe.
And you reach out.
Fingers crossed.
Around its cool smooth skin You twist it gently.
And it comes away into your hands.
You rub it against your sleeve.
One bite.
Feel the juice on your tongue.
Sweet at first,
And then slightly tart.
Fresh.
You chew slowly,
Knowing there is nowhere else to be.
Nothing else to do.
Just you?
The Apple.
The Orchard.
And the autumn evening.
Do you realise how rarely we allow ourselves to experience something so completely?
Because we're often eating and thinking,
Walking and planning.
Listening.
And preparing what to do next.
But here?
Here.
You're simply here.
You take another bite of the apple.
And another.
Until you feel completely present.
At the far side of the orchard.
You'll notice the house.
You're surprised you didn't see it before.
An old stone cottage with a deep slate.
Warm golden light glows from its windows.
And smoke curls lazily from the chimney.
There is something about the house that feels familiar.
Not because you've been here before.
And because some places seem to recognize us.
You walk towards it.
Beside the front door.
Sits a basket overflowing with apples' pears.
Like berries and hazelnuts.
These are the books.
Of late summer.
And there's herbs.
Rosemary Siege Time.
Brush your fingers across the rosemary.
Immediately its fragrance rises into the cool evening air.
You rub a little between your fingers and breathe it in.
You go to knock on the door.
But before your knuckles touch the wood,
You notice that it's open.
You go inside.
And warmth that reaches you first.
Ben Light.
Then sight.
Saint.
Something is baking.
You smell apples.
Cinnamon.
Perhaps a little nutmeg.
And underneath it all the comforting smell of a wood fire.
The room is beautiful.
Not grand,
Not perfect.
Simply warm.
As a fire burns in the stone fireplace and you hear the occasional crack and pop of the logs.
Candles flicker around the room and their flames cast gentle shadows against the walls.
And in the center of them stands a large wooden table.
Has been prepared for the harvest.
There's apples,
Pears,
Fresh bread,
Nuts,
Dark berries,
Cheese,
Honey,
Small bowls of preserve,
And a jug of something warm and fragrant.
You pour yourself a cup.
Steam rises towards your face.
You hold it between your hands.
Cup is warm against your palms.
Can you breathe it in?
You take us and the warmth spreads across your tongue.
Down your throat,
Into your chest.
Maybe take another slip slowly.
And outside the last of the daylight is fading.
And inside everything feels safe.
You sit at the table and notice something unusual.
Three small baskets have been placed before you.
And beside them is a card.
And on the first basket are the words.
What have I gathered?
And on the second.
.
.
Can I release?
And on the third.
.
.
What can I carry forward?
You look at the first basket.
And you ask?
What have I gathered this year?
And memories begin to appear.
People.
Places.
Conversations.
Moments when you surprised yourself Times when you were brave times when you kept going.
Things you've learned.
Things you've created.
And somehow each memory becomes a small golden apple.
One by one,
You place them into your basket.
This is your harvest.
I don't need to compare it with anyone else's because it's enough.
Now place your hands around the basket.
And the wicker feels smooth beneath your fingertips.
Quietly.
You see?
Thank you.
Now you turn towards the second basket.
What are you ready to release?
Don't worry.
And expectation.
Someone else's opinion?
Something you've been replaying for far too long Imagine simply taking the weight from your shoulders.
Feel it.
And notice your shoulders soften.
Your jaw releases.
Your hands unclench.
Whatever you're carrying.
Place it into the basket.
And you notice.
The basket begins to grow lighter.
The things inside turn into dry autumn leaves.
A breeze.
Enters through the slightly open window.
And the leaves lift.
One by one,
They swirl gently around the room.
And disappear into the night.
Gone.
You don't need to follow them.
You don't want to know where they've gone.
They simply no longer belong to you.
Beside the fire.
There's a set of brass scales,
The symbol of Libra.
One side is slightly lower than the other.
The brass feels cool beneath your fingers.
And you watch the two sides gently moving back and forth.
Bye Kim!
And you understand something.
Balance does not mean remaining perfectly still.
Balance moves.
It adjusts.
It responds.
Some days you give.
Some days you see.
Some days you work.
Some days you rain.
The scales slowly settle,
Not perfectly.
Just enough.
And perhaps this is all life asks of you,
Not perfection.
Adjustment,
Awareness and the willingness to return to ourselves.
Outside the window,
Darkness has arrived and you open the cottage door.
And step outside.
The air is cooler now.
You feel it against your face.
And you wrap a soft woolen shawl around your shoulders,
Feeling its weight,
Its warmth.
And its rough texture beneath your fingertips.
The orchard is dark now,
But above it.
.
.
The sky is magnificent.
Hundreds of stars.
Perhaps even thousands.
As you tilt your head back.
I notice.
Glowing steadily amongst them is Saturn.
Right in the autumn sky.
And you stand beneath it.
Tonight's Saturn is simply a light in the darkness.
And somewhere inside you comes a question.
What deserves your time now?
Eventually you turn inside and a staircase leads to a small bedroom beneath the roof.
You climb slowly,
One step at a time.
Then another.
And another.
At the top is a room.
Appears just for you.
A deep bed covered with fresh white linen,
A thick quilt and soft pillows.
And on the bedside table is a tiny vase containing rosemary and lavender.
The fragrance is gentle.
You sit on the edge of the bed,
Take off your shoes.
And your feet relaxes.
You climb beneath the covers and the sheets feel cool.
Then warm against your skin.
You pull the quilt around you.
And outside the wind moves softly through the orchard.
Leaves whisper against one another.
And the fire downstairs crackles faintly.
Somewhere far away An owl calls Everything is cycling.
Everything is becoming quiet.
And you remember the three baskets.
What you gathered.
What is a leaf?
What you will carry forward.
The third basket.
Can wait until morning.
There's no need to decide tonight.
Tonight is for resting.
Tonight is for allowing the scales to settle by themselves.
Your breathing becomes slower.
Your body heavier.
Your thoughts soften.
The earth itself seems to breathe beneath you.
And you are part of that rhythm.
You don't need to finish everything first.
You're allowed to stop.
You're allowed to be still.
You're allowed to sleep.
Imagine the last autumn leaf drifting from a branch.
It doesn't struggle.
Doesn't wonder where I'll land.
It simply lets go.
Floating.
Turning.
Falling.
Until it reaches the soft earth beneath the tree.
Perhaps you can do the same.
Let the day fall away Let the conversations fall away.
Let tomorrow fall away.
Nothing needs your attention.
And somewhere beyond the window,
Saturn continues to shine.
Steady and patient.
Keeping watch over the quiet autumn night.
The scales are balanced,
The harvest is gathered,
The fire is warm.
The bed is soft.
You are safe here.
Where everything else can wait until morning.
You Night.
And let your attention Simple as the people.
And deeper.
And to warmth.
Stillness.
And sleep.
Good night.
You
