Reunion At Camp Moonstone

In tonight’s cozy story, you attend a long-awaited reunion with friends at your old summer camp. During the day, you partake in nostalgic camp activities, like archery, canoeing, and crafting. Then, in the evening, you gather round the campfire with your companions. By the light of the fire, you seem to magically transform into your younger selves, reconnecting with forgotten memories, aspirations, and intuition.

If you’re still awake as the story concludes, I’ll guide you through a rejuvenating body scan inspired by Yoga Nidra.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Nordic Sunrise by Bruce Brus, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Reunite with friends and enjoy summer camp traditions 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 when you're ready,

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

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a rejuvenating body scan inspired by Yoga Nidra.

In tonight's story,

You attend a long-awaited reunion with friends at your old summer camp during the day you partake in nostalgic camp activities like archery and canoeing.

Then,

In the evening,

You gather around the campfire with your companions.

By the light of the fire,

You seem to magically transform into your younger selves,

Reconnecting with forgotten memories,

Aspirations,

And intuition.

The ash grove,

How graceful,

How plainly it is speaking.

The wind through it playing as language for me.

Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,

A host of kind faces is gazing at me.

The friends from my childhood again are before me.

Each step brings a memory,

As freely I roam.

It's just after you take the highway exit that the drive really begins to feel familiar.

You almost turn off the GPS,

Feeling your muscles settle softly into the bend and curve of the road.

It was so long ago when you last traveled this way,

But somehow it all comes flooding back.

There is the twisted old tree by the side of the road,

The one that looks a thousand years old.

You can hardly believe it's still standing.

And just ahead is the wooden hanging sign,

Hand-carved way back when,

With the most wonderful words.

Camp Moonstone,

2 miles.

The first time you ever made the trip to Camp Moonstone,

You were not the one behind the wheel,

Of course.

You smile to think how nervous you were then,

Before your family dropped you off for your first sleepaway summer camp.

It's always hard,

You suppose,

To be away from family for the first time.

But,

After all,

You've found a new family in the mess hall on the lake shore and around the campfire,

And now your heart leaps at the prospect of reuniting with that chosen family.

For years,

You've striven to keep in touch in between the obligations of growing older,

Always wistful at the idea of a reunion.

Now,

Finally,

After months of meticulous planning and arrangement,

You'll spend this weekend on the hallowed grounds of Camp Moonstone with your old friends.

So much has changed since you were all together last,

But the bonds of friendship are strong when forged on moonlit lakes and over-toasted marshmallows.

At last,

Your car rounds the familiar bend in the road that will soon snake toward the gates of Camp Moonstone.

The pavement turns to gravel,

And a grove of mighty trees gird the path,

Straining the dappled sunlight.

The name of the camp is emblazoned across a wrought-iron sign,

Only vaguely rusted,

Under which you now pass,

Then up the gravel road you go to a turn-off on the right.

There are already several cars parked in the rustic lot.

You wonder,

Who's here?

Stepping from your car onto the chalky gravel,

You feel the years begin to fall away.

The smell of charcoal and fresh grass floods your mind with memories.

Oh,

And it's a perfect day.

Hardly a cloud in the sky,

But the morning light is crisp,

And the shade from the mature and magnificent trees should keep the heat at bay all day.

You sling your duffel bag over your shoulder,

Breathe in deeply,

And take your first steps toward the camp office.

You remember the way easily,

For someone should be waiting to check you in.

Moments later,

Freshly name-tagged and laden with a pile of linens,

You find yourself cabin-bound.

To your delight,

You've been assigned for the weekend to the cove of cabins known as Horseshoe Bend,

Where you spent some of your most memorable summers.

Horseshoe Bend is nestled in a cozy clearing,

Surrounded by staggeringly tall evergreens.

You can already catch their scent on the breeze.

Pine resin and smoky cedar awaken your nostalgia for cool summer nights.

With the cabin windows open,

You navigate straight to cabin four,

Your favorite.

The door squeaks on its hinges as it opens,

And past the doorway,

You instantly feel the warmth of another presence.

There's someone here already,

Smoothing out the wrinkles in the linens and unpacking a suitcase.

She turns to look at you,

And your face splits into a grin.

It's Maya.

You haven't seen her since your camp days,

And time has surely changed her face,

But you'd know her anywhere.

You greet each other with laughter and a warm embrace.

She was one of the driving forces behind organizing this reunion,

So she asks for your help to pin a stack of Polaroids to the cork board on the cabin wall.

Images from summers past,

Smiling faces and awkward candids alike,

Elicit the same spark of joy and comfort within you.

Maya wonders if you'll head to the mess hall with her after you unpack.

She has hundreds of balloons to inflate for the talent show tomorrow night,

And she could use the company.

Besides,

You have so much to catch up about,

But before you finish tucking the linens under your mattress,

The door swings wide again.

In moments,

You've thrown your arms around the visitor,

Another of your closest camp friends.

Cole is here with armfuls of marshmallows to donate to the cause.

Together,

You and your dear friends,

Musketeers reunited,

Venture through evergreen woods and along the edge of the sparkling lake to the mess hall.

There's a buffet breakfast set up for you and the other early arrivals,

Making the multipurpose space smell of syrup,

Fresh fruit,

And coffee.

Light spills in from the plentiful windows,

Making golden trails across the floor while you blow up balloons,

Taking turns with the pump and blowing some up with only the power of your own breath.

You swap stories with Maya and Cole.

Your words weave effortlessly between funny summer stories,

Updates on your lives now,

And mysterious camp legends you've never forgotten,

Like the old story about the brownies of Horseshoe Bend.

Those diminutive spirits,

Who,

If pleased,

Would clean up after cabin residents and perform minor chores,

But,

If they felt unappreciated,

Would hide or steal items like shoes or toothbrushes from the campers,

Always hoping to stay on their good side.

You and your friends would smuggle sweets from dinner each night and leave them outside the cabin door for the brownies.

You all succumb to a round of laughter when Cole recalls how the counselors admonished you when your brownie offerings attracted a family of raccoons to Horseshoe Bend.

Then,

There's the other camp legend,

The one about its founding by an infamous pirate,

Who buried his treasure,

A chest of rare blue moonstones,

On the shores of the lake,

Where he would return now and then to hide from authorities.

Intrepid campers have snuck out of their cabins for decades in the moonlight,

Armed with shovels and hoping to discover the treasure.

Only now,

Looking back,

Do you realize how ludicrous the legend was.

The area is nowhere near a coast,

And who ever heard of pirates on a lake?

By mid-morning,

Droves of campers are beginning to arrive.

You help out at the check-in table for a while,

Handing out nametags,

Blankets,

Maps,

And lodging assignments while they navigate a rush of arrivals,

But soon,

As dictated by the meticulously wrought schedule for the weekend,

Activities get underway.

Before dispersing to various programs,

There's an opening ceremony at the central gathering space,

A clearing in the oak and azalea woods,

Where several large,

Felled tree trunks serve as rows of seating.

The camp director from your days at Moonstone has returned for the weekend,

And she kicks off the ceremony by leading everyone in the traditional welcome song.

The words and melody come easily to you,

Even after all this time,

She's grown older.

The memorable smile lines at the corners of her kind eyes,

Now permanent.

It suits her.

After a brief rundown of the schedule,

Ground rules,

And expectations for the reunion weekend,

She brings up the organizing committee to take a bow,

You included,

Then she dismisses all to afternoon activities,

Hoping to see you all at supper tonight.

You've signed up to run the archery session,

As it was always your favorite activity,

And you have a natural skill.

You meet several familiar faces at the range,

All eager to flex their archery muscles again.

You reach for your bow to deliver the first demonstration.

It slides into the crook of your palm with ease,

Feeling warm against the skin.

Hello,

Old friend,

You almost say aloud,

Lifting the bow to shoulder height,

Aligning the arrow,

And drawing back the bowstring.

You narrow your eyes,

All the while describing to the other campers the ideal form and technique You hold a moment longer for their observation,

Gaze locked on the target ahead,

Then loose the arrow with a satisfying twang,

Watching it cut a subtle arc across the field and pierce the inner circles,

Shivering on impact.

There's a round of polite applause from your companions,

Who then reach for their own bows.

You assist those who need it,

In lining the arrows up properly,

And adjusting their form.

The half hour session passes with laughter,

Missed targets,

And fortunately,

No injuries.

No bullseyes either,

But a little rustiness is to be expected after all these years.

Afterward,

You have some time to enjoy other activities yourself.

You peruse the schedule,

Debating whether you'd rather meet Maya at the Crafts Pavilion to make souvenir reunion bracelets,

Or coal on the lakeshore for canoeing.

Your mind is made up when you round the copse of trees to see how the afternoon sun streams delicately across the lake,

The water calls to you.

You remember a canoeing lesson years ago,

When,

To pass a proficiency test,

You and your boatmates had to tip your own canoe over and successfully swim to shore.

That day,

You'd forgotten to bring your water moccasins,

So you tipped into the lake,

Wearing your sneakers.

Those shoes smelled like lake water all summer.

Cole is standing,

Hands on hips,

By the shore,

Beside a rack of bright orange life vests.

Though some roll eyes at the notion,

He insists everyone take a life preserver,

And carefully checks that they're correctly worn before anyone is allowed to set foot in a canoe.

The day is still marvelously mild as you push one of the canoes from shore,

Hopping into the back of the boat at the last moment,

Behind Cole and another camp alum,

Jordan.

It's so liberating to cut across the water.

On the far shore,

You can see large,

Expensive-looking residences amid the thick forests.

Those weren't there when you were a camper here.

The area is changing,

Like everything,

You suppose.

It's a blessing that the camp survives,

Well-preserved as it is.

You quickly begin to ache under the pressure of rowing the canoe,

But it's not unpleasant.

More of an awakening of underused muscle groups.

Modern life,

As you often confined to desk,

Or couch,

Or car,

Rarely stretching outside your comfortable routine.

This whole day,

So far,

Has been an exercise of stepping into half-forgotten motions and finding new familiarity in the memories.

It's like a return to your body.

What is that thing,

They say,

You wonder,

Pushing the oar against the lake's lazy waves?

Let the cells in the body shed and regenerate,

So that roughly every seven years or so,

All of one's physical cells might have been replaced with new ones.

You're not sure how true or oversimplified that notion is,

But it's poetic as anything to think that you are creating yourself,

Daily new,

But then,

What tethers us to an abiding self?

Memory?

The soul?

These are rather larger questions than you expected to find yourself grappling with on the surface of the lake,

But somehow it seems fitting.

You're drawn out of your philosophical musings by the onset of a canoe rivalry.

The nearest boat to you is filled with cabin fivers.

Your long-time competitors,

However playful,

In the horseshoe-bend cabin cup,

One of them has whipped up an oar to splash you,

Cole,

In Jordan with lake water.

Shrieks of laughter follow,

And then attempts to splash them back,

Though it's all in good fun.

Cole blasts merrily on his whistle to stop the nonsense,

Even as one of the cabin fivers reaches over and tries to tip your boat.

The whole affair ends,

Of course,

With two tipped-over boats and a whole host of soggy camp alumni.

Back on shore,

You and your friends wrap yourselves in towels and jokingly express gratitude for the life jackets,

And that Cole insisted you all leave your phones on shore.

You miss the last activity session of the afternoon,

Opting to return to horseshoe-bend to shower and change into dry clothes,

But it's just as well.

The heat and water pressure are surprisingly satisfying on this side of the camp,

And it's much better than waiting for a stall in the morning when everyone wants a shower.

You lather up with soap on a rope and breathe in the soothing steam,

Letting the water cleanse you from head to toe.

You can hardly think of a more appropriate way to kick off the camp reunion than by falling in the lake.

From here on,

You can release all nerves or inhibitions,

And simply be the resurrection of an old camp rivalry in such silly fashion,

Too,

Is almost a comfort,

Now that you're older,

That all seems so trivial,

So it's as if you've come back to an innocent time in your life without any of the trifling squabbles.

Instead,

In its place,

Is only peace and laughter.

Returning to cabin four from the bathhouse,

You pull your duffel from under the bed,

Unzipping it to look for a suitable change of clothes.

To your surprise,

You find the duffel bag empty for just a moment.

You wonder if the cabin fivers have nicked your belongings in revenge for their last cabin cup loss,

But that's absurd,

You think.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you find all your clothes for the weekend,

Including spare items,

Tucked neatly in the drawer beside your bunk.

It's funny,

You can't remember having unpacked everything,

So it's not like you to put your belongings away so precisely.

You're normally one to cram everything in a bundle,

But maybe you did this absentmindedly while catching up with Maya in the morning.

A brief thought,

Admittedly ridiculous,

Flashes across your mind,

That this is the work of the Horseshoe Bend Brownies,

Their final act of gratitude for your many offerings over the years.

But this notion you laugh away and reach for jeans and a flannel shirt,

Feeling utterly refreshed in dry clothes and shoes.

You take your time walking to the mess hall at the heart of camp,

It'll be dinnertime soon,

And you're feeling just the faintest rumble of hunger after all of the day's excitement.

The sun is beginning to wane over the lake,

Making long shadows of the evergreens and blazing across the water.

The high ceilings of the mess hall echo with cheerful conversation when you arrive.

You take a tray and jump into the buffet line,

Reaching for everything that looks appetizing.

Some of the other folks in line were in your archery lesson,

And they express how much they enjoyed reconnecting with the skill.

Once you've loaded up your tray with goodies,

You scan the mess hall for your friends.

There are so many smiling faces.

Every table looks as inviting as the next,

But there are Maya and Cole,

Beckoning you over excitedly.

You slide in next to Maya on the bench.

She and Cole are already in animated discussion with two other old friends who had an eventful afternoon at the ropes course.

You tell the story of your mishap during the canoeing session,

Which elicits a chorus of sympathetic laughter sometime during the meal.

Maya slides an item each across the table to you and Cole,

Made these for you as demos during Arts and Crafts.

She says,

You pick yours up,

A beaded bracelet that spells out the word Moonstone.

And the year the three of you first met,

The gesture melts your heart.

You slide the bracelet around your wrist and think you may never take it off.

You silently regret all this time out of touch,

Or barely reaching out to each other.

There's a special kind of friendship forged at camp,

And it can be hard to translate those friendships to the so-called real world,

To integrate those amazing people into your daily life.

But these friendships,

You think,

Are worth the work.

You resolve to try harder to maintain them going forward.

It's nothing short of miraculous,

The way you've been able to simply pick up where you left off with them.

By the time dinner is done,

And a contented haze sets over every guest in the hall,

The sun has long disappeared from the long windows,

Leaving dim curtains of pink and purple in its wake,

Twilight over camp Moonstone.

There was a time when you were expected to be snug in your cabins by nightfall,

But now that you're older,

You have the distinct childish thrill of being allowed to stay up as late as you like and enjoy the campgrounds under the stars as you and your friends leave the mess hall and make for a leisurely detour along the shores of the lake.

A small group of campers trot to catch up with you.

They're thinking of lighting up a campfire in the hazel grove if you'd like to join.

Everyone's welcome,

And feel free to bring snacks,

Stories,

Or songs.

You agree instantly that this sounds like a wonderful idea.

The hazel grove isn't far from Horseshoe Bend,

Where Cole stashed a haul of marshmallows.

He swiftly swerves back to grab them.

You want to get a jacket too,

As the onset of evening has brought a slight chill to the air.

When you arrive together at the grove,

A formidable campfire is already roaring in the stone pit.

It's a beacon through the trees as darkness settles comfortably over Camp Moonstone.

Already a half dozen or so people are seated around the fire.

They greet you warmly and cheer at the sight of marshmallows.

They have every other ingredient for s'mores at the ready,

And had their fingers crossed that someone would come through.

Cozying up to the fire on a log,

You take skewers and pass bags of marshmallows around.

Before long,

The evocative scent of evening campfire dances with the perfume of bruleed sugar.

While marshmallows brown and blister on their sticks,

More people join and more s'mores are sandwiched.

Milk chocolate melts onto marshmallow in between crunchy graham crackers.

The conversation turns to beloved camp memories,

Favorite counselors,

Favorite horses,

And folks who wish were here.

Another small group arrives with an enormous thermos of hot chocolate and cups to pass around.

The fire crackles,

Sending sparks to fly against the sweet-smelling darkness.

The warmth from the fire pit staves off the dropping temperatures in a move that feels somehow inevitable.

One of the campers across the fire pulls out an acoustic guitar.

He starts to strum and sing a beloved old camp tune,

One you haven't thought of in years.

And yet,

The melody comes streaming back to you within moments,

And the lyrics.

You find yourself singing along,

Almost involuntarily,

Voice by voice.

A whole party around the campfire joins in,

Softly singing.

Out of my window,

Looking in the night,

I can see the barge's flickering light.

Silently flows the river to the sea as the barges go by,

Silently.

Barges,

I would like to go with you.

I would like to sail the ocean blue.

Barges,

Have you treasures in your hold?

Do you fight with pirates,

Brave and bold?

You are in your mind,

Transported to evening gatherings at the height of summer.

Voices ringing,

Youthful and sweet.

The songs,

By turns silly and deeply moving,

Songs of friendship.

In summer,

How my heart wants to sail away with you as you sail across the ocean blue.

But I must stay beside my window clear as the barges sail away from here.

The last verse and chorus,

As per tradition,

Are hummed rather than sung aloud.

Their voices together lift toward the moon and stars,

Spiraling along the smoke from the campfire to the opening in the trees.

You blink away the moisture in your eyes and let fall your gaze around the circle.

At first,

Nothing seems out of the ordinary at all.

There are the same shining faces,

Bright and humming in delicate harmony,

But they're not the same faces.

The ones you look upon now,

Under the spell of the song,

Are flush with youth.

The voices ring with a childish lightness.

You look down at your own hands,

Small and soft.

You turn to Maya,

Who sways as she hums,

Looking not a day older than on the first day you met.

Fresh freckles across her nose and chipped pink nail polish on her fingers.

Cole,

Too,

Is younger again.

His wire-frame spectacles,

Perched on his nose,

Are bound together at the bridge with duct tape.

You remember the summer he broke them during a capture-the-flag tournament and his parents had to mail him an emergency pair.

And indeed,

Every person around the campfire appears now as their childhood self.

Each of them a thing of absolute wonder,

Even in their innocence and awkwardness.

In the glow of firelight,

Every eye sparkles.

Every note of song reverberates.

You can feel intensely the bonds of childhood friendship here,

Like strings that run taut across the hazel grove,

Holding you securely together in this perfect moment in time.

And then,

With the final strum of the guitar,

Something in the air relaxes,

And the spell is broken.

The campfire companions resume their grown-up guises,

Yet still retaining the sparkle in their eyes.

What a funny thing it is to be young,

You reflect.

To be at once so sure of yourself,

And at the same time so unsteady,

So constantly in change.

To feel deeply that any moment may be the most important of your life.

It's only much later in life that you come to realize that those cherished moments really were as significant as you thought.

You remain with your friends around the fire for a good long time,

As a waning crescent moon arcs across the sky and over the grove,

Accompanied by glittering constellations.

Warmth tingles in your toes and fingertips.

Warmth from the fire,

From within,

And from the spirit of good company.

After what feels like many hours,

And yet somehow seems too soon,

You rise from the campfire,

Say your good night,

And depart with coal and maya toward Horseshoe Bend.

Another song is echoing in the night,

A parting song,

Soft and low,

As the fire dies.

I want to linger a little longer,

A little longer here with you,

Those who walk with you,

Utter quiet farewells as they split off toward their cabins and campsites,

Until it's just the three of you,

Musketeers that were,

Climbing the gentle evergreen slope toward Horseshoe Bend.

Cicada song swells over an exquisite veil of quiet,

Only your feet crunching on gravel disturbs the peace,

A black glimmer of lake through the partings in the trees.

There's so much to look forward to tomorrow,

But you have a feeling that tonight will be the one you remember years from now,

The youthful spell of song and the campfire,

The brief moment in which you inhabited a body long forgotten.

You'll look back in the future when again your cells have shed and regenerated and wonder if that was really you.

What a wonder,

You think,

To spend a weekend reminiscing about the good old days,

Only to realize that they never truly ended,

Shuffling,

Sluggish,

To cabin four,

The exertion of the day at last catches up to you.

It will be nice to crawl into your bunk and fall asleep to the sound of cicadas in the night,

Before stepping inside the cabin,

However,

You stop and pull something wrapped in paper napkins from the pocket of your coat.

You unfold the napkins and place it gingerly upon the cabin's bottom step,

A s'more lightly smushed,

But still appetizing enough,

An offering of thanks to the horseshoe bend brownies or whatever benevolent spirit watches over this place.

It's a place of rare magic,

You think,

One that forges friendships that are lifelong,

That restores youth while celebrating the way life changes,

That welcomes mischief and wonder to last a whole life long,

Snuggled among the blankets and fresh linens inside your beloved cabin four.

You drift off to the sounds of nature,

A whippoorwill sings a distant lullaby,

You dream of barges on the lake cutting through the glassy water,

But in the dream it's not water at all,

The countless tiny tumbled moonstones that shift like sand or waves and the lake of moonstone stretches on beyond the horizon,

Expanding outward into an ever undulating sea,

Breathe deeply,

Relaxing,

Softening,

Sinking deeper with each exhale,

Bring your awareness to the sensation of your body,

To the points of contact with your surface,

That which is grounded,

Breathe into those spaces,

Allowing the breath to fill you up with peaceful light,

Then cleanse your mind and body on the exhale,

Find some stillness and peace and listen to my voice as I guide you in rotation of consciousness.

When I say the name of a body part,

Bring your awareness to that part of the body,

Relaxing it or imagining it lighting up as if a flashlight is shining on it,

Then move on to the next part.

As I say it aloud,

We begin with the right hand thumb,

Index finger,

Middle finger,

Ring finger,

Pinky finger,

The space between the fingers,

Right hand palm,

Back of the hand,

Wrist,

Forearm,

Elbow,

Upper arm,

Shoulder,

Right side of the chest,

Right side of the waist,

Right hip,

Thigh,

Right knee,

Right lower leg,

Ankle,

Heel,

Sole of the foot,

Top of the foot,

Right big toe,

Second toe,

Third toe,

Fourth toe,

Fifth toe,

The space between each of the toes,

Feel the whole right side of the body.

Now move to the left hand thumb,

Index finger,

Middle finger,

Ring finger,

Pinky finger,

The space between the fingers,

Left hand palm,

Back of the hand,

Wrist,

Forearm,

Elbow,

Upper arm,

Shoulder,

Left side of the chest,

Left side of the waist,

Left hip,

Thigh,

Knee,

Lower leg,

Ankle,

Heel,

Sole of the foot,

Top of the foot,

Left big toe,

Second toe,

Third toe,

Fourth toe,

Fifth toe,

The space between each of the toes,

Feel the whole left side of the body,

Feel both sides of the body together,

Now move awareness to the throat,

The neck,

The jaw,

The sides of the face,

The mouth,

The nose,

The eyes,

Eyebrows,

The forehead,

The temples,

The crown of the head,

And the scalp.

Feel the whole body,

The whole body,

The whole body.

From this place of relaxation and peace,

Take a moment to thank your body for carrying you through the ages of life,

Adapting,

Responding to your world,

Your environment,

And all the seasons.

Think of your body as a trusted friend,

One who's always been with you,

Entwined with your soul,

Changing,

Always,

Receding and renewing,

Your vessel on the waters of existence.

Give thanks,

Breathe,

Relax,

Good night.

Reviews

Great story, great reading, great sleep!

I really enjoyed this one I loved summer camp it was a camp counselor for 3 years running a reunion would have been fantastic

Awesome 😎

Thank you for your tale about the “legendary American summer camp”…🙏🏻🌟🦋🌟🙏🏻

Very nice, I love how descriptive and detailed the stories are. 💕💕