Magic In The Moon Garden

In our bedtime story tonight, you are a practitioner of natural magic tending to your garden under an auspicious full moon. While bathing in the moonlight, you muse on the many myths and folktales associated with the moon. Your magic, infused with lunar folklore, brings blooms to life before your eyes.

Paired with a lunar visualization exercise

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon and Fairies Dance by Flouw, Purple Dreams by Silver Maple, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Tend to a magical garden by the light of the full moon in tonight's cozy 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.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like and whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of this story and venture into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a soothing visualization exercise for rest.

In our bedtime story tonight,

You are a practitioner of natural magic,

Tending to your garden under an auspicious full moon while bathing in moonlight.

You muse on the many myths and folktales associated with the moon.

Your magic,

Infused with lunar folklore,

Brings blooms to life before your eyes.

The moon is like a scimitar,

A little silver scimitar,

A drifting down the sky,

And near beside it is a star,

A timid,

Twinkling,

Golden star,

That watches like an eye.

And through the nursery window pane,

The witches have a fire again,

Just like the ones we make.

And now I know they're having tea.

I wish they'd give a cup to me,

With witches' current cake.

Sarah Teasdale,

Dusk in Autumn Tonight is the night,

Says a whispering voice,

An incantation on the breeze.

Tonight is the night for flowers.

Tonight is the night for frolicking.

Tonight is the night to work in the light of the moon.

All down the day,

In the lazy,

Lengthening sun,

It echoes like a drumbeat in the mind.

Tonight is the night,

Like the buzzing of bees,

Or the flutter of butterfly wings,

Which will soon return on the breath of spring.

Tonight,

Tonight,

In the light of the alder moon.

For half a turn of the earth,

You've sheltered long inside,

Cocooning yourself in the warmth of the hearth.

On crisp,

Light days,

You've walked on crunching leaves,

Admiring spindly,

Bare-limbed trees.

Even let your feet fall on powdery snow.

But always,

You've nestled back into the comfort of four walls,

Toasty by the fire,

And safe from wind and weather.

Now,

As the earth softens,

Frost melting from the soil,

You can feel yourself softening too.

The buds are breaking open on the trees,

Seeds sprouting in the ground,

And familiar bird songs return to the sky,

The robin and the myrtle warbler,

The chatters and ticks of tree swallows,

The gurgle of the red-winged blackbird.

Spring,

They sing,

Spring has come.

The trouble is that you've grown used to winter,

Accustomed to the snug safety of the home,

Like rabbits,

Snug in their warrens,

Hidden away from the wilds,

To welcome spring again is to step beyond the threshold,

To open your heart once more to the wildness of the earth,

And to shed layers that have become a second skin.

But under the thawing frost,

Is that which you've missed most in this time of winter,

Your garden,

A seed,

A sprout,

A bud.

These are all potentialities,

Like an egg unhatched,

Each seed contains immense possibility,

Each sprout is only at the beginning of its journey,

But it is imbued with the natural wisdom and magic of seasons past,

Or of the elder plant that shed it.

A chorus of questions come with spring,

What will bloom,

What will return,

What will wither in the ground,

Never growing to fruition?

It takes courage,

You think,

To be a plant,

To break free of the seed shell and leave the warmth and safety of the soil,

To coil upward toward the sun,

To flower and to bear fruit,

Knowing you put yourself at risk of pelting rain and snow,

Or dry weather and sustained heat.

It takes courage to grow.

You brew a pot of tea,

Made from winter herbs harvested and dried,

Sage and mint whisper forth on spiraling steam,

Fresh and savory.

You sip it slowly,

Blowing on the hot water to cool it,

Enjoying the end of your homemade winter tea mixture as you pass the time till dusk.

It's your own personal tradition,

A valued ritual to welcome the spring by night,

Planting seeds in the silver of the full moon,

Rather than by the golden light of day.

And so close to the vernal equinox,

When the day and night are equal measure,

The full moon commands great magic.

It is an auspicious time for sowing,

For cultivation,

And for rebirth.

The rest of the day is spent baking fresh bread,

The scent of which conjures immediate coziness and feelings of abundance,

Sweeping the hearth to clear out the dust and stagnant energy.

And reading a few pages from a book of poetry,

The poems resonate with the voices of the natural world of impossibly deep roots,

Of the irresistible call to migration,

Of the sublime majesty of mountains and lakes.

You are ever conscious these days of the stretching daylight,

The added minutes each day in which sunlight lingers,

As though holding fast to the horizon,

Aching to see only a moment more of the earth's beauty.

The quality of light is changing too,

Every day,

Stone gray melting to half-moon color.

Stone gray melting to halcyon honey.

The moon is visible long before twilight,

Like a reflective disc over the trees,

A blank space overhead that's perfectly round,

Imbibing the active light of the drooping sun.

When dusk approaches,

You notice the rustling of leaves and renewed activity in the shrubs around your cottage.

You spot two little brown rabbits,

Almost spherical in shape,

Grazing near the green-stemmed forsythia,

Which is just beginning to bloom with delicate yellow flowers.

When they become aware of your presence,

The rabbits scurry out from beneath the bush and out of sight.

You smile.

It's good to see the return of crepuscular creatures.

Some gardeners might see rabbits and their kin as pests,

But you can't help it.

Your heart melts to see their fluffy tails and twitching noses.

At last,

The sun sets,

Leaving traces of violet and orange to linger in the sky before deep blue darkness takes over.

You've had a little supper,

Accompanied by the still-warm bread fresh from the oven,

And a bit of homemade elderflower syrup in your evening cup.

Brings a wave of soft contentment over you,

But heavy sleepiness remains at bay.

It's time,

Whispers the little voice inside.

It's time to shed your skin.

You fill a basket with supplies,

Seeds,

And gardening tools.

You carry a small lantern to light your way.

Stepping out the back door of the little house onto the stone walkway,

Which it seems was so recently blanketed and entirely obscured by snow,

You make your way under the garden arch.

It drips with evergreen clematis,

Now sprouting buds of the white flowers that will soon open to the world.

The hanging leaves tickle your face beyond the arch,

And surrounded by borders of rich green holly is the moon garden.

You feel an almost immediate sensation of opening or unfolding.

It's as though you've passed from ordinary into sacred space,

And your mind and body have unfurled like the dew-dappled petals of a rose to greet it.

Somewhere in a nearby tree,

A mockingbird is trilling sweetly.

He's singing a song to the moon,

You think.

The moon tonight is surely one to elicit song.

It climbs the horizon's ladder with pale and pearlescent brilliance,

Nearly dazzling as the sun.

Just now,

You can see it cresting over the hedges,

A nightcap on their deep emerald.

But its glow falls effortlessly upon the garden,

Reflecting on the silvery Artemisia.

Since you last set foot in this soft and sublime place,

Untamed ivy has climbed the stone garden bench in a way that's rather picturesque.

But the ivy and wormwood are all that thrives tonight.

So early in spring,

There's much for you to do in concert with the moon.

You find yourself humming a little tune as you set about your work,

A tune with no discernible melody and no repeated phrases,

But a winding and wistful one that climbs the night air like unruly ivy from your lips to the moon.

With every seed you sow in the soil,

You plant an intention,

Too.

Every seed is a spell you cast in the earth,

An offering to nature and her myriad spirits.

Over your shoulder,

The moon is rising high over the hedges.

You don't even need to see it to feel its presence,

For its light bathes you in cleansing coolness,

Falling on your shoulders and hair like a gentle mist.

It feels good to have your hands in the earth again.

It's cool and rich to the touch.

Your fingers meet the soil with warmth and love.

Moonlight dances across the ground and in the place between your fingers,

Nourishing the soil and the seeds therein.

You feel a timid thrill as energy trickles from your fingertips like water,

Infusing the earth and blessing the seeds.

This is the very alchemy of spring,

You think,

The awakening of that which was dormant,

The re-energizing of the earth and all her interconnected systems.

And you,

Scatterer of seeds,

Mindful and deliberate gardener,

Are a catalyst of sorts.

You can feel roots being put down and sprouts emerging until,

Where moments ago there was only a tiny seed,

Now there is a blossoming snapdragon,

Rippling petals of pale pink,

Open to drink the mead of the moon,

Your touch and your magic.

Awaken a whole flowering row of pink and yellow snapdragon,

Narrow stalks with blooming bells that revel in the moonlight.

It gives you a little burst of pride to see them spring to life before you.

But you may not move mountains.

You are grateful for the natural magic you possess.

The blessed connection with plants and cycles feels grand and important if every seed is a spell.

Then a flowering garden of your sincere intentions must create meaningful change in the vibrations of the planet.

Oh,

The moon at this moment,

How it hangs high and gleaming,

So near,

So magnified that it seems you could reach out and touch its cratered surface.

The cascade of honeyed light sweetens every corner of the garden.

It's no wonder,

You think,

That every culture tells such extraordinary stories about the moon.

It's impossible to look upon such a wonder in the sky and not sense its magic.

The Greeks,

For example,

Personified the moon as a goddess,

Selene.

Like her brother Helios,

The sun,

She drove a chariot across the heavens each night to spread the sweetness of her light over the world,

Casting her eyes and tender rays upon a field of sheep.

She beheld for the first time the beautiful shepherd Endymion at rest beside his flock,

And she was taken by a dizzying passion.

How lovely he was in that peaceful state.

The dreamy smile curled across his lips,

And how perfect,

How pure he appeared when bathed in her light,

Reflecting back her own serene glow.

Selene entreated Zeus for his assistance,

For she would have the mortal world be hers forever and always be so tranquil and so beautiful,

Zeus agreed.

And he enchanted Endymion to eternally sleep,

Retaining his youth and beauty always.

The charmed Endymion slept on through day and night,

And remained lovely as that first night.

And every night he dreamt he held the moon in his arms,

So often the moon has been associated with the feminine for its softness in contrast with the harsher light of the sun.

But the light of the moon is only a reflection of the sun,

You remember.

The moon's true power,

Though unseen,

Is in its closeness to the earth,

And its dominion over the tides,

Drawn to and by the satellite,

The oceans swell and surrender to its cycles.

As wielders of unseen but undeniable power,

The Greeks identified two other goddesses with the moon.

Artemis,

Of course,

Was goddess of the hunt,

Your Artemisia plant is named for her,

The eternal maiden who ran with deer and was wild as the wolf.

And then,

There was Hecate,

The three-formed goddess who guarded thresholds,

Crossroads,

And walked with spirits beyond.

She was a goddess of magic,

A protector of witches,

And a teacher of herb lore and poisonous plants.

The three-fold lunar goddesses occupy your mind,

Standing at crossroads,

Tearing through wilderness,

And driving chariots over slumbering landscapes.

You hold them in your thoughts,

Distinct but interlaced.

As you set yourself to the trellis on the garden's south border,

You must tiptoe over the pale yellow blooms of evening primrose,

Which must have crept into the garden.

Through pollination in your absence,

For you never planted them.

You catch a whiff of candy-sweet perfume from them as you go.

It's the moonflower vine,

Wilting on the trellis that you're drawn to,

With tender hands and an open heart.

You reach in and out of the gaps,

Retrieving and retraining the vine,

Tying it to the scruff of the trellis.

You reach in and out of the gaps,

Retrieving and retraining the vine,

Tying it to the scratchy wood with lengths of twine,

Carefully handling the leaves.

Under your nimble fingers,

The shriveled blossoms pick up their heads,

Encouraged,

And one by one,

Each with a little pop,

And a burst of lemon-edged musk.

The buds spring open,

The trumpet-like blooms seem to swoon,

Toward the moon,

Each nearly as big as the palm of your hand,

Soft and white as fresh linen.

The magic of the moonflower is its impermanence.

These sweet blossoms,

So like their namesake in shape,

Hue,

And luminescence,

Open only for the night,

Closing again as soon as they're touched by morning dew,

Lost in admiration.

Your gaze tracing a spiral to the center of the flower,

A rustle of movement sparks in your periphery,

Very close to your feet.

You catch only the faintest glimpse of another rabbit,

Disappearing into the hedgerow.

It's fitting that rabbits should make an appearance under the full moonlight.

They are resurging just as the earth is,

In her springtide garment of green.

But they have powerful connections to the moon,

Too.

In Asian folklore,

There are tales of the so-called moon rabbit.

A companion of the lunar goddess Chang'e,

You turn to the brilliance of the moon and squint to see if you can make out the patterns in its surface suggestive of the moon rabbit.

Mortar and pestle in hand,

Pounding the elixir of immortality.

The Kree people,

Too,

Saw a rabbit in the markings of the moon,

And they told stories of an ambitious rabbit who wished to ride the moon.

The crane agreed to fly him there,

The rabbit clinging to his legs as they went.

That is why,

They say,

The crane has such long legs.

Carrying the rabbit to the moon stretched them.

With the moon flowers blooming brightly and in abundance,

You work your way around the borders of the garden to tend to other shrubs and flowers.

It's a mild night,

With a dewy breeze just skimming over the hedges.

You're struck by an urge to feel the grass between your toes.

You remove your shoes and let your bare feet fall on the turf.

How soft the earth is,

And how comforting the cool grass,

The snowdrops lining the garden path are already blossoming.

Like little white teardrops against the green,

Each delicate one seems to exhale as you walk past.

The moon has risen to its zenith in the sky,

Still without the illusory magnification of the horizon.

It appears dazzlingly large and close,

As though you could stretch your arms out straight upward and embrace it.

You find you hardly need the lantern you brought.

The silver veil of moonlight transforms every surface upon which it falls,

Every blade of grass,

Every bloom,

Every catkin.

As the moon affects the tides,

You can feel a tug within yourself,

Mind and body both succumbing to its call,

As if the drops of water that make up your person are pulled,

Like magnets,

Toward the heart of it.

You are in its sway.

You set about working with the hellebore,

One of your garden favorites,

Kneeling to the plot where the roots reside.

You place a hand to the earth,

Feeling the subtle vibrations there.

The hellebore,

Like you,

Can be reluctant to leave its chrysalis.

It may need some convincing.

Nature cannot be forced to obey your will,

But it can be guided by the natural magic of the year.

It takes courage to grow.

You remind yourself,

How can you make the space welcoming,

Safe for the hellebore to join you.

You sit beside the roots,

Hands in the soil,

Slowing your breath to align with the shiver of the earth.

You send a message to the sprouted seeds and to the deep roots through your intentions.

A message,

Not of expectation,

But of compassion and unity.

We're in this together.

You aim to convey,

If I can soften,

Open,

And stretch,

Perhaps you can too.

It's safe,

And I'm here beside you.

In the soil,

In the spaces between your fingers,

And in the tremble of the deep earth,

You sense resistance,

Hesitation.

It's okay,

You whisper.

Take your time.

I took my time too.

You sit with the roots for some time,

Letting go of expectation and acknowledgement of the passing minutes.

Somewhere in the trees,

The low familiar call of a barred owl sounds.

Moonlight penetrates the slipping sands between moments,

Infusing all with light and hidden music.

And then,

Something yields.

At first,

Feeling a sensation of swaying forth,

You think the earth is giving way,

But the earth is as solid as ever.

Supporting your hands and body,

You realize in a moment of clarity that you are the one bending,

Swooning.

The vestiges of resistance you felt in the earth,

And the hesitation you attributed to the helibore,

Was your own uncertainty.

You hadn't realized you were still holding anything back,

But as you finally let it go,

You feel lighter,

More open,

As though your heart space unfolds like butterfly wings.

You're able to take deeper,

Cleaner breaths,

And your body feels more relaxed than before.

You even feel a fluttering laugh travel from the depths of your belly to your lips.

It feels so good to laugh in the garden,

As if responding to your easing,

To your unbinding of emotion.

The soil sparkles.

Up from the ground twist spindly green stems,

And from them sprout leaves and elegant petals.

Each one drips from the stem till the blooms are full,

Though cast downward and demure,

As though the blossoms are afraid to behold the full moon.

Ombrés of green,

Pink and white,

Bleed to dappled patchwork in their centers.

A sigh escapes your lips.

All this time you thought you were encouraging the flowers to grow,

When in fact they were waiting for you to break through.

It's one of the consistent surprises of magic and of nature.

That which you put into your work comes back to you,

Challenges you,

Awakens you.

Perhaps you're drawn to Hellebor,

Because it's such a mercurial flower,

It can heal or poison,

Depending on the circumstance.

It must be handled with care and firm intention.

In Greek mythology it was used as a cure for the maenads,

Driven to ecstatic frenzy by Dionysus,

And to heal the madness of Heracles.

That must be why it casts its gaze toward the ground,

Away from the moonglow.

The moon,

Of course,

Works magic and mayhem on the minds of men.

You lean back on your hands,

Inclining your face to drink in the cleansing moonlight,

So bright,

So full and heavy that it looks to droop,

To sag toward the earth.

The moon agitates the tides of the ocean and the inner tides of human bodies.

You have half a mind to cast a net around it,

Like a butterfly,

Bring it inside,

And keep it as a nightlight.

But the moon is only a mirror,

You remember.

It does not have its own light to shine.

It reflects the radiance of the sun,

Just as it reflects the stirrings of the mind.

Every culture,

Across the wide world,

And throughout the seas of time,

Has gazed upon its surface and seen a dazzling reflection.

A man in the moon,

A rabbit,

With mortar and pestle,

A god or a goddess.

In a way,

Your garden is also a mirror.

It transforms as you look upon it,

Interact with it,

But it only gives back what you put forth.

It anticipates your hesitations,

Embraces your intentions,

And reminds you of the march of time.

The oft-repeating cycles of life,

Death,

And rebirth are present in the phases of the moon and in the abatement and resurgence of the plants.

Even as they hide,

Dormant beneath the soil,

They live,

Awaiting the return of spring.

There is value in spending time in shelter,

Withdrawing,

Turning inward.

But there is equal value in stepping forth again into the light of the sun or the moon and opening once more.

The garden teaches you to grow,

And it takes courage to grow.

The east wall of the garden is stone,

Covered now with rich green ivy.

An old fountain in the wall is untouched by the vine.

In fact,

It grows so precisely around it that the ivy must have known to leave the space uncovered at present.

The fountain is quiet,

And no water moves through it,

But it's marvelous to look upon all the same.

The face of the green man adorns the fountain's head.

Smiling eyes peek from behind acanthus leaves,

Which frame the face on all sides.

When one of the decorative stone leaves begins to flicker,

It turns your head.

Soon you discover that it's not a stone leaf at all,

But a pale green moth perched upon the head of the fountain.

A luna moth,

Named so for the Roman goddess of the moon.

Her tapered wings,

Curved and leaf-like,

Don small,

Colorful patterns that resemble eyes.

She twitches,

Flutters slightly,

Then returns to stillness,

Apparently content in such camouflage.

So,

You think,

You're not the only one readjusting to life.

Beyond the cocoon,

The whistling trill of a nightingale in the trees beyond the garden,

The night grows cool and restless,

A chill wind shaking through the leaves.

The flowers bend and sway.

The moon begins to recede.

Before you leave a garden for the night,

You take a deep breath,

Calling in the fragrance and the fellowship of the flowers.

How brave they are,

You think,

To shine their petals in the open air.

Whatever may come their way,

They breathe with you,

Some of them stretching,

Lengthening toward you,

As if they long to go with you beyond the hedges,

Carrying your shoes in the basket of supplies and the diminishing lantern in the other hand.

You tiptoe back up the garden path,

Up the porch steps,

And into the little cottage you call home.

It's very warm inside,

In contrast to the cool air without.

At once,

A drowsiness falls over you,

Making your eyelids heavy.

You extinguish the lantern and step softly to your bedroom,

The floors lightly creaking beneath your feet.

Before you climb into bed,

You open your windows a crack to let in a light breeze.

The welcome air immediately brightens the stagnant atmosphere of the room,

Bringing the sweet smell of night-flowering plants to your senses.

You can see the moon through the window,

Now with a pale yellow veil,

Swollen and shining over the evergreens.

If only you could,

Like in the fairy tale,

Grow a flowering plant so tall it becomes a ladder to the stars,

Then you could climb all the way to the sky and dance on the moon.

You could search its surface for the rabbit who makes the elixir of life.

You could meet the goddess who smiles down on the night.

You could ride the moon like a chariot across the sky.

With a softened self,

An open heart,

And a cleansing breath,

You crawl into your bed.

You get snug under the blankets,

Warming your feet,

And feeling the cool breeze on your face.

You imagine that the moon,

The light of which streams in gently through the open window,

Is kissing you goodnight,

Bidding you adieu,

Until tomorrow night when it returns to the sky,

A little smaller,

But just as present.

You dream of deep roots,

Coiled in the earth,

Of brilliant flowers unfolding,

Of butterflies and beanstalks.

Take a deep,

Cleansing breath in,

And release it,

Feeling your body relax,

Letting go of anything that's tense,

Sinking down into the bed or your sleep surface.

Let your breath and your body be soft,

Loose and languid.

Let your eyes close gently,

Releasing any tightness in the eyelids and the muscles of the face.

Imagine your eyelids like flower petals,

Soft and effortless.

Take a moment to acknowledge any thoughts that might be rising to the surface of your consciousness.

Try not to dwell on them too deeply,

But simply notice them and let them go.

Now,

As if there's a screen behind your eyelids,

Visualize the moon in whatever face first comes to your mind.

See it before you,

Maybe bright and full,

Waxing or waning,

As a sliver or a crescent,

Or even as the shadowy new moon against a dark sky.

Let your mind conjure up this image and hold it before you.

What does its surface look like?

What patterns do you see?

How much of this moon is in light,

And how much in shadow?

Now,

Slowly,

Let the moon in your mind's eye transform,

Moving gradually through phases,

The light and shadow moving,

Rebalancing,

As it waxes to full and wanes to crescent,

Moves through half light and half shadow.

Breathe naturally,

As the moon settles into a dance of transformation,

Light moving across its surface,

Shadow following behind.

Let the dance continue for a few breaths.

Feel your belly rise and fall as the cycle repeats in your mind,

Syncing the image of each moon phase with the breath,

Slow and steady.

Meanwhile,

Soften with every exhale,

Sinking deeper into your sleep surface,

And with each breath,

Letting your conscious mind slip down a level,

Down towards sleep,

As though your roots are reaching deep into soil,

Stretching downward into the nourishing cocoon of rest.

Feel how your breath cycles are like the phases of the moon,

Inhaling,

Swelling to fullness,

Then exhaling,

Waning to emptiness,

Inhaling,

Watching the moon reach its full phase,

Exhaling,

Letting the moon slip into darkness.

At the bottom of the exhale,

The body longs to breathe in again.

At the top of the inhale,

The only thing to do is let go.

Every part of the cycle is necessary,

Nourishing,

And restorative.

The tides are the same,

And so are the cycles of the year.

The earth breathes,

Brings forth natural wonders,

And recedes all the same,

Preparing to replenish for the next season.

Let the visualization go,

And simply release into your surface,

Allowing each breath to take you deeper,

Like roots,

Into yourself,

Into the unconscious world.

What happens beneath the soil,

In the moonlight,

And in the realm of dreams,

Is just as real,

Just as important,

As what happens in the daylight,

Above ground.

Rest is just as important as growth,

Because it is part of the growth,

Even if it's unseen.

Reflect and surrender.

Breathe and relax.

Reach downward,

Inward,

Beneath,

To find the courage to grow,

Wishing you blessings in the season of spring,

And meaningful rest.

.

Reviews

Wonderful, as always. Thank you

I love this 💚

Divine meditation 🧘
Thanks for sharing

I’m so happy to have found these beautiful and meaningful stories! Thank you.

Beautiful story, but I didn’t hear the ending, so it worked its magic and I had a good sleep! Thank you and Blessings.🌕🧚🏻💜

Beautiful way to fall asleep! Well-told story and meditation.

I fell asleep within the first 5 minutes of the story. Thank you!

This led me right to sleep! Magic in the Moon Garden is a wonderful story that tells a tale of beauty and peace. For that and so much more, I thank you. 🙏

You are a master story teller! Thank you so much for sharing your gift with us. I enjoy every single one of your stories!