A Walk Down Gingerbread Lane

In this magical bedtime story for all ages, you are preparing for the festive season by building a gingerbread house with family. You share cozy stories by the fire before retiring to bed. But in the night, you awake to find your neighborhood transformed – you step outside to explore the once familiar street, now magically reimagined as an enchanting village made of gingerbread. There is much to discover, from a sweets-laden town square to the bordering candy cane forest. Finally, as sugary snow begins to fall, you return home to sleep.

If you’re still awake as the story concludes, I’ll guide you through a gentle meditation for peace and joy.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon and Magic in the Mist by Flouw, Purple Dreams by Silver Maple, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Explore an enchanting gingerbread village in tonight's magical sleep story for all ages.

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.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and make your way into sleep.

If you are still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a gentle meditation for peace and joy.

In tonight's story,

You are preparing for the festive season by building a gingerbread house with your family.

You share cozy stories by the fire before retiring to bed.

But in the night,

You awake to find your neighborhood transformed.

You step outside to explore the once familiar street,

Now magically reimagined as a life-size village made of gingerbread.

There is much to discover,

From a sweet-laden town square to the bordering candy cane forest.

And finally,

As sugary snow begins to fall,

You return home to sleep.

She tells her love while half-asleep in the dark hours with half-words whispered low.

As earth stirs in her winter sleep and put out grass and flowers,

Despite the snow,

Despite the falling snow,

Robert graves.

The door to the oven opens,

Sending a warm and aromatic wave across the room to flush your cheeks.

Your grandmother,

With her gingham oven mitts,

Pulls two baking sheets from the hot oven and fans them to start cooling them down.

Oh,

And the smell is simply heavenly.

There's ginger,

Of course,

At the head of it all.

With the warm,

Malty molasses bring sweetness to the spice.

Cinnamon,

Allspice,

And clove waltz with the uplifting vanilla.

It's true what they say,

That scent can unlock memories better than any other scent.

As you inhale,

Pictures dance through your mind.

The faces of family and loved ones.

Snuggly evenings by the fire.

Warm bubble baths after hours playing in the cold snow.

To you,

Nothing says home like fresh-baked gingerbread.

The days are getting much shorter.

It's hardly five o'clock in the afternoon,

And already it seems the night is nipping at your heels.

Outside the kitchen window,

The sun is making its final descent in the sky,

In the sky.

Casting pink and orange swirls across the sky like sherbet.

The fluffy clouds like dollops of whipped cream.

It looks good enough to eat,

You think.

It's a tradition in your family to bake and build a gingerbread house together,

All from scratch.

You've always been strictly on decoration,

Spreading the icing,

Sticking on the gumdrops.

But this year,

For the first time,

Your grandmother brought you into the kitchen while she whipped up the cookie dough.

You watched her cream the butter and brown sugar.

She even let you pour in the molasses,

Which was mesmerizing to watch as it pooled in ribbons in the bowl.

You tried to take notes in your head of the proper ratio of spices and the perfect time to add the secret ingredient.

Finely minced,

Crystallized ginger.

But grandmother laughed as she observed your look of keen concentration.

There was no need,

She insisted,

To think so hard about it.

She's been making this recipe for so long,

It comes naturally to her.

But not to worry,

Everything's written down on a recipe card she'll give to you.

And besides,

She assured you,

While it's necessary to master certain techniques and to get particular ingredients in the exact right amount,

No recipe is truly great without an opportunity to improvise.

To put a little of your own creativity into the baking.

Gingerbread is equal parts science and art,

She said,

Tapping her forehead with a playful grin.

She followed this with a whispered encouragement to lick the spoon,

If you like.

Together,

You rolled out the dough thin and cut it into precise rectangles and triangles,

Perfect for assembling a strong gingerbread house.

Once it comes out of the oven,

It's clear to you that the baking was a success.

The gingerbread settles and cools on the counter as your grandmother guides you in whipping up a royal icing.

Then,

With armfuls of gumdrops,

Marshmallows,

And starlight mints,

You follow her to the kitchen table where your young cousins are giddy with excitement to begin the assembly.

Constructing the house out of gingerbread so that it stands up and all the pieces fit together,

That is science,

But everything else is art.

How to pipe the icing on the roof to look most like shingles or blankets of snow.

Where to place the little decorative candies for the most dramatic flair.

Dozens of tiny fingers reach for chocolate kisses and marshmallows,

Some of which actually make it onto the gingerbread house,

The rest of which disappear surreptitiously into little bellies.

Of course,

There are good-natured arguments among the cousins as to how the house should look,

But in the end,

Everyone has a chance to make their mark.

It may be rustic in its construction and extravagant in its decoration,

But this little cookie cottage could not look more inviting.

You decide.

And it's even more special for the myriad efforts of the family and the pride in all faces around the table.

A simmer pot on the stove fills the house with the cozy aroma of warm sage,

Bright cranberries and oranges,

And spicy ginger and cinnamon.

Hot cocoa warms in the crockpot and a mulled cider besides.

These are ladled into mugs and placed in hands as a fire is made in the hearth.

The family gathers beside the fire,

Which crackles and sparks in a gentle lullaby.

From your cushion,

Wrapped in a flannel blanket and clutching your steaming mug,

You can see the gingerbread house,

Exalted upon the table,

With the moonlight falling over it from the window.

In this light,

Even in all its childlike adornment,

It might be a real cottage at the end of a storybook lane,

A sweet,

Welcoming home for wanderers in the snow,

With hot drinks on your lips and the fire murmuring beneath a wisp of festive music.

Someone shares a family memory from many years ago,

The story oft told at gatherings like this is so well known that even the youngest among you could recount it,

And yet it never grows old or tiresome.

It brings a well of joy to your heart and smiles to all the rosy faces around the fire.

Soon,

This single story opens the doors to countless reminiscences,

Recollections of family legends,

Remembrances of loved ones who aren't present tonight,

And celebrations of those new friends,

Partners,

And children who have come into the family in recent years,

Stories of the places sacred to your family,

The old houses which,

Though the faucets leaked and the bedrooms were drafty,

Held such profound meaning and memory to those who lived and visited there,

The favorite parks and playgrounds where you learned to ride bikes without training wheels,

The gardens where you searched for gnomes and left gifts for the fairies.

There is a secret language shared by every close-knit family,

A labyrinth of symbols and signals that bind you together,

Weaving a mythology out of memories.

You feel immeasurably safe here,

Surrounded by people who know your truest self and love you even more for it.

Your eyelids sink and your body settles into a fuzzy,

Natural warmth.

You could drift off to sleep right here,

You think,

On the hearth rug and be perfectly happy.

As the fire dies down in the fireplace and stars begin their twinkling dance outside the frosty window panes,

The evening comes to a natural close.

Your grandmother covers the gingerbread house with a glass dessert dome,

Under which it resembles a fairytale cottage in a snow globe.

Along with your cousins,

You slowly make your way upstairs,

Where each of you performs your personal bedtime ritual.

The littlest among you are tucked in with bedtime stories,

Lullabies,

And kisses.

You sink into the plush blankets,

Still feeling the pleasant,

Golden spell of comfort wash over you.

The moon shines in delicately through a small gap in your curtains,

Falling like spun silk across the bed.

In the final moments of wakefulness,

As your eyes fall closed,

You picture the gingerbread house that now sits in the piece of an empty downstairs.

With glittering snow globe flurries accumulating on its frosted rooftop,

You slide into tranquil dreams of sparkling brooks through snowy forests.

The sky is still dark when you find yourself stirring.

This you can tell with a glance at the sheer curtains,

But something in the quality of light has shifted.

There's a silvery edge to it,

You wonder at first if you've awoken just before dawn.

You roll over in bed,

Settling into the warmest parts of the mattress and pulling the covers up to your chin.

You close your eyes,

Hopeful that sleep will once again overtake you,

But behind your eyelids,

The allure of that silvery light spirals,

Beckoning.

Your curiosity rouses,

Overruling your body's will to slide back into sleep.

So,

You open your eyes once more and rise,

Slowly from the bed,

Parting the curtains,

You discover the cause of the light's otherworldly shimmer.

Your eyes brighten,

Snow is falling.

Indeed,

It must have begun some hours ago,

For the street outside your window is already blanketed with a few inches of powdery snow,

Piling in irregular slopes and drifts.

The flakes fall in twirling clumps from the darkness of sky.

Moonbeams slice through fluffy grey clouds to turn the landscape silver and opalescent.

It's been some time since you saw a snow like this,

And at this hour,

With the street vacant,

It's achingly picturesque.

Powder tops the streetlights and flurries dance through yellow beams.

It's a transfixing sight,

The whole neighborhood suspended in time and snow,

Crystallized and peaceful under a muted moon.

How soft and undisturbed looks the snow,

How satisfying might it be to be the first to let your feet fall through it,

Fall through it,

Letting it collapse and crunch beneath your boots.

You can hardly wait for morning,

When all your cousins will be awake and eager to throw snowballs and build little people out of snow.

But for now,

There's something magical about knowing you're the only one who sees this pristine spectacle.

It's all delightfully yours,

Carrying a spark of joy tempered by the warmth of extraordinary peace.

You release a long exhale,

Dropping your shoulders and letting your face relax into a dreamy smile.

You're ready to climb back into bed and shuffle back into the serene dream state from which you've just emerged.

But as you turn from the window,

You could swear there comes a warm light,

One that's distinct from the streetlamps,

And a sound,

Too.

A sound so specific and evocative that it's hard to believe you could have heard such a thing.

But yes,

There it is again.

Ringing in the night,

The lively,

Rhythmic,

Percussive sound of jingle bells.

Drawing the curtain aside once more,

You watch a few final flakes of snow fall in the pools of light before the snowfall ceases and all is at once impossibly still.

And now,

In the absence of flurries,

You can see clearly the houses on the other side of the quiet street.

At first,

They appear normal,

Simply coated in a layer of frosty powder.

But then,

A little gasp rises to your throat.

These are not the aging,

Quirky Victorian houses you recognize.

At least,

Not exactly.

If you're not mistaken,

Every building on the block,

Instead of stucco or siding or brick,

Is made of gingerbread.

The whole neighborhood transformed into a festive,

Romantic wonderland.

It's this realization that makes it near impossible to climb back beneath the covers now.

A miracle like this is something that must be explored.

You dash to your closet and pull down a thick,

Fleece robe.

You slide your feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers and tie the robe closed.

It takes a good deal of restraint of your excitement to tiptoe down the stairs instead of thundering downward.

The lower level of the house is quiet.

You catch a glimpse of the gingerbread house under its glass dome just as you pull the front door closed behind you.

With the smallest of creaks,

The cold night air greets you,

Instantly making your cheeks flush.

Your breath forms swirling clouds before you,

But underneath the woolly robe and flannel pajamas,

And with your feet snug in your slippers,

You are warm.

You step out into the night.

Strung across the street in rows are countless golden fairy lights which gently illuminate the scenic walk.

You marvel at the stately homes lining the road,

Each a magnificent confection.

Gingerbread bungalows dusted with powdery snow,

Their sugar pane windows glowing from within,

Gumdrops lining the eaves,

And each is more decadent,

It seems,

Than the last.

You imagine that within the houses,

Gingerbread families huddle together,

Telling their own most cherished stories.

You stroll enthralled down the lane.

By the light of day,

You know it to end in a cul-de-sac several houses down.

But now,

Under the glistening moon,

It seems to stretch on for miles before you,

With more colorful lights effusing from the distance.

All around,

The sound of bells seem to ride the delicate breeze.

Soon,

The gingerbread cottages give way to larger,

More elaborate buildings,

What seem to be gingerbread libraries,

Gingerbread businesses,

Shops,

And schools.

The air begins to fill with the sweet overtones of music and a lively atmosphere.

If you're not mistaken,

There are voices on the breeze,

Singing,

Laughing,

And conversing in the night.

You are approaching a brightly lit crossroads,

All abuzz with activity.

As you come closer,

It appears to be a bustling village square.

Your eyes drink in the myriad sights and wonders that materialize there.

At the center,

There revolves a magnificent carousel with glittering lights and jumping horses and reindeer.

The frame,

Of course,

Is gingerbread,

But the structure is held up by beams of striped peppermint candy.

Towering over it is the impressive form of a great tree,

Which,

Under usual circumstances,

Would boast evergreen tresses.

But here,

Its familiar silhouette is shaped by profiteroles and pinwheel cookies,

Adorned with bright mints and candy baubles.

Lining the square are gingerbread stalls,

From which swirl the scents of roasting chestnuts,

Hot cocoa,

And other seasonal delights.

But what truly lights up your eyes more than the decadent towers and structures of suites are the people riding the carousel,

Gazing up at the tree and milling about the square.

There are dozens of them,

And every single one,

Like you,

Shuffling about in slippers and pajamas.

Wrapped in bathrobes and housecoats,

It's as if each of you independently rose to the sound of sleigh bells and wandered out into the snow.

It's a veritable playground for the sleepless and bright-eyed.

You make your way around the market stalls,

Admiring the sugary icicles that cling to their rooftops,

And the handmade gifts and mouth-watering sweets they peddle.

You come to a stall selling beautiful,

Intricate snow globes.

These sparkle under the fairy lights like a thousand little diamonds.

Their bases are crusted around with peppermints and caramels.

Each depicts a wintry scene.

Festive trees,

Snowmen,

And nutcrackers,

And more.

You inch closer to the displays,

Standing on tiptoes,

To get a good look at the beautiful tableaux.

Your eyes widen to see one that's quite familiar beneath the curved glass dome.

A gaggle of children and family members gather around a kitchen table,

Assembling a rustic gingerbread house.

How the artist has managed to create such lifelike,

Joy-filled little faces and expressions in such small figures is simply marvelous to you.

And there,

Under glittery flecks of swirling snow,

Is one bright face that quite resembles yours.

As if the memory of this evening,

The family coming together to create a gingerbread masterpiece,

Has been frozen in time and preserved forever.

What a beautiful thing.

You wish your loved ones were here to share it with you,

But perhaps you think you can bring it home to them.

There's a kindly looking man behind the counter at the stall.

He's busy polishing the glass spheres of his magnificent creations.

He peers over at you,

Transfixed by the uncanny resemblance of this snow globe.

To your own family,

Found one you like,

He says,

A twinkle in his eye.

Yes,

You say,

This one,

It's funny,

Reminds me of,

But you don't finish the thought aloud.

Tell you what,

Says the merchant,

It's yours,

On the house.

Really,

You ask,

A flush rising to your cheeks.

It responds with only a wink.

You pull the snow globe down from the display,

Gingerly.

It has a pleasant weight in your hands.

Then you give it a good shake,

And the speckles of sparkling snow rush upward in a dizzying spiral,

Then come fluttering down upon the scene.

The merchant offers to wrap it up for you,

To keep it safe.

He rolls it in layers of snug brown paper,

Seals it with tape,

And places it in a small green gift bag with ribbon handles.

You thank him,

Still amazed at the gesture of generosity,

And go on your way.

You wind around the gingerbread carousel,

Admiring the leaping animals.

Here you can see the varnished creatures in exquisite detail.

Reindeer embellished with chocolate noses and licorice antlers.

Horses with manes of candy floss.

Unicorns and narwhals with candy cane horns.

And you approach the spectacular tree,

That imposing tower of bonbons spun with caramel and speckled with gumdrops and candied hazelnuts.

When at last you've made a whole circle around the village square,

Taking in all the honeyed splendor of it,

Your eyes turn to the darkened road that leads on from the lights.

There's something that lies that direction,

Something that seems to tug at you,

Urging you to explore in the hazy glow.

You can just make out that the road,

Covered with snow though it may be,

Tapers off into a narrow walking path.

You can't explain it,

But you feel you must follow the path.

So,

With a final glance back at the wonderful sight of the square,

You trudge on through the soft snow.

The path does indeed narrow,

And it leads directly into the heart of a curious forest.

But this forest is not shaded by conifers or deciduous trees.

No,

Instead what grows here are candy canes,

Striped round with red,

Green,

And white.

The calming scent of peppermint suffuses the air as you step into the candy cane wood,

Allowing the bustle of the square and all its music and laughter to fall away.

You feel an instantaneous settling of peace.

You draw deep breaths which fill your belly and nourish your whole body.

Each exhale feels cleansing,

As if you are bathing in the cooling,

Detoxifying aroma of mint.

It's as if every pore of your body is breathing in and releasing whatever it is that you no longer need.

You step over a little stream that runs through a divot in the snow.

Candy fish swim in the icy,

Cold waters.

On you go through the forest of candy canes,

Through thick patches and moonlit glades,

Feeling as if you're riding on air.

In time,

The heavy clouds overhead open up,

Releasing fresh flurries of snow which gather and clump,

Falling softly on the already thick blanket upon the ground.

The snow accumulates upon the candy cane trees like little hats,

And it falls with a barely perceptible plink upon your head and shoulders,

More noticeably on your cheeks and nose where it melts.

With a sudden impulse,

You stop walking and turn your face to the sky.

Opening your mouth,

You can see the snow spiraling downward in irregular patterns through the darkness,

Picking up the wind,

Or meeting other snowflakes in a loving dance.

A few flakes fall upon your outstretched tongue.

They are sweet,

Like powdered sugar,

And on you go as the snow picks up,

Turning the candy cane forest into a sight more picturesque than ever before.

The ribbon-handled bag swings gently beside you,

And for the first time,

You feel a hint of a chill and a twinge of desire for your warm bed in the familiar house.

You suppose you should turn back,

Retrace your steps through the forest and the square.

It shouldn't be too hard,

Despite the snow falling more thickly.

Your tracks are still quite visible and deep,

But before you are ready to turn around,

You glimpse light through the parting candy cane trees,

Streetlights,

You think.

You move forward,

Thinking you'll be able to get your bearings here before making your way home.

Within a few paces,

You emerge from the wood onto the roundabout pattern of a cul-de-sac.

You look for a street sign to point your way,

But it quickly becomes clear that you know exactly where you are.

Have you come round in a circle,

Then?

This is your street,

Transformed,

As it may be,

By snow,

And only a handful of houses down.

You should find your own place.

You look back at the candy cane forest.

Is it only an illusion,

Or can you faintly see the glimmer of lights from the festival square?

Through the thicket,

The snow is coming down more heavily,

And you draw the fleece robe tightly around your shoulders as you wade through the drifts,

Past the gingerbread cottages and cars.

At last,

As the snow is piling up to your knees,

You reach your front door with relief.

For just a moment,

You gaze up at the house you know so well,

Here assembled of your grandmother's spicy,

Sweet gingerbread,

Adorned with gumdrops,

Kisses,

And peppermints,

With a thick icing of snow on the roof and eaves.

A house made of memories,

Then,

Shaking the sugary snow from your hair and kicking it from your slippers,

You push the front door open and meet a wave of welcome warmth.

All is quiet,

Save for the ticking of the hall clock,

A constant metronome.

Everyone else is still asleep,

Your absence as yet unnoticed.

Leaving your wet slippers on the mat by the door,

You sneak your way up the stairs and into your bedroom,

Where you dispose of the robe and change into a dry pair of pajamas.

You warm your hands by the radiator and find yourself laughing.

What a wondrous adventure you've had,

And without anyone being the wiser,

A ripple of exhaustion moves through you from head to toe,

Your shoulders slumping and eyelids drooping.

Surely,

You'll be able to slip gently back into sleep,

But first,

You take one more glance out the window,

Through the parted curtains.

Snow is coming down so thickly,

It's hard to see much,

But you can make out the old Victorian house across the street,

Gingerbread,

Gumdrops,

And all.

And with a great,

Gaping yawn,

You climb back into your bed,

Sliding between the blankets,

Grateful for the warmth and comfort of home.

Sleep comes on like the first fall of snow,

Gently,

Slowly,

And then giving way all at once.

This sleep is so deep and still,

It is dreamless,

Ultimate peace.

You wake to new light streaming through the parted curtains.

Sunlight,

Now,

You recognize.

From the cracked bedroom door,

You catch the smell of pancakes and syrup climbing the stairs from the kitchen.

Breakfast must be on the skillet.

You shuffle down the steps to find the rest of your family,

Already awake and energetic.

They greet you with warm choruses of here comes the sleepy head,

And so on.

You must have slept much longer than usual.

As you sit down to eat breakfast,

With the family's gingerbread house serving as a delightful centerpiece,

The previous night's adventure comes back to you in bits and pieces,

The way one might remember a particularly strange and wonderful dream,

But surely that's all it was.

A dream.

After breakfast,

Someone asks if the paper's come yet.

You volunteer to step outside and bring it in.

You open the front door to a landscape of dazzling white.

The morning sun reflects brightly off of undulating drifts and banks of snow.

The cars in every driveway are all but obscured,

And almost nothing is left uncovered.

By the look of the street,

No fresh treads or tracks.

It's unlikely the paper's come.

So you don't bother to dig in the snow on the porch for it,

But there is something sitting by the door.

Your heart leaps when you see it.

A small,

Forest green gift bag,

With ribbons for handles.

Can it be?

You wonder.

You grasp the ribbons and bring the bag inside.

Betooned for gifts,

Isn't it?

Comes your grandmother's voice.

Who's that from then?

You search for the words.

You look to her face,

Smiling and sweet.

The face that holds so many generations worth of memories.

The rest of the family is gathered in the sitting room,

Discussing what to do today with all this snow.

There's talk of sledding,

Or of staying in to watch movies.

You want to tell your grandmother where you were last night,

If indeed you were anywhere but the land of sweet dreams.

But instead,

You just say,

Hey,

This is for you.

And you hand her the bag.

With a curious look in her eye,

She reaches in and pulls out the tightly wrapped paper package.

She removes the tape,

Revealing the elegant snow globe within.

As she turns it over in her hands,

You hear her utter the quietest gasp.

She looks to you with tears in her eyes.

You return a sheepish smile,

Then rush into her arms.

For the kind of hug only a cherished loved one can give.

The snow settles softly outside,

Covering the whole world as far as you can see.

In silent sweetness,

The little house rings with laughter and music.

The sharing of memories and clink of cups.

All the light within is golden,

Flickering through the sugar pane windows to the outside world.

In here,

Time is suspended,

Stretched to make space for over-slumbering,

Leisurely breakfasts,

Hours of mulling spices,

And long evenings by the fire.

You are safe,

In your own little gingerbread house.

A house of memories.

Though the snow will melt,

And the family will once again disperse to all corners of the earth,

Coming back together anew at the same time next year.

Assuming new shapes and sizes,

This moment will carry on,

Sparkling under glass,

Forever.

As you prepare to drift into a deep and restful sleep,

Take a moment to create a serene and comforting space in your mind.

Begin by taking a deep breath in,

Filling up your belly with fresh,

Calming air,

And exhale slowly,

Releasing any tension or stress from your body.

Feel the weight of the day,

Lifting off your shoulders,

With each breath,

In and out,

Sinking deeper into your resting surface.

Soften the muscles of your face,

Relaxing your forehead,

The space between the eyebrows,

The temples,

Softening the eyelids,

Unclenching the jaw,

And letting the tongue fall away from the roof of your mouth.

Loosen the lips,

And let your whole body relax from the crown of the head to the neck and shoulders,

The arms,

The chest,

The back,

The belly,

The hips,

The legs,

Just settling down here and breathing naturally,

Sending the breath to any areas that are still holding tension.

Now,

Bring to mind a specific,

Happy memory,

It could be a moment shared with loved ones,

A personal achievement,

Or a time when you felt pure joy and peace.

Visualize the details,

The colors,

The faces,

The emotions.

Do you feel pride,

Contentment,

Coziness,

Love?

Visualize the surroundings,

What can you see,

Feel,

Taste,

Smell,

And hear?

Imagine this memory suspended in time,

Like a scene within a snow globe,

With sparkling snow falling all around.

How can you bring the joy of this memory into your dreams tonight?

And how can you bring this joy into your waking life?

How can you spread the same happiness to others?

Let the positive energy from this memory envelop you like a warm,

Comforting blanket.

Feel the happiness and peace radiate through your entire being,

Filling you with a profound sense of contentment.

Allow this positive energy to flow through you with your breath,

Releasing any remaining tension or worry.

As you bask in the glow of this joyful memory,

Imagine a soft light surrounding you,

Gently guiding you into a state of deep relaxation.

As you continue to breathe,

Carry this sense of tranquility into your dreams,

Knowing that you are surrounded by warmth,

Happiness,

And the promise of a restful night's sleep.

Know that you are capable of feeling profound happiness,

And of sharing that with others in this life.

Carry that light.

Be that light.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

I fell asleep before the adventure, as I do every time 😴 The part I heard was super cozy like a soft blanket which is perfect for sleeping.

😴💖

I love your stories,..

Always soothing , peaceful and relaxing. Your voice makes me feel like we have known each other for years. Thank you!

How decadently wicked you make the Gingerbread house sound, Laurel.
I've never actually seen or tasted one. Tho' it does pop the taste buds, to think of the flavours the spices & the candies.
I've eaten Dutch Ginger Bread & that's chewy & delicious in its own way.
So thank you for the many flavors of this story. The scenes you painted for one to enjoy. You're amazingly good at that.
PS Merry 🎄 & Happy New Year into 2024 darling. 😘xo 🤗 🐱🐱🐨
xo

Great story from what I heard as was asleep before the end. Thank you once again x

Laurel is the best thing to happen to my sleep since being rocked as a baby! This story is crafted so well that i can taste and smell the goodies being made and i want to join in! Thanks for knocking it out of the park again!