A Farmhouse In Slumbershire

In tonight’s sleep story, you are a halfling farmer who lives near the edge of the cozy hamlet of Slumbershire. As you finish work for the day, two weary old friends return from their adventures. You invite them to stay, treat them to supper, and exchange stories from the road – and home.

Cricket sounds + grounding meditation

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Back to the Shires by Christian Anderson, Is It Still Yours by They Dream by Day, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Open your farm to old friends in tonight's fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you fall asleep.

So at any time,

Feel free to let go of the story,

Knowing you can always come back to finish it later.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a grounding meditation and body scan.

In tonight's story,

You are a halfling farmer who lives near the edge of the cozy hamlet of Slumbershire.

As you finish work for the day and set about making yourself something to eat,

Two weary old friends return from adventures in the east.

You invite them to stay,

Treat them to supper,

And exchange stories from the road and home.

There's earth under his old feet and clay on his fingers,

Wisdom in his bones,

And both his eyes are open.

J.

R.

R.

Tolkien,

The Fellowship of the Ring,

Soil scent on the breeze,

Dirty hands,

Tired muscles,

And a brewing hunger.

This is sowing season.

The work is hard and the days are long,

Yet there is nothing else so gratifying in the world.

It's a time of beginnings,

Of vast potential.

Every season has its own kind of magic,

You suppose.

You survey the freshly tilled fields with a quiet satisfaction.

The sun is drifting westerly and down,

Hanging now with a languorous air,

As if unmotivated to entirely set.

You're only beginning to feel the change to stillness after a long toil,

Your body adjusting to a mode of rest and recovery.

The dogs are out beyond the fields,

It looks like one of them has caught the scent trail of a rabbit or a squirrel,

Which has caused some commotion among them.

There's time yet before you'll have to call them inside for the night.

Let them release some of that excess energy in what remains of the daylight.

As for you,

It's about time you started supper,

With your family visiting with cousins in the heart of the village of Slumbershire,

And not returning for at least another day.

You are on your own,

For the first time in a while.

It's not so bad.

You've found that a bit of quiet around the house and on the fields has done you some good.

It's opened your senses,

Made you more keen to notice the sights,

Sounds and smells around you.

Everything takes on more meaning,

Even stillness.

You observe a plume of birds erupting from the tall conifers of the wild woodland beyond,

And wonder what's shaken them from their nests,

Such things you might have ignored in the company of others.

But in the midst of solitude,

Your mind fills with wondrous fantasies,

Magical beasts,

And living legends roaming the woods.

But there is loneliness too.

The hours pass quicker,

And the work is easier when there's someone around to talk to,

Other than just the dogs,

And horses,

And chickens.

You don't even have to talk.

It's enough just knowing that someone else is there to share the load.

This is the only life you've ever known.

That's the way it is in Slumbershire and the surrounding countryside.

Most folks are born into a trade and carry on doing it forever,

Passing it down then to their children and grandchildren.

You learned to work the land from your family,

Lived your whole life in this house,

Till it came time to step in as its master.

Generations of stewardship live in your bones and your blood.

That kind of commitment breeds fierce love and loyalty,

A sense of keen responsibility for the land and the work.

Still,

Living so far from the center of town,

And so near the ancient forest and wilderness,

There are times when you feel a spirit of wanderlust awaken in you.

Once or twice you've been simply seized by it,

When the wind blows easterly,

Smelling of sweet blooms.

Times like those you could just as easily kick off from the ground and be swept along that wind to unknown places where the earth doesn't need tilling and where wild things grow.

It was a year or more ago,

If you reckon rightly,

That such an urge to travel last gripped you at the time you learned of the departure of two old friends from Slumbershire.

According to the town gossip,

They went off at the behest of a wizard,

Packed like they never expected to return.

One of them,

Theo,

Even sold the coveted Underhill family home.

You never cared to say anything about it to those around you,

But you did feel a twinge of envy when you heard.

What might it be like to lay down your obligations for once and let yourself be lifted by the wind?

That's not your lot,

You remind yourself.

Any time the spirit starts to stir,

You're meant to be here,

At the farmhouse,

With your feet on the ground and your hands in the soil.

And then the yearning passes.

It always does.

It's enough to know,

Just know,

Even without seeing it,

That there's magic in the ancient forest,

That there are kings and battles beyond it,

That there's a whole world outside your little farm,

Run by people you'll never know.

You carry out the final duties that will mark the close of your day,

Mostly attending to the livestock,

The horses are fed,

Watered and comfortable in their stables,

The chickens are seen to.

You fetch water from the pump for rinsing off,

With a glance over to check on the wolfhounds,

All three now at attention beneath the gnarled oak tree,

Probably staring down a squirrel on one of the limbs.

You step inside the old farmhouse,

It feels good to rinse your hands in the basin of cool water.

You watch as the soil and grime releases,

Sediment settling at the bottom of the basin.

You pat some of the water on your face and neck,

Then dry off with a clean linen,

Feeling refreshed.

The kitchen window looks out toward the east,

With a view of the newly tilled rows and the grassy hills beyond.

You open the window to allow in the fragrant breeze as you work,

Chopping root vegetables and herbs for a simple but hearty stew.

It's a favorite of yours at wintertime,

Made with all the sumptuous flavors beloved in cold weather,

But as it's still early spring and you've enough of the winter stock left to work with,

It'll do just fine for tonight,

Throwing all the ingredients into a pot over the fire.

You savor the fragrant melange of thyme and sweet tarragon.

Now you take a seat for the first time in quite a few hours,

On a well-loved chair by the kitchen table,

With an audible groan.

This is the true pleasure of the farmer's life,

In your estimation.

The unparalleled release that comes at the end of a long day's work,

The shoulders falling down the back,

The easing of tension,

The glorious exhale,

All of it made more meaningful by the effort put forth.

But it's only a short respite now,

For only moments after you've sat down and before you can melt into the chair like you'd hoped,

You hear through the open window the sound of the dogs barking.

You let go a heavy sigh,

As much as you'd like to assume they're only making noise to antagonize whatever squirrel or fox has just crossed their path,

And to stay here in your seat and let them get it out of their system.

The little voice inside your head won't allow you to ignore it.

The responsible thing to do would be to investigate,

Even though it's exceedingly unlikely that there's any danger afoot in these parts.

So you rise and go once more to the open window.

The setting sun is casting long shadows over the farm,

And a grayish-purple pall is falling now over the hills.

You cast your eyes over toward the old oak to see the three hounds leaping and circling,

But it's no mere fox or rabbit they're addressing.

No,

There are riders approaching from the east,

Silhouetted against the landscape and the evening sky.

You feel your heart skip a beat as your mind processes the vision.

What kind of riders are these?

Coming from the direction of Torbereth,

Yonder ancient forest,

But any fear or unease that rises in you is calmed when you perceive the size and stature of the riders and their mounts.

These are not great steeds carrying tall,

Cloaked men.

These are ponies,

A little shaggy perhaps,

Carrying little folk,

Halflings,

Just like you and the denizens of Slumbershire.

The dogs are not barking in alarm,

Or to frighten an intruder,

Their little yelps ring with sheer joy.

And now it's beginning to dawn on you.

A little gasp arises with the recognition.

Before you know it,

You are flinging open the door and running out across the fields,

All the fatigue forgotten and a new spring in your step.

Can it be?

Theo Underhill and Mafoluk Bramblefoot,

The riders from the east,

Are your old friends,

Those dear halflings,

Come home from their adventures.

What wonderful happenstance.

What delightful providence that these two should just have been dancing through your thoughts tonight,

And now are riding toward you in the flesh.

It's as if you conjured them up with your wistful musings,

Or as if they appear now as an answer to your little loneliness.

You bound toward them,

Lighthearted and gleeful.

The dogs encircle you,

Leaping with the same boundless excitement.

Mav is the first to dismount.

He all but jumps from the ponies' back to embrace you heartily.

Theo climbs down with more care and deliberation.

He was always rather reserved,

But you have the distinct impression that he's taking such care to avoid aggravating an injury.

For the first of many times to come this night,

Your curiosity is piqued.

For many moments,

The thrill of the unexpected reunion is too fresh,

Too overwhelming for any of you to find words.

Laughter,

Exclamation,

And gesture overtake you.

Yet in time,

After many tight bear hugs,

You step back and behold the two road-weary halflings.

They are the same two who set out from Slumbershire more than a year ago,

But they are utterly and fundamentally changed.

For one thing,

Mav now carries himself with a confidence of which you never thought him capable,

And Theo's eyes are deeper,

More capacious than you remember,

As if they've seen things no other halfling ever dreamed of.

You declare the pair a sight for sore eyes,

And a most welcome surprise on this quiet evening.

You insist that they stop here for the night.

It's several hours' ride still into the village,

And dark will be upon you soon enough.

There's hot stew almost ready,

And warm beds aplenty.

The invitation elicits a chorus of relieved sighs and expressions of gratitude.

It's been a long ride,

And they'd prefer your relaxed company to the commotion that would arise if they were to wander into the village tavern out of the blue.

You attend to the ponies,

Sweet things as they are,

Before ushering Theo and Mav inside.

Your three great hounds follow behind,

Sniffing at your guests' feet.

You're met inside with the smells of herb and root,

And the sound of simmering liquid over the crackling fire.

Supper is ready,

Just in time.

You ladle stew into deep bowls,

And serve Mav and Theo at the kitchen table.

There's fresh,

Crusty bread for dipping,

And honeymead for drinking.

The dogs look on with begging eyes,

Hoping for a crumb or two to drop from the table.

But your hungry guests aren't letting a drop of stew or a morsel of bread go to waste.

Eventually,

The hounds accept this,

And they saunter lazily into the next room to curl up on the rug.

Your friends offer thanks and compliments on the meal.

It's been so long since they tasted pure slumber shire cooking,

Familiar flavors,

And comforting recipes.

Again,

Your curiosity spikes.

What exotic foods have they been enjoying all this time that made them homesick for a simple vegetable stew?

Would you hold your tongue for now,

And let them eat in peace?

There will be time enough for questions and stories once their bellies are full.

That's a sort of unwritten law among halflings.

Food comes first.

Soon,

The last drops of stew have been soaked up by bread,

And dreamy,

Satisfied smiles curl across the lips of everyone at the table.

You can wait no longer.

The questions and curiosities you've kept down until now come bubbling up,

Like a spring,

And spilling forth.

Where have they been all this time?

Did they have many great escapades?

Were there dangers and perils around every turn?

Did they meet elves?

Have they returned for good,

Their quest complete?

Or is this only a brief pilgrimage home before striking out on a lifetime of adventures?

Your enthusiasm is met with a round of chuckles.

They hardly know where to start.

There are some things they cannot say,

And other things they hope to forget about the long journey.

But in the space between are a thousand wonders and marvels,

Dozens of dangerous foes,

Many spirit-crushing losses,

And,

After all,

An impossible victory to tell the sum of their tales would surely take all night.

I've got just the thing then,

You say,

And without another word you put the kettle on for tea.

With steaming teacups in hand,

You,

Math,

And Theo retire to the porch.

The sun is set at last,

And only a few clouds drift across the deepening blue-black of the night sky.

Stars appear in clusters and sweeps.

It's a beautiful night.

The breeze picks up the subtle,

Powdery fragrance of cherry blossoms,

And even some of the piney,

Evergreen scent of the ancient forest beyond your fields.

Crickets chirp,

And a nightjar chuckles.

Theo speaks first,

And his voice is full of a distant longing.

I never thought I'd see another spring in Slumbershire,

He says.

And now,

Even here on the outskirts,

Why,

It's even lovelier than I remember.

The tea,

Blended with chamomile and rose hips,

Calms the body and mind.

You rock gently back and forth in your chair,

Listening to the wind on the grass.

A tender pride swells in your chest as you behold the moonlit fields,

So freshly readied for the planting of this year's crop.

Well,

I suppose,

Says Math,

You've let us eat and drink our fill at your table.

It's only right that we tell something of our tale,

Right,

Theo?

And Theo nods,

His eyes again twinkling with that far-off look,

As if a piece of him was left somewhere behind on the road.

My friend,

Mathaluk says,

I always knew there were wonders and strange perils beyond the borders of Slumbershire,

But never did I guess at their number,

Or indeed their nature.

You asked if we met elves upon our travels.

Ay,

We did.

But did you know there were many different kinds of elves?

Different cultures and languages they speak.

Some are not so unusual,

Nor so different in their way of life than us.

And others,

Well,

It's like they're from another world,

Another age.

He tells you of a hidden valley and a citadel where he and Theo were met with the most luxurious elven hospitality,

Of an elf huntress who joined their party as protector,

And who taught them how to string a bow and shoot an arrow.

With dreamy wistfulness he tells of a night spent in an enchanted wood,

In the company of an elven queen who could see the future.

At this,

Theo unsheathes a sword from the scabbard at his hip.

It was given to him by the mysterious queen,

He says.

The sword,

Just the right size for a halfling,

Catches the moonlight and shines white.

You marvel at the delicate beauty of the blade,

Subtly curved and nimbly engraved.

You could swear it even faintly hums a descant above the music of the night.

You imagine Theo,

Mild-mannered,

Charitable Theo,

Wielding such a blade in fierce battle.

Somehow the image comes to you easily,

For there is a quiet nobility about the halfling that hides just beneath the surface.

He's as much a knight as any man,

And a math look too for that matter.

When the tea runs out and there are yet more tales to tell,

Theo goes inside to search his pack for something.

I've been saving it for just such an occasion,

He says,

Oh no,

You protest.

There's no need to spill the last drops of anything on me,

But Theo insists.

He comes back with a bottle of sparkling gold liquid and three glasses.

He pours and serves the drinks.

You ask what it is you have in front of you,

A special brew from the halls of the elves,

Theo responds.

You take a sip.

At once the drink sparkles on your tongue.

It's floral and mildly sweet,

Like drinking the pure nectar of honeysuckle.

Such a thing could only have been brewed with magic on one side,

You exclaim,

For no earthly process could match this taste.

With every precious drop drunk,

You feel lighter and younger even,

As though the elven enchantment is rolling back years of hard labor,

Refreshing you,

Body and soul.

Theo and Math continue to tell stories of their adventures.

They've met beings older than the stars,

Giant trees that walked and talked like men,

Dwarves who lived deep underground and mined the mountains for precious metals.

The world is mighty and vast,

With infinite wonders,

It seems.

And yet,

With each sunrise and each sunset,

They ached for home,

As their eyes opened to new and marvelous things.

They missed the hills and gardens of Slumbershire,

As one grown misses the innocence of childhood.

Now,

Having seen more in a year than most halflings see in a lifetime,

They are content to return,

To live a second youth,

With all the wisdom of age and experience.

A funny thought springs to your mind,

And you speak it aloud,

For what is home,

If not a means by which to measure how much you've changed?

This gives the adventurers a bit of a chuckle,

But in the pause that follows,

You can sense that all three of you are turning the words over in your minds.

You certainly are.

It's a strange feeling,

Sharing space and stories,

With two who've returned from the other side of the world,

Whose tales dance around a matter of great importance,

And who seem to have come through fire,

To make it home safely.

You can see plainly how much they've changed.

Both exude new confidence,

Ease,

And,

At least in Theo's case,

Profound depth.

But you,

You've never left Slumbershire,

Spent your whole life toiling on the farm,

And your leisure time in the village.

Can you rightly say you've changed,

Or grown,

At all?

Won't you tell us some news of home?

Asks Mathaluk.

We've been so long away,

And it would give us great pleasure.

Your heart softens,

And you feel grateful for the company,

Grateful that they came through your farm,

And that you could be the one to shelter and feed them before they ride off toward home.

Well,

Let's see,

You say.

At first,

You quite want to respond that nothing is new,

That it's the same old Slumbershire,

But you hold your tongue and think for a moment.

It's an interesting and unexpected challenge to be in the reversed position of storyteller,

Newsbringer,

When all that's passed over the year and change is what always does.

Days worked,

Lives lived,

Birthdays and passings on,

Parties and harvest seasons.

The eager brightness in your friends' eyes,

Though,

The hunger for comfort and familiarity,

Forces you to slow your thoughts,

To consider the last year with care,

And to treat every happening like a great event,

No matter how small it may seem to you.

Oh,

Low banks!

Married Olivia Cotton,

You say,

At last.

They had their wedding on our family's land,

And I think all of Slumbershire were in attendance.

Finally,

Cries Math.

How long were they courting?

I might have thought they'd never tie the knot.

Just this crumb of news seems to bring life and spirit to Math and Theo,

And it warms you up,

Too.

Your mind floods with memories of dancing under hanging lanterns,

Joyous music,

A palpable feeling of love and companionship in the air,

And last summer here at the farm,

The cat had a litter of kittens,

You say.

We couldn't keep them all,

So we brought some to the children in the village.

Oh,

The looks on their faces when they saw the weave things.

This memory brings a keen smile to your face.

The children really were overwhelmed with sheer delight,

And the arrival of new life in any form always invigorates the community.

You tell them of last autumn's bountiful harvest,

And you remember old Tobias Riverhopper,

Of course,

Going on for years about that great big fish of his.

The one he said was big as a horse,

Chimes in Theo.

The very same,

And none of us believed him when he said it,

You continue.

Well,

Wouldn't you know,

He caught that fish,

And it was nearly twice his size.

The whole village turned out for a feast beneath the party tree they did.

There is less happy news to share,

Too,

And you do not hold this back,

Such as life in a close-knit place.

For every meeting there is a parting,

For every plentiful harvest there is a drought.

But Theo and Math receive the unfortunate news with as much gratitude as the fortunate.

Each word wraps them more and more in the embrace of home,

With all its joy and sorrow.

By the time you feel you've shared every bit of news they could care to know,

Their spirits seem thoroughly lifted,

Their cheeks seem rosier,

Their eyes glitter,

And many opposing emotions meet in their faces.

For you,

Too,

It's a powerful exercise to tell the stories of your village with great acknowledgement of their meaning,

And to have them received as chronicles of important events,

To see the emotional investment they inspire in your fellows.

Who's to say,

You wonder,

That the lives and doings of ordinary folk are less important than those of kings and queens?

The nectar flows,

And the night grows long,

A silvery crescent moon gleaming high overhead,

The swell of cricket song crescendos on an increasingly chilly breeze,

Though the warmth kindled between you and your friends could sustain a whole night's worth of laughter and conversation.

At last Theo is the first to turn in for bed.

He can have any of the beds he likes,

You insist.

They're made up fresh,

And should be comfortable after the long travels.

Math lingers for a few minutes more.

He inquires whether you've been keeping up the hedges yourself since he left.

He isn't sure yet,

But he might like to return to employment as a gardener if folks will have him.

You assure him it would be a pleasure to welcome him back.

Save you and the family the trouble.

Theo seems very changed,

Doesn't he?

You inquire.

Aye,

Math agrees.

Master Theo has been through a lot,

But he'll be alright.

Soon Math too heads for bed.

Reiterating his gratitude for your welcome and hospitality,

He couldn't think of a friendlier face.

To meet upon the threshold of home,

You remain on the porch for a while longer,

Not ready to turn in just yet,

Rocking with the rhythm of the wind.

You gather great comfort from Math's final words to you.

The sheer veil of moonlight washes over the ridges in the fields,

And kisses the tender grass with a silver edge.

Soon these fields will wave with sparkling corn and turnips and carrots beyond.

The leaves of the ancient oak shake and shiver in the breeze.

If you really think about it,

You've always stood with your feet in two worlds,

Living on the outskirts,

Near the edge of wild forests,

And the gateway to a wider world.

It gives you pleasure to think of yourself as a master of this border space,

The in-between.

It's a space where things grow,

Where dogs roam and chase squirrels,

And where weary travelers may find peace.

It's a space where a single bound would cast you into the arms of a loving community,

Or into the wilderness of the unknown.

At last,

When the night breeze sweeps in a strong chill,

You take in a deep,

Conscious breath,

Imbibing the sweet scent of cherry blossom and freshly turned earth,

And turn in the floors of the old farmhouse creek,

Beneath your feet the gentle groans of a house much loved and lived in,

Where generations of halflings have rested.

After long days in the fields,

A house that stood against storms,

And under bright sun that stands between civilization and wilderness,

The dogs are curled up on the hearth rug,

And your friends have found their way to warm guest chambers.

You make for your bedroom,

Change into your bedclothes,

And climb into bed.

The linens are clean and cool.

As you lie back,

You feel your shoulders fall,

Hips open,

And muscles relax.

This is the true meaning of comfort,

You think,

The release of tension and toil.

For a few minutes,

Before you close your eyes,

You wonder if you are the only person awake in all of Slumbershire.

You wonder what kind of dreams are running through the minds of Theo and Math,

And your family in the village,

And old Tobias Riverhopper,

And Olo and Olivia Banks.

You picture the ponies snoozing in their stables,

And the chickens asleep in their coop.

You imagine the ancient forest,

Alive with the noises of night,

And wonder which animals are snug in their hollows,

And which come awake and travel by moonlight.

Your last conscious thought you have,

Before you succumb to a wave of heavy sleepiness,

Is of the old oak tree,

At the very edge of your fields.

Older than you,

Older than the farm,

Older than Slumbershire itself,

It stands.

Roots deep in the earth,

Roots reaching toward the farm,

And toward the wild forest.

Who knows how deep they go.

The old oak tree yields,

And it bends,

But it never breaks.

Its roots and its fallen leaves,

And its acorns,

May travel far indeed,

Though the tree itself never moves from that spot.

But it is wise,

And it knows much of the world.

Breathe,

Soften and relax.

Come into a natural stillness in your body that allows for the continued micro-movement,

The rising and falling of the belly and chest with the rhythm of the breath,

The movement of the eyes behind the eyelids,

And any other soft,

Easy movement that naturally arises from this search and settling into comfort.

This time is yours,

There's nothing else you need to be doing,

Nowhere you need to be,

Just here and now,

Embracing the opportunity for rest.

You deserve it.

So in that exquisite stillness,

You've found a breathing,

Restorative stillness.

Imagine yourself rooted in the earth,

Like a tree,

Your roots both as anchors,

Locating you in space,

And also as exploratory apparatus,

With unknown depth and capacity for communication.

They absorb the nutrients of the earth,

The subterranean,

The unconscious,

And they send and receive messages,

Making you more aware of the world beyond your body.

They steady you against wind and storm and change,

And they deepen your connection to everything else in this earthly realm,

Teaching trust,

Safety,

Security,

And grace.

While you hold this sensation of rootedness,

Of grounding and stillness,

Make space to explore the mirror image of the root system,

The limbs and branches that reach into the sky,

Which produce buds and flowers and fruit and seeds.

This is the part of you that sways in the wind,

That braces for the change of seasons,

With presence in the seen world,

The conscious world,

Under all kinds of weather.

The part that flourishes because the roots remain strong,

In a great dance of stillness and breath,

With roots and limbs in the seen and unseen worlds.

You are the sum of earth,

Air,

Water,

Fire,

And spirit.

Breathe naturally,

Feeling grounded and soft,

Feeling how your roots steady your branches,

Feeling how strong you are,

And slowly let your body slide into gentle relaxation,

Letting softness and tranquility move through your body like a wave,

Or a drinking up of nourishing minerals from your roots to your branches,

Starting with the soles of the feet and the toes,

The tops of the feet,

The ankles,

The lower legs,

The knees,

The thighs,

The hips,

And hip flexors,

The pelvis,

The belly,

The core,

The lower back,

The waist,

The chest,

The upper back,

The shoulders,

The upper arms,

The elbows,

The forearms,

The wrists,

The backs of the hands,

The fingers,

The palms,

And moving through the neck,

The jaw,

The chin,

The cheeks,

The mouth,

The nose,

The eyes,

The temples,

The forehead,

And the brow,

And the crown of the head,

And beyond the crown of the head,

To however high your branches extend,

A wave of relaxation and a deepening strength,

Feel the whole body root to branch,

Nourished and cherished,

Steadied and strong,

Relaxed and grateful,

Be well,

Good night.

Reviews

I thought that was fun and peaceful and interesting and soothing at the same time! ♥️

Aside from the name “Slumbershire“ (which strikes me as really corny, and which I find kind of annoying whenever it comes up), I enjoyed the recording. I liked the focus on sensations and images that promote calm, relaxation and remembrance of being grounded in the natural world.

I think it was excellent, I put it on I remember the start then I woke up feeling refreshed. A calm voice and a calming story. I will listen again, even on the nights I’m not listening to a sleep and sorcery story my sleep is fine. It feels like I’ve broken the cycle of lying awake panicking. The best thing I’ve done to help my sleep thank you. 🙏

Very relaxing

This is a nice relaxing story. I listen to it often and fall asleep easily.

Fantastical, dreamy, comfortable, hope to hear the middle and end soon!

Thèse story’s are so good I can not put them into words.Thank you

Luv JRT 📚 This was a good story as I took my morning walk. Thankyou kindly. 🐨💟Happy 🐇☺💕😺😻

Ah, deepest thanks! On my small farm in maine, it is sowing time— this helps bring a reverence and appreciation in what can be a frenetic time. Country living is hard work but so richly rewarded… it took a few listens to get all the way through, comforting and dreamy… a big farmer’s hug to you!

I loved this, thank you again for the wonderful story! 💖

I love these bedtime tales. Your voice is lovely and perfect for telling the stories. Listening is soothing, gently leading me to a peaceful sleep. Thank you. 🙏