Moon Over Maple Cottage

Turn a restful vacation into a restorative miracle in tonight’s magical bedtime story. In tonight’s story, amid a stressful season of life, you retreat to the wooded countryside of Vermont to reset. You’ve been carrying so much, and the world seems to have lost its luster. So you rent a charming cottage on the lake and immerse yourself in the local scenery and culture. Every day, you discover some of the hidden gems, forgotten folklore, and charming quirks of the area. Every night, the moon shines a little bit brighter, becoming a palette upon which you can mix new color and vibrancy to paint into your life.

Music & Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Purple Dreams by Silver Maple, Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Turn a much-needed vacation into a restorative miracle in tonight's magical 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. Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you, And when you're ready, Feel free to let go of this story and relax into sleep. This story contains built-in relaxation cues, Which you can follow if you like. Or simply let the words wash over you. In tonight's story, Amid a stressful season of life, You retreat to the wooded countryside of Vermont to reset. You've been carrying so much, And the world seems to have lost its luster. So, You rent a charming cottage on the lake. And immerse yourself in the local scenery and culture. Every day, You discover some of the hidden gems, Forgotten folklore, And charming quirks of the area. Every night. The moon shines a little bit brighter. Becoming a palette. Upon which you can mix new color and vibrancy to paint into your life. All our land was enriched with my treasures buried in it, Thickly inhabited just below the surface with my marbles and my teeth and my colored stones, All perhaps turned to jewels by now, Held together under the ground in a powerful, Taut web which never loosened. But held fast to guard us. Shirley Jackson. You must have fallen asleep with the television on again. The blankets are pulled high over your head when you wait. But there's a familiar voice from the corner, Underscored by the distinctive scrapes of a palette knife against canvas. We take some brown and white, " says the voice from the TV, And just barely touch it, Whisper light You hear brushstrokes now as the soft-spoken host fills in highlights and shadows to his work, Narrating the process as he goes. You don't remove the covers from over your head yet You just listen to the painter describing the scene he's illustrating. A mountain landscape at sunset. Or perhaps sunrise, You suspect. Silently hoping that you can just drift back off to sleep without too much effort. The man's voice is soothing enough. If you can just focus on that. Keep your eyes closed, Ignore the wisps of sunlight already peeking through the gaps in your curtains and infiltrating your fortress of weighted blankets You haven't been sleeping too well lately. There's a lot on your mind. Sometimes the only thing that helps is to put on the television channel that plays this program around the clock. The one that teaches beginners how to paint. And let the host's calm voice carry you out of your cascades of thoughts. But sometimes, Even that doesn't work. Like now. You feel your eyelids flutter against each other as if they are resisting remaining shut. And you accept that you are awake now. You might as well get out of bed. The canvas the man is painting on the TV program is indeed a mountainous landscape, With what looks like a serene lake beneath the looming giants But it has not yet been revealed whether you look upon a sunrise or a sunset. Maybe that's due to the absence of a sun or moon in the image, Probably to be added later in the program. But it probably also has something to do with you. With how you've changed. You've no doubt that a few years ago, You could have intuited by the mix of colors in the mighty sky, Whether it was dawn or dusk. Now, Even as you stare at the painter's canvas on which he blends the silhouetted mountains into sky you can hardly distinguish between the colors he uses. You're sure you've seen this one before, Too, And that the paints he's using are vibrant. Even electrifying. But now. They just look desaturated and dull. You turn off the TV before it frustrates you to look at it. At first, When the world started losing its color, You thought it was an eye condition. You saw doctors, Had screenings, But there was nothing to suggest a medical cause. It's just something that happens as you get older, You learned. The cones in our eyes perceive color with a little less precision as we age. So, The world can start to look a little duller than it did when we were kids. When the sun would come out after a storm? And the grass would be such a brilliant green. It was almost scorching to look upon. And the rainbow looked so solid, You could climb it to the stars. For you, The change wasn't as gradual as you thought it would be. It was every day, Noticeably, A little dimmer. A little less saturated. A little less sparkle. And you've learned to live with it. You get up. You go to work. You handle what needs to be handled. You keep moving forward. Someone at the office said, You just need a vacation. As if a few days on a beach could cure just about anything. You're not sure about that. And even if it were true, There's never time for such things. The obligations in your life feel unrelenting right now. You find yourself in the mindset of, If I can just get past this weekend, Or if I can just get through this quarter. But today, As you wake to the sound of brushstrokes, Something feels just a little bit different. You put on a pot of coffee, Shower, And get ready for work as normal. But as you step out the door, Travel mug in hand. You feel a tug of resistance. A sense that you just can't get in that car and drive to the office today. That to sit down at your desk this morning is simply not an option. You can't explain it. But you also can't ignore it. It's as if something within you is tearing at its restraints, Straining to be free. Both brain and body. Are raging against the routine. And it's this unseen inner creature, This beast clamoring for freedom, To which you attribute the next series of decisions and actions. A call to the office. An automatic reply placed on your work email. A transaction on a vacation rental website. A heap of clothes and toiletries shoved in a duffel bag. A foot on the gas. Within a few hours, You are headed north on the interstate, Curving through scenic byways and crossing small rivers and ponds. Every few miles, There's a farm stand or a flea market. People peddling fresh flowers or fruit picked from their home gardens. With every bridge, Every bend in the road. The knot of guilt. The feeling of dismissed obligation. The worry of how much will pile up in your absence. Begins, Ever so slightly, To loosen. As if by driving away from the sources of your constant stress and worry. You lessen their power over you. It isn't really that simple, Of course. But it is something. As the terrain turns mountainous and you climb in elevation. You roll the windows down and breathe in the fresh summer air. With a little ways left to go before you reach your destination. The GPS navigation in your car loses connection. Service must be unreliable out here. Fortunately, Most of the route is a straightforward hike up the interstate. But eventually, You must stop for directions to make the final few turns. There is another roadside farm stand, Even on this remote stretch of highway, And the people there are friendly and happy to give you some tips to find your way. As they describe it, Once you're in view of the lake, It should be your first turn off. And then an easy scenic drive to the rental. In gratitude, You buy some plums and berries from the market to take with you. On you go until you spot the lake on your left. The coruscating ripples, A shade of mottled gray. You wish you could see it in its full, Unshaded hue. Then you find the turn and snake your way up a rough road under leafy boughs of elm and maple trees. And up. And around. At last, You see the mailbox of your destination signaling the turn onto the property. And you pull down the long driveway. To the house at the end. A cottage on a bluff. Overlooking the lake. Out you step, Feet on gravel. Here is the place you've elected to escape for the next few days. Here is the evidence of your impulsiveness. There's a hand-painted signpost outside the front door, Which reads, Welcome to Maple Cottage. After plugging in the access code in the rental listing, You bring your modest luggage and farmstand haul into the house. You instinctively reach for your phone to check any missed messages or urgent emails from work. But as before, There is no signal. You root around for a wifi password, But you fail to find one. You suppose you should have double-checked the listing for the amenity. You simply took it for granted. But despite the feeling of vulnerability that first comes from being cut off from your devices, Within a few minutes, It's as if a weight has been removed from your chest. As if your capacity for breath. Has increased. What drew you to the listing in the first place and what now draw your gaze are the elegant picture windows that nearly span from floor to ceiling on the lakeside wall. You move across the mahogany floors to gaze out over the sunlit lake. Fringe on the side by overhanging maple branches. The view is like something from that painting program, You think. Down below, The lake sparkles. Across it you can see rolling hills and mountain peaks covered by white pines. What you'd give to see the true hues of silvery green they should be displaying. For a moment, You feel that perhaps all this splendor is wasted on you. But despite your dull, Desaturated gaze. You quickly find a rather miraculous benefit of casting your eyes across such long distances Your mind slips into a softer state. And you feel the tiny, Rarely noticed muscles in your eyes relax. Your vision slides in and out of focus. The way the images in an eye exam sometimes do. You gaze outward, Casting your perception like a fishing line toward the horizon. Toward a hazy vanishing point. And as you do, That knot in your belly. Loosens just a bit more. Your brow gets a little bit smoother. Your jaw unclenches the slightest bit. Your shoulders sink. Just a millimeter down your back. These are subtle adjustments. But together, They unlock a level of relief you haven't felt in some time. You remain by the picture window for a long while. Perceiving the natural beauty of the lake behind glass. Soon you yearn to collapse the distance between your position and the spectacle. You exit to the veranda overlooking the valley. So. This is Vermont, You say to yourself. You inhale. A little breeze rises, Stirring up the leaves on the trees, Inviting chickadees to chatter. Now you close your eyes and engage all your other senses. In your mind's eye, It seems you can still find the deepest, Richest hues. You imagine the valley in autumn. Sparkling sun illuminating the golds and browns and burgundies of the deciduous trees. The ever-velvet green of the pines. You listen for the lapping of waves on the lake. The distant motor of a speedboat. This first day at Maple Cottage. You don't do much else. You sit back in the Adirondack chair on the veranda. And watch the birds and boats. You snack on fruit from the farm stand. From time to time, Your focus slips. To wondering about everything waiting for you back home. You do your best to push these thoughts away. Sending them like clouds, Adrift. Back whence they came. As the afternoon grows late, You venture down to the trading post on the lake's north shore. You stock up on food and necessities for the next few days. You stuff your basket with locally made goods too. Maple syrup, Of course. Jam, Preserves, And coffee beans. Head, The owner of the trading post, Is full of suggestions for things to do and see in the area. Scenic bridges, Boat rentals, Hiking trails, And the best places for a bite to eat. You take note of the recommendations, Asking for the best routes from your cottage. Ted's eyes light up. When he realizes you're staying at Maple Cottage. He goes a little cross-eyed even, Like he's sliding into a nostalgic reverie. It's historic, He says. Maybe the best view of the lake. And you can see it from the water too. Standing there on the bluff, Like a watchful protector. If you're out on the lake at just the right time before sunrise or sunset. You can look up at it and you'll see it's like a prism. It catches the light and shines a million different colors. Some say Maple Cottage is the exact center point of the whole universe. Is a paper bag alright for you? The way Ted seamlessly transitions between poetic descriptions of light phenomena and innocuous questions about grocery bag preferences as you take in a bag. You pay for your goods. And slightly amused by the interaction. Return to your car. Parked as you are so close to the shore, You take a few steps down the path to get nearer the water. The sun has mostly set by now, A waxing moon already visible over the mountains. You cast your eyes toward the bluff. Indeed, You can see Maple Cottage from here. There it is, Emerging from the shady trees. With winding steps. The lead down to the shore. And the little dock below. It must be too late to see that dazzling light effect. Described by the trading post's quirky proprietor. Or, More likely, It's an exaggeration. You glance out at the water again and fix your gaze on the moon's bright reflection. The near perfect circle of it, Swimming in and out of composition with the movement of the water. You flick your eyes up toward the moon. The solid source for that flickering facsimile. Somehow in the gathering dark. It looks different. As if there's a dark smudge across it. A smear on the moon. You blink hard and look again. It's back to normal. The eyes playing tricks. Cicada song escorts you windows down back up the winding road to Maple Cottage. Where you unload your items and retire for the night. It's the best sleep you've had in a while, Though it isn't without interruptions. You still lie awake, Chasing away racing thoughts. You still stir in the night, Worried you've forgotten something important. But the stillness and quiet of your surroundings have a marked effect on you. It's easier to shake away the lingering worries that typically plague you at night. In the morning, Though it takes a few moments to shake off the confusion of rising in an unfamiliar place. You feel more refreshed than usual. It's a welcome change. You actually have some energy to make breakfast. You fry up pancakes on the stove with the mix you acquired at the trading post. You sprinkle them with berries and douse the whole thing in rich maple syrup. The locally roasted coffee beans smell divine when ground and brewed. You take everything out on the veranda and enjoy your breakfast in the early morning light. A mist clings to the surface of the lake. Chipmunks chase each other up and down the trees. Before long. You reach for your phone out of habit. But then you remember, The signal is non-existent. Concern melts swiftly into relief once more. After breakfast, On the advice of your friend at the trading post, You take a drive down to a favorite tourist spot known as Star-Crossed Bridge. It's tucked away on a back road, Shaded by monumental trees. The creek below, Which you suppose must have once been substantial. Is now a narrow, Trickling stream. The bridge itself is straight out of a New England storybook. One of those quaint, Covered bridges enclosed by timber structures that look so at home in their bucolic surroundings. This one. Like many, You imagine. As a legend to go with it. According to Ted some century and a half ago, It was a frequent meeting place for a pair of young sweethearts. Being from different social classes, Their parents disapproved of the union. But they devised a plan to run away together. They arranged to meet on the bridge at midnight. But the young man never showed. The young lady perished of a broken heart. And her longing presence. Can still be felt if you cross that bridge at midnight. This last part of the story, Ted related with an affect of spooky mystery in his voice. You must be full of such stories, Collected over years residing in such a remote place, Stored away to enthrall tourists and visitors. Despite being, For all intents and purposes, A ghost story. As you stand before the covered bridge under the dappled light of the wooded road. You feel nothing akin to fear. Only an affiliation. A kinship with the sense of loss the young woman must have felt. A sense of longing for something unreachable. Of being so close and yet feeling muffled by an invisible screen. The color must have gone from her life too, You think. The story fills you with a wistfulness that's difficult to describe. You return to the water in the afternoon. Carefully descending the winding steps down the bluff to reach the shore. You slip off your shoes and let your feet sink into soft grass. You sit on the small dock and dip your feet in the lake. The temperature of the water is mild enough that it's refreshing on a summer day. But no shock to the system. You feel yourself slowly sweetly adjusting to the rhythm of the water which laps gently at the dock. Adjusting to the pace of this place. The way the trees and mountains breathe. If yesterday, All you did was refocus your vision. Today, You indulge in the sense of touch. You embrace sensation, Texture, And tactility. The wiggle of your toes in the water. The wavy air enters you as breath. Cool and invigorating. Transforms within you. And leaves again on the exhale. Warm. And changed. You feel a closeness to the earth. The Phenomenal World. Like a slow, Gentle reintegration. Abrading back into the systems that surround you. From which the modern world strives so hard to separate you. Your jaw unclenches just a little bit more. The tension in your chest loosens. Heart softens. Shoulders fall another few millimeters away from the ears. Brow unfurrows. Tongue settles away from the roof of the mouth. Eyes, Refocus. Later. You wander down the perimeter of the lake to a dockside taproom for some dinner. They only have outside tables tonight, The hostess shares, Because inside there is a private party. A rehearsal dinner for a wedding on the premises tomorrow. Being a pleasant evening, You have no problem sitting outside in view of the lake. At sunset, A group of cheerful people rush out of the taproom onto the dock and line up to take a group photo. You deduce by their attire that these are the bride, The groom, And some of their family. From their mouths escape endless oohs and ahhs at the dazzling sunset. They exclaim that you can see every color of the rainbow. To you. It's only a muddled blend of unremarkable shades. A moment later, The bride bounds over to your table. A disposable camera in her hands. I'm so sorry, Would you mind taking a picture of us? " she says, A sheepish smile lighting up her face. It's no trouble, You insist, And you direct the group to squeeze in, Shoulder to shoulder, So you can get everyone in the frame. There's pure effervescence between them, This group of kin or old friends. You offer the bride and groom best wishes as you return the camera. There's something charming about the use of one of those old disposable cameras in this case. As opposed to a phone or a digital camera. On which one can see the outcome of the photo instantly. Your mind flashes back to picking up envelopes of developed vacation photos weeks after they were taken. The trust you used to put in those plastic devices to capture memories. Never seeing the proof until it was paid for. And even before those were commonplace. What was it like? To rely entirely on memory. That age of humanity feels so distant, Even foreign. Lost in your musings, You hear the laughter and chatter of the bridal party taper off as they return inside. That sound is replaced by the rippling waters of the lake. The Whale of Hulun. You look toward Mabel Cottage. You can just see it on the bluff. The waning sunlight kisses the picture windows. But you behold no spectrum splash. Still. It's a pretty night. You manage to climb the bluff and return to the cottage just before darkness fully engulfs the valley. The forested mountains are black against the night sky. And gentle rustling in the trees suggests the start of the night for the owls and other native nocturnal animals. The moon, Just a sliver short of full, Is visible through the picture window. You think about the covered bridge, Sitting quiet now under a spell of moonlight. Is the broken-hearted lady visiting again? Looking for her lost love. But there it is again. The smudge on the surface of the moon. Like a dark smear of paint. Only larger than it was before. You squint and move closer to the picture window. And yes, Clear as day you can see what looks like an oil spill or two in the shapes of craters on the moon. Has anyone else seen this? You wonder. You step outside onto the veranda. But just as it happened the night before. The strange vision is gone. You sigh heavily and rub your eyes. You must have really needed this vacation after all. So exhausted you're seeing auras on the moon. After a little while. You return to the bedroom and turn in for sleep. On your third day at Maple Cottage. You awake feeling just a bit lighter than the day before. You slept more soundly, With fewer interruptions after all. Today, You intend to go out on the lake. Perhaps in a kayak, If you can find one to rent. It shouldn't surprise you, But the pair of middle-aged women running the nearest boat rental are just as friendly and eccentric as anyone you've met lakeside. The more serious of the two lays out the rental policy, Safety measures, And absolute deal breakers that'll get you banned from the lake. While the other chimes in with off-color jokes about lake monsters and sudden squalls that kick up when folks don't follow the boating rules. Suppressing a chuckle, You sign the appropriate waivers and solemnly pledge to abide by Lake Law. The kayak cuts smoothly across the surface of the lake. It's been a long time since you went out in one. But the muscle memory comes back swiftly enough. You glide beneath an overcast sky, Past cormorants that stand on docks, Holding their wings out wide to dry. Painted turtles gather on protruding logs, And bullfrog song echoes from the hollows. Any time you pass another boater, A family learning to steer a canoe together. Or groups cruising on pontoon boats. You exchange genuinely warm greetings. In the afternoon, You decide to explore some of the hiking trails near Maple Cottage. As you climb the hilly terrain. You come to appreciate the difficulty of it. The specific and rewarding weariness that comes from voluntary physical activity. Muscles strain. Sweat beads on the skin, Yes. But the effort feels so much more worthwhile than the mental and physical exhaustion. You experience at home and at work. It feels meaningful, Like you aren't just spinning your wheels or trying to keep up. But re-engaging your body for its true purpose. Rowing a boat across a tranquil lake. Hiking through forest and brush. Seeking new experiences, New sensations, And rediscovering old ones that have lain dormant in your body for years. Like the muscles it takes to angle your neck upward at the sound of an unfamiliar bird, To look for it amid the canopy. Or the way your core and leg muscles engage when you cautiously descend a steep slope. These are mobile processes. You rarely do at a desk. With every gesture of observation, Experience, Curiosity, And participation you practice in this place. You clear away the cobwebs, The stagnant energy. The Deadwood. And forge new connections in mind and body. You move in forgotten ways. Learning anew what you are capable of. You round a curve in the trail, Revealing a panoramic view of the lake from high above it. And just below you, In a hilltop clearing, There is a gathering of people. There is an arbor hung with flowers. Underneath it, A young woman in a white dress clasps hands with her groom. You can't hear the ceremony from where you stand. But the whole vista is achingly picturesque. Soon the sun will set. And you imagine the whole valley will be bathed in the reflective rainbows. Under which spell the whole region seems bewitched. Even if you can't appreciate the brilliance or the color of it all. You drink in the serenity of the scene. Now as your jaw unclenches just a little bit more. You feel your face settle into a long-missed expression of awe. As your shoulders fall just a centimeter more away from your ears. Your neck actually seems to lengthen. As if you're being pulled upward ever so gently by a string at the top of your head. As you take in the up-close details of the maple trees. The spectacle of the wedding in the middle distance. And the far off shores and mountains. Your vision balances to accommodate them all. Soft. Open and receptive. Night falls, And you light a fire in the hearth at Maple Cottage. Far above the lake as you are, The faint echo of music from the wedding reception rises from the taproom. Every now and then. You hear the beat. Of a song you recognize. You can't help but smile and tap your feet along with it. Sometimes, Without your conscious effort, Your head moves too. And sometimes your hips. Dance finds you. Sneaks up on you. No one is watching. And so you move to the distant music. You laugh at yourself, At this version of you that feels not a bit self-conscious. You are your own dance partner. Your own audience. And you look upon yourself with only admiration. And indulgence. You fling yourself onto the couch to catch your breath. Laughing still. You think about how if you were home. Now would be the time you'd reach for your phone. You feel no desire for that now. The moon is full tonight. So swollen and low and bright, You feel you could snatch it right out of the sky and place it on the table as a centerpiece. The fire crackles as you gaze at the marvelous moon through the picture window. Then you rise to your feet. Because there again, As you look on the moon, They appear. Three this time. Three smudges or smears or pools on the surface of the moon. Refusing to look away or blink your eyes this time. You move toward the picture window. Till it seems only a pane of glass separates you and the satellite. Not many, Many miles of atmosphere and space. Indeed, The moon looks so close. So intensely detailed and dimensional. That You do reach out. You reach toward the image of the moon that shines through the picture windows of Maple Cottage high above the lake. And just as you expect your fingers to meet the glass. You find another sensation entirely. Cool, Thick liquid. You pull your hand away instinctively and inspect the substance on your fingers. Your breath catches as you realize it's a rich, Saturated shade of emerald. The deepest color you've beheld in who knows how long. With delicate gesture and burgeoning awe you smear the substance against the glass of the window, Leaving a trail of vibrant green behind. It's pain. Knowing not what possesses you to do this, You reach for the moon again. You place both hands beneath it like a cradle and wrap your fingers around it. With the tenderest transfer of weight, You pluck the moon from the sky and hold it in your hands. It is almost weightless. And flat as a disc. You can balance it perfectly on one palm. Your fingers find small grooves in its back that they slide into. Holding it securely in place. It is a paint palette. And the colors that pool upon it are the deeply missed and yearned for blues and greens. The icy whites and buried crimson. Your eyes feast on them. You simply cannot look on them enough. And you press your fingers to the paint and mix colors, Little by little, Experimenting to see what comes of the blends. Awakening sensitivities in yourself you'd forgotten. Amazed, Inspired, You begin to smear the paint in all its prismatic magic. Across the picture windows. You cover them from floor to ceiling. Coral pinks, And deep sea greens. The colors of sunrise, Sunset, And stormy oceans. The colors of summer. Farm stands and sunflower fields. The colors of autumn and the changing leaves. The colors of the cottage blanketed in snow. Of springtime and the first green shoots, The bearded irises. The splendor spills across the glass, Responding to your touch, But also taking on a life of its own. The colors bend and twist before you, Shaping memories old and new. Forming and reforming in images concrete and abstract. And through it, Despite the darkness, Despite it all, You can still see the mountains and the stars and the lake through the colored glass. Tinted gold and crimson and green. And every wondrous color in between. A thousand years could pass by as you lose yourself in the magnificence of all this color. And you'd never know it. So it's no surprise when peekaboos of sunlight start to climb over the eastern ridge. There's paint all down your front. And in your hair and on your hands. A new exhaustion radiates throughout your body. The kind that follows effort and epiphany. You step out on the veranda. Before sunrise, All the world seems to be beneath a gauzy film. Everything is dim and blue and gray. With a faint definition. Of fuzziness. But when the light comes and steeps the deep blue sky with tinges of gold and pink. And when the first rays catch the glass of the windows at Maple Cottage. One thread. One gossamer filament of white light splits into a symphony of color. And all the threads, All braided together, Do the same. With accompanying warmth, The sunlight kaleidoscopes across the glass. Splashing against the sheer layers of paint. To send tremolos of purples and yellows and colors you've never seen nor known the names of. It is almost too much to behold. And for a few moments you must close your eyes. Even then, Color infiltrates your eyelids and imagination. Weaving a tapestry of tender hues, Deep indigos and greens, Iridescent as a peacock's tail. You open your eyes again and look out over the lake. The colors spin and swirl across the water's surface, Rippling in and out of each other, Like paint being mixed and unmixed. An impossible thing. And yet. . . Now you look down at your own hands and feet and body. You're covered in splashes of moon paint. But you are also bathed in the sheer multi-chrome light that bounces off the windows of Maple Cottage. You feel so warm and bright. It's as if the light shines forth from you and not the rising sun. As if you. Are the center of the universe. Your shoulders drop. Your forehead and jaw, Relax. The knot loosens. And slackens. Your whole body tingles sweetly and feels warm and light. As if you're being charged. Nourished by the shower of color. Your breath becomes deeper. Smoother. Slower The moment crystallizes. Your senses. All your senses are awake. And open. You can not only see the spectrum of splendid color, But feel it. Each striation vibrating against your skin with a unique sensation. Some are warmer, More comforting. Others are cooler and more invigorating. They land on your tongue with the sweetness of dew on primroses. They hum and ring in your ears with a tone and frequency that makes your whole body sing. I feel weightless They bring to you the perfume of lilacs. Dark fruit. Vetiver and campfire smoke. Trails of memory. Whispers of future adventures. Scented roads, You long to travel down. And for the first time in a long time. Life doesn't feel so heavy. You feel like you could be swept up on a mild breeze and carried through the rest of your days. If before you were a candle burning at both ends. Close to burning out entirely. Now you are a steady flame. Fanned by the breath of the mountains and the lakes. And the moon. And the sunrise over Maple Cottage. And here you stay under dazzling sunrise. Washed in colors you've never dreamt of. Drinking in the phenomenal splendor of it. And when the sun is high and fixed in the sky. And the extraordinary kaleidoscope of color subsides. You brace yourself. After such a climactic experience. Will the world return to its dim and dull shades of grey? Emotion rises within you. There in the wake of the sun's premier display. Is a valley of green and gold. It's as if a veil has been lifted from your eyes. From all your senses. Bringing the world into focus once again. The restoration of experience you've held for so long at a distance. You become aware of how, By your very breath, In this beautiful space. You participate. In its ages-long dance. You take it in. Within your body. Transform it. And return a part of yourself. You painted these colors into being. They came from you. From your interaction with the touch and feel and movement and story and song of this place. But now you realize it could happen anywhere. All it asks is participation. The world asks you to be an active partner in its constant creation and re-creation. And by this partnership. This harmonic co-creation. You can balance on threads of sunlight. Speak the language of trees. And swoon like the tide to the tug of the moon. All this alights on you like divine revelation. Like cosmic mystery unwound for you alone. And yet, Is this not the simplest, Most natural thing in the world? To feel. To be. To ground. The first boats are launching on the lake now. The valley is waking. You wonder how many others rose with the sun to see the spectacle it creates. You know you are not alone. You've never been alone. All around you. Mountains. Stand watch. They breathe. The mountain's inhale lasts a thousand years. And the exhale. A thousand more. You do not know this. But just now. You hover at the delicate moment in between. When the mountains pause and hold their breath. And prepare to let it rush forth again. What wondrous things might issue from that colossal collective out-breath. What new colors may be born. As sunlight sparkles on the blue of the lake. You contemplate extending your stay. Are heading further north. Or even heading home. Renewed. You don't have to decide right now. For the moment. Just bask. Get some rest. You've carried so much for so long. But the Earth is there to carry you too. You can set it down Breathe in. . . And breathe out. Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Absolutely brilliant. Relaxing and restoring. I always look forward to any Sleep & Sorcery release because it’s a guaranteed good nights rest or at least an enchanting story. Thank you yet again!

Soothing and put me right ti sleep

Nice and relaxing soon got me to sleep sadly the heat here in the UK woke me up x

I loved this story, Laurel. Thank you!

Glorious ❤️