Spirit Of The Pumpkin Patch

In tonight’s folklore-inspired bedtime story, while the leaves turn and autumn settles around you, you enjoy the fruits of your very own pumpkin patch. As you savor the fall weather and view from your porch, you notice a strange dancing light over the pumpkin patch. Investigating further, you learn that this curious light is, in fact, a wandering spirit looking for a home. Your compassion stirs, and you carve your finest pumpkin into a jack-o-lantern for the spirit to inhabit. If you’re still awake at the end of the story, I’ll guide you through a soothing meditation for nourishing your inner light. Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Cosmic Dreams by Bruce Brus, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Embrace the coziness and folklore of autumn 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.

Listen to my voice for as long as it serves you,

And whenever 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 soothing meditation for nourishing your inner light.

In tonight's story,

While the leaves turn and autumn settles around you,

You enjoy the fruits of your very own pumpkin patch.

As you savor the fall weather and view from your porch,

You notice a strange dancing light over the pumpkin patch.

Investigating further,

You learn that this curious light is,

In fact,

A wandering spirit looking for a home.

Your compassion stirs,

And you carve your finest pumpkin into a jack-o'-lantern for the spirit to inhabit.

Moon has dusks for walls,

October's days for a floor,

Crickets for rooms,

Windy halls.

Only one night is her door,

Annie Finch,

Moon from the porch.

The slanted light of autumn afternoon is something to be savored.

It falls golden on the crossing of paths,

Sunshine sweeping through the brisk air to warm hands and faces.

So utterly bewitching is the quality of light and the sound of crisp leaves spun up in a spiral in the wind,

The scent of cinnamon and cider on the air.

To walk in autumn is to always feel yourself on the edge of another world,

Poised upon the liminal.

Indeed,

You think it is the very brevity of the season,

Its status as a transitional moment,

A brief pause between the collective inhale of summer and the exhale of winter that makes it sparkle so.

They say that the approach to All Hallows Eve is a time when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest.

You can feel that acutely.

One could step lightly on the crooked beams of autumnal light and slip,

You think,

Right into another world.

On this sweet October afternoon,

The moon,

In the shape of a reaping sickle,

Is already present in the pale sky.

You wouldn't have noticed,

Except that as you passed,

A little boy of no more than three threw his arms to the sky and cried out,

The moon,

The moon,

For his mother and father to see.

This is a beloved playground for the little ones and families in the fall.

The sprawling,

Many-acre property offers endless delights for the season.

Hay rides till dusk,

A winding corn maze perfect for getting irrevocably lost in,

An apple orchard with all kinds of varieties ripe for the picking,

And of course,

Your domain,

The region's most magnificent pumpkin patch.

Across its gentle slopes lie tangled vines punctuated with the most perfect pumpkins imaginable.

They come in many shapes,

Colors,

And sizes,

From plump and spherical sugar pie pumpkins to massive carving specimens,

And lumpy heirloom squash varieties for decorating stoops and porches everywhere.

Visitors come for the thrill of picking their own pumpkins,

And for the evocative backdrop for family photos.

Today,

The weather's been kind,

The first truly brisk autumn day,

But ever so clear.

So you've seen record-breaking,

Besweatered crowds since the morning,

But closing time approaches.

The days are getting shorter after all,

And visitors must be out before the first strands of violet dusk climb over the horizon.

Already they've begun to filter toward the exit and the other attractions,

Carrying their pumpkins,

Their bushels of apples,

And their half-empty bags of kettle corn.

You genuinely enjoy the hubbub of the fall festivals,

But you have to admit it's a relief to see the families depart.

After a long day of work,

You're itching to put on a kettle of tea and relax.

Soon enough,

The last of the stragglers board the bouncing wagon,

Strewn with bales of hay,

And disappear over the hill.

Dusk is settling with just a hint of moisture in the air.

And a few early stars make their appearance in the sky,

Twinkling attendance to the silver scimitar of moon.

Your charming cottage awaits at the edge of the pumpkin patch,

Bordered behind by thick and tangled woods.

On your approach,

You notice the silhouettes of two large black birds huddled together conspiratorially on the edge of the roof.

You've seen this pair before,

And even nicknamed them Hoogan and Moonen,

Thought and memory.

After the pair of ravens sacred to the Norse god Odin.

But are these ravens or crows,

You wonder.

You've never quite been able to tell them apart.

You smile,

Recalling something you once heard on the subject,

A crow is a bird with a big black beak.

A raven is a beak with a big black bird.

As you get closer,

The birds,

Whatever they may be,

Croak loudly and retreat in a thunder of wings.

During the day,

Your home serves as a favorite backdrop for family portraits,

Given that you always do it up with the most abundant natural decoration,

Wreaths of apples and autumn leaves,

A cascade of pumpkins and heirloom squash up and down the stairs.

You wouldn't be exaggerating if you called it the cutest,

Coziest cottage in the world.

On crisp fall evenings like this,

You picture yourself as the consummate hermit or the friendly witch of the woodside.

The cinnamon-infused besom just inside the doorway brings home that picture and enlivens your senses as you enter the little house.

It's amazing what just a simple doorway can do,

Just by stepping across the threshold,

Moving from the outer world to your inner sanctuary.

It's as if a magical transition takes place.

You move into a softer,

More effortless version of yourself simply by stepping inside.

You feel your shoulders drop and your face slacken,

Releasing all tension and strain With an audible sigh,

Your sofa and the hearth look oh so inviting,

And you love to kick off your shoes and light a flyer,

But you have company coming tomorrow,

And you promised them a pie with one of your prized pumpkins.

So into the kitchen you go to set about baking one.

You've done yourself a few favors already by making the dough for the pie crust ahead of time and pre-pureeing the pumpkin.

You roll out the dough methodically,

Leaning into the rolling pin to achieve a perfectly thin crust.

Baking has always been a meditative act for you,

Though it requires precision and attention to detail.

You live for the little bit of room in every project,

For creativity,

The delicate balance of spices to amplify the flavor of the fruit,

The shaped cutouts in the crust to add a decorative flourish to the dessert.

As you mix the custard,

You take a deep whiff of each of the spices,

Cinnamon,

Nutmeg,

Clove,

And allspice.

Savoring the evocative fragrance of hull,

You pour it into the pie shell,

Watching the spiced mixture form ribbons and settle gently to stillness.

As the pie bakes,

You carefully clean the kitchen,

Wiping down the countertops and dusting excess flour into the wastebasket.

There's a little bit of straightening to do in the sitting room,

But it's nothing much,

And it's an easy way to pass the time while the dessert bakes.

Finally,

When its enticing aroma fills the cottage and the timer dings,

You remove the piping hot pie from the oven and set it on the counter to cool.

With that out of the way,

You can finally put on that kettle of tea.

It comes to steaming quickly.

You pour the hot water over an infuser of loose herbs and leaves,

Immediately releasing their scent on the air to mingle with those in the pie.

Oh,

How good it feels to clutch the mug between your hands,

Feeling the warmth seep through,

Putting on a cozy knitted sweater.

You retire with your cup of tea to the porch,

Where the air is just brisk,

But not quite cold.

The perfect fall evening,

You think,

Sitting down in a rocker.

The splinter of moon has risen higher in the sky,

And a great sweep of stars now twinkle down upon the pumpkin patch,

Their light just bright enough to delicately illuminate the tops of the many pumpkins.

What a kingdom,

You think,

What a realm to oversee,

One of mischief and family fun,

Of abundance and hard,

Hard work.

Sinking back into your rocker,

You allow your body to embrace the subtle sway.

The steam from the tea rises in swirls,

Climbing the cool air of the night.

Crickets are beginning to sing.

The property is well away from any major roads or highways,

So the quiet that settles around you each night is utterly peaceful,

Unpierced by the sounds of cars,

Airplanes,

Or anything man-made.

Only nature hums about you,

The song of the land most alive in the night,

The gentle movement,

The evening breeze,

And the soothing fragrance of the herbal tea are almost enough to send you into a trance or a doze.

You find yourself slipping into a state of deep relaxation and contentment,

And there you stay,

Gently rocking back and forth,

Undisturbed and perfectly at peace,

Until your eye falls upon a curious play of light out there on the pumpkin patch.

At first,

You think it's just the catching of a headlight reflecting from the one twisting country road that runs through the property,

But it's unusual for cars to come this way well after closing time,

And besides,

The light persists long after the flash of headlights would have moved on.

It's not quite like anything you've seen before,

Fireflies and the like.

It's bigger than an insect,

But still,

You think,

Quite small.

It's far enough away that you can't get a perfect estimate of its size,

But you reckon that the little thing would fit in the palm of your hand,

And the way it moves,

Dance-like,

It makes loops and twists in the air,

Just a few feet above the ground,

Curly cues and figure eights,

How funny,

It really is dancing,

Maybe some whirligig toy left behind by one of the visitors today.

You sip your tea,

Eyes fixed on the spectral light,

Making its practiced patterns in the distance,

It seems to be changing color too,

Shifting from an ombre of oranges and yellows to a fluorescent violet with a core of pale blue,

You are utterly transfixed by it,

Mind aflame with curiosity,

But should you approach it,

Finally,

The hesitation dissolves as curiosity wins,

You rise from the rocker,

Leaving your still steaming mug of tea on the windowsill,

And move down the steps of your porch onto the soft,

Spongy soil toward the object,

The entrancing light,

You feel drawn toward it inexorably,

Your footsteps are light,

And the little thing keeps dancing there,

Like a leaf upon a fluttering wind,

But as you come nearer,

You tread upon a few fallen leaves,

Which crackle beneath you,

That very instant,

The dancing light,

As if startled or disturbed by the sound,

Quickly brightens,

Then darts out of sight,

You stop in your tracks,

And search the area with your gaze,

Where can it have gone?

You are about to write the whole thing off as an apparition or illusion,

The moonlight reflecting off your windows,

Or some other phenomenon,

When you notice that one of your pumpkins is sporting a halo,

A hazy aura of golden light rings it,

Faint like a penumbra,

But very real,

It pulses subtly,

You crouch down and slowly inch toward the pumpkin in question,

Leaning over it,

To try and glimpse the source of the light,

Beyond the full orange squash,

There is indeed something hiding,

There it is,

A small,

Amorphous gathering of fire,

Its flames licking gently at the air,

It does not dance as before,

But shudders vaguely,

Its light dimming and recharging,

In a manner like breath,

Inexplicably,

You feel a wave of pity wash over you,

As if this is some lost animal,

Quivering and hiding,

Before you can think better of it,

You utter an inquisitive,

Hello,

Just as before,

When you startled it with the crunching leaves,

The tiny ball of fire swiftly expands,

Its color shifting to a bluish white,

Before softening back to reds and yellows,

Soothing down to its normal size,

Then,

Something truly unexpected happens,

In a rolling and unfolding of flames,

The ball of light opens its eyes,

Strange as it is,

The effect is altogether cute,

A cartoonish face emerges in the center of the fire,

And blinks up at you,

Your heart softens,

It's okay,

You reassure the unlikely creature,

I won't hurt you,

You're not sure why you're moved to say such a thing,

To a being made of fire,

But you do,

All you can think is that it looks lost,

And far be it from you to refuse aid to wanderers,

That's the thing about living beside a pumpkin patch,

And tending to the growth of those seasonal treasures,

You pick up stories,

Folklore and traditions from all over,

The custom of carving jack-o-lanterns comes from a tale of such a wanderer,

Jack,

A trickster,

Outwitted the very spirits of the beyond,

Only to find himself condemned to wander the earth forever,

With only a hollow turnip as a lantern to light his way,

His namesakes are carved and displayed each year at Halloween,

A time when even the least observant among us can sense the thinning of the veil,

The changes in the weather,

The turn toward longer nights and darker days,

Perhaps it's this innate sense you have of the season as a portal that keeps your breath steady now,

And makes it seem all too ordinary,

All too possible for something from another world to have slipped through,

If the little ball of flame is in fact a visitor from someplace beyond,

And it's chosen to manifest here in your pumpkin patch,

Well what are you to do but offer it some comfort,

Can you speak,

You ask the creature,

Unmistakably,

With a kind of rotating flicker,

The thing nods,

Blinking still,

So it can speak,

But it hasn't yet,

You try another question,

Where did you come from,

But to this,

The creature only turns from side to side,

Slowly,

As if searching in vain for the door through which it entered,

Perhaps you think,

To get answers,

You'll have to offer something first,

You start by offering your name,

The creature's eyes widen briefly,

Its flames softening to a pale yellow,

Before returning to the more familiar gradient,

Do you have a name,

You ask,

You're beginning to doubt that the floating fire can really understand you,

But just then,

It begins to change,

The colors shift through a whole spectrum of blues and purples,

And it seems to swirl,

Like liquid stirred in a pot,

Before collapsing,

Solidifying and settling,

It drops from the space of thin air,

Onto the crown of the pumpkin between you,

And though it is still ringed in licking flames,

The creature has assumed a more tangible form,

Before you,

Sits a small lizard-like amphibian,

White as flame,

A salamander,

If you're not mistaken,

And finally,

They speak,

Are you the guardian of this place,

The salamander asks,

Their voice is childlike somehow,

And yet it sings with the wisdom of ages,

Why,

You begin,

I suppose I am,

Though I've never taken that title,

But this is my place,

I live and work here,

The salamander inclines their head toward you,

Almost in the fashion of a bow,

I hope this form does not displease you,

They say,

One never knows,

No,

Not at all,

You say,

But who are you,

A moment later,

You amend your question,

Feeling that it does not come to the heart of your curiosity,

Have we met before,

This causes what appears to be a smile,

To curl across the face of the salamander,

It's quite a pleasing effect,

You've met my brothers and sisters most likely,

There are too many of us to count,

We warm the hearth,

Eat the cauldron,

Spark the movement,

I hope I didn't frighten you,

The salamander continues,

It doesn't usually take me this long to find shelter,

But perhaps,

As you are the guardian,

You can help me,

I will if I can,

You say,

But can you tell me where you've come from,

And what you are,

Ah,

Sighs the salamander,

It may be better if I show you,

Hold out your hand if you will,

Still kneeling in the soil,

You extend a hand toward the creature,

They step gingerly from the top of the pumpkin,

Onto your fingertips,

And into the center of your palm,

You expect warmth,

Even heat,

To emanate from them,

But instead,

All you feel is a soft,

Tickling sensation,

Then,

The salamander changes shape,

Once again assuming the form of a small ball of fire,

And closing their eyes tightly,

As if summoning energy,

The light from within becomes brighter than before,

And more expansive,

Reaching wide from the blue-white core,

To engulf the whole of the pumpkin patch,

Your cottage,

And all your visible surroundings,

The light,

Whites out the sky,

The stars,

And the wisp of a moon,

At first,

It is dazzling,

But as your eyes adjust to the change,

It softens,

All around you is elegant movement,

Organic and unbound,

A play of light and color that calms the mind,

It's as if you stand within a milestone of liquid luminescence,

You reach out with your free hand,

Feeling only slight resistance in the atmosphere,

You stretch through pure and shining ether,

The illusion,

The casting,

Whatever this is,

Remains in place only for a short time,

But the weightlessness you feel,

The sense of pure elation,

Lasts much longer,

Soon,

The ball of fire in the palm of your hand,

Seems to call back the light it extends,

Slowly,

The great engulfment of light and movement recedes,

The night settles once more over the land,

Seeming all the darker for the comparison,

There again are the moon and blinking stars,

And the sweet sounds of crickets humming in the grass,

In your hand is the salamander,

Tender licking flames,

All about them,

You feel a quiet prickle at the back of your neck,

A tingling of understanding,

You recall that salamanders,

The very real but undoubtedly amazing animals,

Have long been given mythic significance,

Long ago,

Before modern biology,

Sought objective truths,

They were thought to be born of flame,

This,

Of course,

Was due to the fact that they liked to make their homes inside of decomposing logs,

When those logs were then lit in the fireplace,

The salamander would flee,

Appearing to have sparked spontaneously into being,

At that very moment,

Do you converse,

You wonder,

With the very spirit of fire,

The very element itself,

But if so,

How did they come to be here,

The creature seems to hear the question,

But you do not speak it aloud,

Each year,

About this time,

A doorway opens,

They say,

And one of us falls through to your world,

We leave our element,

So to speak,

So to speak,

In search of shelter in yours,

We come to light your night,

As they grow longer,

But if I do not find a home,

Before the dark moon,

A place wherein I can spark,

And maintain my embers,

Then I shall be forced to wander this world,

And never return to my own,

The salamander's tail stirs strange emotions within you,

It's as though by holding this creature,

This amphibian of sensitive,

Absorbent skin,

In your hands,

Some of their longing,

And homesickness,

Seeps into you,

You resolve to help,

If you can,

This is why I sought you out,

Guardian,

Says the salamander,

To beseech you,

For shelter,

I could make a fire,

You say,

In the hearth,

That is my home there,

You gesture to the cottage,

Still and silent,

In silhouette,

But I could not stoke it all night,

Or leave it burning as I sleep,

Or work in the field,

You sigh,

The moon is waxing,

So it's another month yet,

Before the dark moon,

Where,

And how,

Can you make a place for a fire,

To safely burn,

All October long,

Your eyes drift across the fields,

The fire creature's predicament brings your thoughts,

Back again,

To the tale of wandering Jack,

Of the lantern,

In whose name children now carve pumpkins,

For Halloween,

Now he too was left to roam the earth,

Till he was nothing but a will of the wisp,

A ghostly light,

To tempt travelers from the path,

But now,

You see what you must do,

And it's so simple,

So sweet,

That you can't believe it wasn't clear before this moment,

There's a reason,

The salamander,

The very spirit of the element of fire,

Was sent here,

Through the autumnal portal,

Why,

When the veil reached its thinnest point,

There was nowhere better in this world to be,

You'll make a home for the spirit,

Of course,

One in which they can smolder,

For a whole season,

If they like,

Come with me,

You say to the spirit,

Who climbs your arm to rest upon your shoulder,

The tiny purple flames gently tickle your ears,

You carry the creature through the rows of the pumpkin patch,

Your kingdom,

Until you find a fresh and suitable specimen,

What do you think,

You ask,

Crouching down beside a large,

Perfectly round pumpkin,

The salamander is pleased,

Carefully,

You detach the pumpkin from its vine,

And carry it back to the porch of your cottage,

You haven't carved a jack-o-lantern yet this season,

In fact,

You were planning to carve the first one tomorrow,

When company joins you,

But this is as good a time as any,

To christen your carving materials,

You refresh your tea,

And gather everything you need on the porch,

Including a warmer sweater,

As the thickening of night has brought in a pleasing autumnal chill,

The spirit,

Resuming the form of a ball of fire,

Looks on inquisitively at your progress,

Occasionally drifting into the same dance-like movement you observed before,

You wonder what they must think of this world of yours,

Of solid things,

And seasons,

Of pumpkins and ravens,

Or crows,

Thoughtfully,

Methodically,

You cut the first hole in the pumpkin,

Removing the crown to reveal the golden insides,

These you scoop thoroughly into a pile,

On a layer of newspaper,

Perhaps you'll save the pumpkin seeds for roasting,

Like most things,

Which require time,

Careful attention to detail,

And just a dash of creativity,

You like this kind of work,

It slows your mind down,

And allows you to soften,

Into repetition and ritual,

As you scrape at the walls of the pumpkin,

Your body remembers how you've done this every year,

Your muscles carry ancestral memory too,

Your mind floods with memories,

Of halloweens,

With family and friends,

Laughter,

Mischief,

And the cloak of safety the holiday casts on the spookiest time of year,

All the while,

You feel the presence and gaze of the little light,

The spirit of fire,

This is a comfort to you more than anything,

The knowledge that by engaging with this old tradition,

This beloved folklore,

You are doing an act of kindness,

Making someone feel welcome and safe in the darkness,

As far as the design of your jack-o-lantern,

This one you keep simple,

The story of wandering jack keeps running through your mind,

And so you elect to carve a simple smiling face on the surface of the pumpkin,

The spirit has no objection to this,

It's very fitting,

They agree,

The moon travels as you work,

Bending across the sky,

Along its predetermined arc,

The time passes peacefully,

With small conversation between you and the spirit,

They tell you of their brethren,

Of their brethren,

The fire people,

There are spirits of water too,

And air and earth,

You wonder aloud if those other essential spirits ever slip into this world,

And if they too must seek aid from its inhabitants,

These are mysteries,

You feel strange delight at your window into them tonight,

You feel grateful that you are here to witness them,

When at last your work is complete,

And a face smiles from the hollowed out pumpkin,

You present it to the spirit,

The orb of fire takes a place inside the jack-o-lantern,

And their light seems to brighten just a bit more,

Once within,

It shines through the open spaces,

Sending sweet illumination outward,

A glowing lantern,

To show you the way,

To keep your home safe,

To light the night in this time of darkness,

It may well keep until the dark moon,

You say with a grin,

But if it doesn't,

There are plenty more to take its place,

Here you gesture to the abundant field of pumpkins behind you,

Each one beautiful,

Nourishing and life-giving in its own right,

The spirit sparks and smolders in their new home on your porch,

Happy and secure,

They smile through the jack-o-lantern,

The spirit offers you sincere gratitude,

And promises that for the rest of your life,

You will be blessed,

And now with the moon high and distant,

It is time for you to rest,

At last you succumb to the call of comforts within the cottage,

Passing magically under the lentil,

The scent of spice and pastry lingers still in the homely air,

Tracing spirals,

Feeling fuzzy and light,

You retire to your bedroom,

Where extra blankets await to warm you against the onset of colder weather,

You sink into the mattress,

Snuggling deep against the pillows of your bed,

You are asleep,

Only moments after your eyes fall closed in your dreams,

Guardian of the pumpkin patch,

You swim through pure and cleansing ether,

Dancing like the element of fire,

Chaotic and unbound beyond the doorway,

The magical doorway,

The spirit of an ember burns,

Cozily contained within their new home,

Somewhere in the woods,

A pair of crows or ravens roost in the branches of a sycamore tree,

The crickets sing,

The moon extends a shimmering curtain of silver light across the rows of the great pumpkin patch,

She waxes as the year wanes,

The portal to a new season is open,

Take a deep breath in and slowly exhale,

As you breathe out feel yourself sink,

Relaxing your muscles and letting go of any tension or strain,

Breathe,

Feeling the breath travel down your throat all the way down into your belly,

Relax the muscles of the face,

The forehead,

The jaw especially,

Notice if you're furrowing your brow or clenching your teeth and gently let that go,

Let your breath feed relaxation into your body and carry away any excess tension cleansing you,

Now bring your awareness to this space just above your navel,

Sometimes called the solar plexus,

And send your breath to this space,

Feeling your belly expand and contract on the inhale and exhale,

If you like,

Visualize this space and your breath as an orb of light or a spark of flame with a white core and yellow or orange halo which brightens or radiates on the inhale and dims or diminishes on the exhale,

In,

Brighter,

Fuller,

Out,

Dimmer,

Smaller,

Feed the flame with your inhale and let it recede,

Recharge on the exhale.

In your mind's eye,

As you continue to breathe naturally,

Notice the quality of the light,

Does it flicker and dance or is it a constant diffuse glow,

Notice the sensations of your breath,

Cool on the inhale and warm on the exhale,

This sensation might extend throughout the whole of your body,

Sending warmth and relaxation throughout as the light expands and contracts,

This is your inner fire,

Your inner light,

This is the very essence of your spirit,

It may burn very bright at times and at others,

It may only be an ember but it sustains you,

Warms you,

And shines through you no matter what,

Remember that it is a cycle of wintering and regeneration,

Just like the seasons of the earth,

The beauty and nature of fire is its resilience,

Like you,

It breathes,

Responds to its environment and experiences its own patterns of thriving and wintering.

The magical thing about fire is that if you give it to someone else,

By lighting their candle with the flame of your own,

Your fire will still burn just as bright,

It doesn't diminish,

Just like kindness.

Keep breathing,

Imagining the ball of light or fire breathing with you,

Let your body soften into the radiant light within.

Hold this warmth as you approach the threshold of sleep tonight,

And carry it with you into your days,

Nourishing your inner light,

Letting it shine through you,

Lighting your path,

Lighting the night,

And allowing it to kindle the flames of the ones you love,

Radiate love,

Kindness,

And gratitude as you move forward into a season of long nights of harvest,

Hospitality,

And grace.

Good night.

Reviews

I love that there are stories that are for the autumn, this is just beautiful. As always I fell asleep long before it finished. What I did hear was calming, beautifully written and read. Thank you so much 🙏

That was amazing, as ALWAYS! The meditation was absolutely beautiful at the end too! I am so inspired by you.

There is something about a 🎃 patch or a field of 🎃 in all shapes types & sizes. This was a lovely journey I took with you Laurel, Thankyou, so much. Léna 😘🙏🐱🐱🐨

Full of lovely imagery for the senses, this is a fantastic autumnal experience with which to drift away to sleep.
🎃🍂🍁🧡

Gorgeous companion on a sleepless night— such a lovely seasonal tale 🍁🍂🎃