The Crane Maiden | Folklore-Inspired Bedtime Tale

In this bedtime story, you are a poor woodcutter who discovers a wounded crane on your way home from the market. You care for the bird, nursing it back to health until it can fly again. Shortly after the crane departs, a woman arrives at your doorstep seeking a place to stay. The woman repays your hospitality with mysterious and seemingly magical gifts, which bring you great wealth.

As your fortunes change, you become more and more curious about your house guest – until you discover her connection to the crane you once cared for. This tale is lovingly adapted from the Japanese folktale “The Crane’s Return of a Favor.” Followed by a meditation for gratitude and love.

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Dream Focus Beta Waves by Mandala Dreams, Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Connect with the energy of the crane in tonight's bedtime story,

Inspired by Japanese folklore.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and fall asleep,

Knowing you can always come back in the morning.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a soothing meditation for gratitude and love.

In tonight's story,

You are a poor woodcutter who discovers a wounded crane on your way home from the market.

You care for the bird,

Nursing it back to health until it can fly again.

Shortly after the crane departs,

A woman arrives at your doorstep,

Seeking a place to stay.

The woman repays your hospitality with mysterious and seemingly magical gifts which bring you great wealth.

As your fortunes change,

You become more and more curious about your houseguest until you discover her connection to the crane you once cared for.

This tale is lovingly adapted from the Japanese folktale,

The Crane's Return of a Favor.

The crane is so elegant in all its movements that many a young woman who moves gracefully will hear people referring to her as the bird that rises up from the water without muddying the stream.

Maria Tatar,

The Grateful Crane The snow is softly falling,

The first snow of the season.

You pull your coat tight,

Folding your arms over your chest for warmth.

Your breath crystallizes into plumes of mist in the chilly air.

Through the bracing cold,

You smile tenderly,

For the shape of your breath reminds you of soft pillows and steam rising from the teapot.

Oh,

What you would give for a warm bed of finest down to sink into after a long,

Wintry day at the market.

Well,

Home is not much further now,

And you can shake away the chill with what few comforts you can afford.

There's a beauty,

Also,

To the flurries of snow that fall through the breaks in the bare tree branches.

They gather in small patches across the forest floor like breadcrumbs,

Leading you home.

It was,

By all accounts,

A successful day.

You sold all the firewood you brought to the market,

Though you were compelled to lower your price.

You return now with a modest sum in your pocket,

But you are grateful for the reprieve of not needing to carry home the additional weight of unsold supply.

You trudge on through the woods that lie between the village and your little house,

Holding gratitude in your heart for the little blessings of your life.

A silver moon,

Full and low-hanging,

Lights your way.

By the time you reach home,

The snow has picked up,

Accumulating more evenly,

And as you emerge,

Emerge from the dense wood,

You find a blanket of frost over the clearing.

It is soft as feathers beneath your boots.

You release a visible sigh,

Thinking of the fire you'll light once you get inside.

Here,

The moon is so large,

It seems to sag toward the ground,

You could almost reach up and touch it.

In the pearly glow it casts,

The snow seems iridescent,

And your home even more inviting.

But something stops you from hurrying inside and immediately lighting a fire,

For there before you,

Just paces from your door,

And almost obscured in the white of the snow,

Is a slumped figure.

For a moment,

You think it might be a person,

Cloaked in white furs,

But it soon becomes clear that the thing is animal.

You hesitate,

Unsure whether the creature is alive,

And if so,

Whether it poses a danger to you.

But then it stirs,

Softly,

And raises its head,

And a feeling of sheer empathy and devotion washes over you,

Except for a brilliant patch of red upon its brow,

And markings of black along its neck and wings.

The creature's feathers are purest white,

Whiter even than the freshly fallen snow.

And with reverence,

You behold it,

So elegant and delicate,

A bird so beautiful it might be poetry sprung to life,

A crane.

With careful footsteps and an open hand,

You approach the crane.

You've heard wondrous stories of them over the years,

Seen works of art depicting them,

Their silhouettes on the sky in migration,

But you've never observed one so close.

You recall your father,

A masterful spinner of stories,

Telling you that the crane can live a thousand years,

And that to see one is a blessed omen of future success and a long life.

Looking into the bird's eyes now,

You feel an inner warmth,

An uncanny sense of rightness,

As if she brings reassurance.

You are on the right path,

The crane's eyes seem to sing,

But now you discover the reason for her presence,

So very near your doorstep.

As you approach,

You spot the arrow protruding from the bird's wing.

Your face falls,

And you instantly drop to your knees beside the crane.

Who would shoot down such a magnificent creature,

You wonder,

Tears leaping to your eyes,

And why does the crane stay silent?

How strange that she does not cry out or struggle in pain,

But only lies here,

Seeming to accept her fate.

Under the low-slung moon,

You resolve to help the creature.

You cannot let the poor thing die at your door.

You know little about caring for animals,

But living alone as a woodcutter,

You've learned to manage pain and injury over the years.

Uttering soft words of reassurance,

You scoop up the wounded crane in your arms.

She lets out a noise like a whimper,

But then is silent again as you carry her into the house.

With a fire kindling in the fireplace,

Your hands warm up enough to work.

You carefully remove the arrow from the crane's wing and dress the wound,

Quietly cursing the hunters who caused her calamity.

She is calm and docile,

Resting peacefully on the floor.

You offer rice and buckwheat to her,

And she musters the strength to eat.

You prepare your own meager supper and sit beside her near the fire while you eat.

It is almost like sharing a meal with a loved one.

You find yourself conversing with her,

And though she remains silent,

Her glassy eyes seem to communicate understanding.

It's almost like having a friend.

As the night ages,

You watch her demeanor change and her energy gradually return,

A miraculous recovery given the severity of her injury.

You cannot bring yourself to leave the crane alone,

And so you gather blankets and curl up for sleep on the floor.

The fire embers glimmer in reflection across her powder white feathers.

Outside,

The snow falls heavy,

Obscuring the dark night.

You slip sweetly to sleep,

The ache in your muscles from the long day melting into oblivion.

You wake just before dawn to the rhythmic sound of tapping.

Stirring for a moment,

You forget why you slept here on the floor.

But when you open your eyes,

You see the source of the noise.

In the hazy,

Subtlest suggestion of sunrise,

The crane is on her feet,

Tapping her beak against the windows and door.

She shuffles from side to side on long,

Narrow black legs,

Her wings twitching and folding.

Every now and then she emits a little trill of a call.

Even in a state of seeming agitation,

You note,

She is a being of such exquisite grace.

And how remarkable that she is back on her feet so soon,

With energy and vigor,

And evidently ready to return to the outside.

You get to your feet and go to the door,

Approaching her carefully so as not to startle her.

Then,

Opening wide the door,

You watch her go swiftly out into the falling snow.

She leaves tracks in the drifts,

Moving nimbly toward the woods,

And then she pauses.

You behold her silhouette,

Framed in the doorway under the blushing dawn.

She opens wide her wingspan,

With only mild hesitation in the injured wing.

From here,

You can see no wound,

Though it may be only the light that fools you.

And she looks back,

Turning her neck to face you.

What a tranquil feeling floats along the line of her gaze,

A sense of warm accomplishment,

A depth of gratitude,

A natural peace.

A moment later,

Her balletic form departs,

Showing no signs of pain or discomfort.

Her feathers kissed by sunrise,

Her wings outstretched,

You swear never to forget the beauty of her silhouette against the dawn.

You watch until she is no more than a speck in the eastern sky.

She exits your life as swiftly as she entered it,

Leaving behind no trace or evidence of her presence.

Still the feeling lingers,

The sense of peace,

And the instinct that somehow your fortunes are about to change.

The world goes on,

Despite the feeling that yours has,

For an evening stood unnaturally still.

You are back at the markets from morning to late,

Each day grateful even for the small sums you bring home.

Your boots are wearing thin,

You realize,

As the season slides into a deeper cold.

You count coins,

Hoping you can replace them,

While you warm your feet by the fire at the end of another long day.

Days pass,

A week,

Then another,

And in the monotony of your existence,

You begin to wonder whether the crane's visit ever truly happened,

Or if you dreamt it,

Or planted the memory within yourself to give your life greater meaning and purpose.

You return to it in your mind each night,

Summoning the feeling of unexplained contentment that came with her,

That you cling to in her absence.

Now,

A fortnight since her arrival with the first flurries of winter,

Snow lies thick upon the forest floor and the clearing that surrounds your cottage.

You sit,

Awash with exhaustion beside a dying fire as night falls,

And all is quiet save the crackling embers.

When first you hear the gentle sound of tapping,

You imagine it's the memory,

Once again,

Of the crane's visit,

Casting illusions in your waking life the way it invades your dreams.

You breathe in deeply and try to shake away the hallucination,

But still you hear tapping at your front door.

You stand and go to investigate,

Sure that it's merely a fallen branch tussled by the wind,

Or some other inanimate thing.

When you open the door,

Greeted by a gust of cold wind,

You see the last sight you ever expected on a night such as this.

She is lit only by the pale and waning moon and the smattering of stars in a cloudless sky.

A woman stands before you,

Her hair and shoulders dusted with snow,

Her cheeks are flushed with cold,

And her hair,

Dark as the sky overhead,

Shines almost blue in the moonlight.

She is tall and refined,

With high cheekbones and sharp features you might have called severe,

Or they draped in brighter light.

But in the diffuse glow of the moon,

Her stately elegance is not intimidating,

But awe-inspiring,

As if you gaze upon the countenance of some ethereal creature,

A wandering spirit out of folktales.

When she speaks,

There is a tremulousness to her voice that seems at odds with her stature.

She had to leave her village,

She explains,

After a fire destroyed her home.

She has traveled far in search of a place to stay and work,

And every other soul she's met has turned her away.

The nights grow so cold now,

And she fears to spend another without shelter.

Your heart aches for the lady,

And while you gladly offer the warmth of your home for the night,

You forewarn her that you have little else to offer.

You couldn't pay her to work,

And you haven't much food to share.

At this,

Her eyes brighten,

And from beneath her cloak,

She produces a modest-sized cloth bag.

It contains,

She says,

All the sustenance you'll both need.

And as for work,

She wants no payment from you,

Only a safe place to practice her craft of weaving.

In exchange for your hospitality,

Anything she earns from selling her product,

She'll share with you.

She speaks these terms with such confidence and certainty,

It's as if you've already agreed to them.

But terms aside,

Your gentle heart can no longer take the sight of her shivering on the doorstep.

You swing the door wide and invite the lady in.

Slung on her back is a small loom.

The crystals of snow on her shoulders melt in the warmth from the fading fire.

Can any of us ever truly know the exact moment our lives changed forever?

Looking back,

Can we pinpoint the singular event or choice that sent us spiraling helplessly toward our fate?

For you,

It is the moment she stepped over the threshold into your home.

You know it as it's happening,

Even without the benefit of hindsight.

You sense that everything in your past has led to her coming,

And that all your future hinges on her arrival in your life.

Her name is Tsuru,

And though she brings but few belongings into your woodland cottage,

You come to think of her as a bestower of many gifts.

Her gratitude for your hospitality manifests immediately.

She cooks for you each night,

Taking handfuls of rice from the small bag,

Which despite its size,

Is never a grain closer to empty.

And she spends her days sequestered in a separate chamber,

Working at her loom.

When she is finished,

She hopes you'll take her work to the market to sell,

Though she requires complete privacy to work.

She is very detail-oriented,

And the thread extremely fine,

She explains,

So she begs you never to enter the chamber and distract her while she weaves.

You come to genuinely cherish her company.

Most market days,

You come home to find that she is still locked away at the loom,

Even as the moon rises.

But still,

You share a meal each night by the fire.

Sometimes she will leave her work behind for a few hours and accompany you to the wood,

Where you gather fallen branches and fell dying trees.

She doesn't speak much,

But even silence shared between you feels comfortable,

As if you don't need to speak to understand each other.

You hadn't realized you were lonely here until now,

Until you found a friend.

Many days pass in peace and contentment before Tsuru at last emerges from her workroom,

Carrying a roll of cloth.

She has worked from dawn to nightfall,

And she looks thin and weary as she brings it to you.

But your eyes flick immediately from her face to the textile in her hands,

For in the firelight,

Its appearance is captivating.

It is a fabric so white,

It might be woven of snow and starlight,

Seeming to generate an inner glow.

Tsuru holds it toward you,

And you reach out to touch the cloth.

Beneath your hand it is softer than the finest silk,

Softer indeed than any substance you've ever touched.

What is this miraculous textile,

You wonder aloud,

And your guest beams.

It's a technique perfected within her family,

A secret she'll never share or sell away.

You marvel at the quality of the work,

The nearly invisible warp,

The shining softness and warmth of the cloth.

The next day you take the roll of fabric to market,

Along with as many bundles of firewood as you can bear.

The sky is streaked with thin clouds,

Softening the morning sun.

The snow on the forest floor is partially hardened,

Adding a greater challenge to the journey,

Especially in your worn boots.

You arrive,

Knowing you carry something of worth,

But you have no frame of reference for the weaving,

What to ask,

What to settle for.

Throughout the morning you furtively observe the textile merchants at their stalls,

Listening to their negotiations.

But nothing sold here comes close to the finery of Tsuru's cloth.

You begin to show the piece to your customers,

Encouraging them to feel the fabric and tell you if they've ever known a substance so soft,

So warm,

And so pleasing to look upon.

You're met with the same awe and curiosity from every patron as you displayed on first seeing the material.

Soon the textile merchants catch wind.

One beckons you over to show him the sample.

He beholds it with wonder and declares it a masterpiece.

It must,

He insists,

Have been made by one with the nimblest fingers,

The finest thread,

And many years of training.

Who is this master weaver,

The merchant pleads with you,

And what is the secret of their technique?

When you will share nothing of the origin of the cloth,

Only that you barter on the behalf of the weaver,

The merchant leans in close and mutters a price.

Your heart leaps.

It is more than you would take home in a week,

Selling only firewood.

You are about to accept when you catch a glint of avaricious desire in the merchant's eye,

And it occurs to you that the cloth may indeed be worth even more.

You set your feet,

Look the merchant in his greedy face,

And counter with a higher number.

After some disagreement,

The merchant begrudgingly meets your price and exchanges a purse of coins for the textile.

You watch him run his hands across the fabric,

Inspecting the fineness of the weave.

What a gift your new houseguest has given you.

You return home in the evening,

Wearing new,

Warm boots.

Your purse is heavier,

But your heart infinitely lighter.

When Tsuru greets you,

You shower her with thanks and praise,

Delivering her portion of the money.

She must make more,

You urge,

And your lives are sure to change.

Tsuru smiles demurely and agrees,

Reminding you to grant her absolute privacy.

Back she goes to weaving.

Day in and day out,

She hides in her workroom and toils at the loom.

A few days later,

She emerges with another roll of the exquisite cloth,

Just as lovely and fine as the first.

By now,

Many eyes have seen the marvelous material and word has spread of its rarity.

With winter deepening,

Demand increases for high-quality,

Warm fabrics with which to make coats and blankets.

You manage to negotiate an even greater sum for the textile on your next market day.

Soon,

You no longer need to carry bundles of firewood through the forest.

You bring only bolts of the miraculous cloth,

Which feels lighter than air,

Over your shoulder.

You use your earnings to buy Tsuru a larger loom,

Which will make her work easier and more efficient.

In fact,

As your wealth blossoms,

You buy her many things,

Jewels and furs and other adornments.

As the snow melts and winter begins to give way to the first suggestion of spring,

Your life looks entirely different from the start of the season.

And as your life changes,

As you leave behind the exhausting labor of woodcutting,

Your tastes change too.

You begin to embellish your home with the most elegant furnishings,

Things you'd never have looked at before.

You indulge in luxuries for the first time.

And you have the all-giving Tsuru to thank,

She who works tirelessly to produce the most sublime material.

Of all the doorsteps she might have approached seeking shelter from the cold,

She arrived at yours and transformed everything.

One evening,

You come home later than usual.

A full moon lights your way.

You spent long hours at the tailor,

Designing and fitting beautiful garments for yourself and Tsuru,

Made with the wondrous textile.

You intend to give her the garment as a gift after supper,

But when you arrive,

She is not there to greet you as she normally does.

There is a gently flickering light shining through the screen door of her workroom,

You discover,

Still at the loom even now.

Probably you think,

She'll come out soon,

She must be hungry,

Perhaps she's lost track of time in the intensity of her craft.

You prepare supper for two and await her emergence,

But an hour passes without a hint of her finishing.

You wonder if she's fallen asleep at the loom.

You stand beside the door,

Listening intently for the sounds of her working.

You think you hear faint rustles and taps,

But you can't be sure.

If she has fallen asleep,

You ought to go in and put out the candle at least,

If not carry her to her bed.

But if she's weaving still,

You'd be breaking your promise never to enter when she's at work.

You hesitate and change your mind,

And change it again.

What is the worst that could happen if you went in,

You think?

If it caused her hands to slip at the weaving,

It might make a flaw in the fabric,

But it's only fabric,

More can always be made.

Along with a growing concern for Tsuru's safety,

You feel a mounting curiosity.

Every market day the textile merchants pester you to reveal the secrets of the weaver's technique.

None can figure it out by inspecting the cloth,

No matter how much they buy.

And some have offered you unimaginable sums if you'll only give up the secret.

You wouldn't betray Tsuru,

Who's been so generous and such a warm presence in your life.

But you can't say you've never wondered yourself how she weaves such stunning creations.

Can any of us ever truly know the exact moment our lives are about to change forever?

A singular choice that will send us spiraling helplessly toward our fate.

For you it is the moment you slide the door open,

Silently,

And only an inch,

As if you're powerless to resist your curiosity.

You know in your bones,

As you peer through the opening,

That nothing will ever be the same again.

Yet you cannot stop yourself from looking.

In the throw of the candlelight,

You behold the most extraordinary scene.

The enormous loom towers over the figure seated on the floor,

Draped in silk.

Tsuru's legs are folded beneath her,

And her fingers work with a striking precision.

Her black hair falls down her back,

And her robe hangs loose,

Exposing a shoulder.

And from that shoulder sprout feathers of purest white,

Like starlight or snow.

You watch,

Wonder-struck,

As she plucks a feather and lets it fall to the ground beside her,

Floating softly to land in a pile of like feathers.

Her movements are fluid,

And you begin to recognize a pattern.

One hand is always at the shuttle,

Moving the thread through.

And with the other,

She plucks a feather at a time,

Or picks one up from the floor,

Feeding the loom with the wispy threads.

By some magic,

Those impossibly fine wisps appear to naturally entwine with one another,

Forming a tight bond,

Like snowflakes melting together and hardening to ice.

Tsuru's robe sags further down her back,

Revealing skin that transitions seamlessly to more white feathers.

Entranced by the dance of her hands,

And the mythic majesty of her form,

And the immaculate beauty of the emergent textile,

You feel a flutter of understanding,

A flutter like birds' wings.

Your heart flies back to the night so many months ago,

When you wandered lonesome home in the freshly fallen snow,

To the scene lit by a low-hanging moon,

The injured crane slumped at your door.

At the time,

You believed her arrival was a sign that your fortunes would soon change,

And you realize now,

You are right.

The kindness you showed her on that fateful night,

Your willingness to take her in and dress her wounds,

Has been repaid a thousandfold.

In wealth and comfort,

Yes,

But even more so in companionship.

And now,

You realize with a pang of regret,

You have betrayed her.

She asked little of you,

Only that you leave her to her work,

And never enter her chamber while she weaves.

This simple promise you could not keep,

This simple temptation you could not resist.

But there is still time to turn away,

To leave her in peace to finish her work,

Never knowing you stole this forbidden glance,

Discovered her secret.

You reach to slide the door closed,

Trying not to make a sound,

But this effort is in vain.

It's only the rustle of your clothing that stops her movement cold.

You are both still,

Your breath caught in your throat.

For a moment,

The only movement is the gentle flicker of the candle.

When Tsuru turns to you,

Only a sliver of your face framed in the doorway.

They are not the eyes of a woman that she looks through.

The silk robe falls to the floor,

Revealing her in her true form,

As the white crane who once you rescued and cared for in your home.

She is majestic and sad,

Eyes glazed with bittersweet sorrow.

You wish you had the words to convey your remorse,

Your gratitude,

Or better yet,

The words that might convince her to stay.

The words do not come,

Only the sound of wings in the night.

This is the second time you watch her leave you,

Her powerful form in shadow against the moon.

But unlike the first time,

Once she's gone she leaves many a trace behind.

The great loom hung with the unfinished textile remains.

You leave her room untouched,

As if you believe she might one day return and pick up the work where she left off.

The never-empty sack of rice continues to miraculously refill itself,

Even as you take scoopfuls of it for your supper each night.

The house which once seemed so small feels large and empty without her.

In her absence,

You cherish the space she once took up in your home,

In your heart.

You have more than enough of the feather-down cloth to keep you in comfort for the rest of your life,

But you quickly find that the days are dull when you have nothing to fill them with.

In time,

You return to woodcutting,

Appreciating the intensity and the rewards of the work.

It feels good to use your hands again,

To remember your capacity to bear heavy loads,

To strive once more.

There's great dignity in it.

You sell or give away most of the luxuries you spent your earnings on,

Little by little.

Your cottage in the woods comes to resemble its former self.

You are happier,

Somehow,

Without all those unnecessary things.

You have sturdy boots and plenty of food and purpose.

The one thing,

However,

That you cannot bring yourself to sell is the loom,

Still hung with the last incomplete swath of fabric.

Sometimes you go in there just to sit and sip your tea,

Admiring how the moonlight falls through a window and shines upon the cloth.

You remember that all these events,

However strange and magical,

Spring from one choice,

To help an innocent creature in need.

With each day that passes spent in meaningful work and simple pleasure,

You feel closer to that version of yourself.

You rediscover an immense gratitude for everything you have,

Everything you earn,

And you remember that your deepest instinct,

Your truest source of happiness,

Is a desire to serve others.

These discoveries are among the many gifts left to you by Tsuru,

The crane.

Winter comes again,

The breath of the wind blowing cold through the forest,

But you do not fear the chill,

For you wear each day a coat sewn from the softest,

Purest,

Warmest cloth imaginable.

You travel wrapped in the reminder of your old friend,

And your own act of selflessness that once earned her allegiance.

As the season changes,

You watch more intently the patterns of the natural world,

The trees shedding their leaves,

The hardening of the soil,

And the migration of birds.

Whenever you can,

You walk with your eyes to the sky.

You mark the silhouettes of the flocks above,

Watching their progress toward milder climes.

You search among the clouds for familiar shapes.

The first snow of the season falls,

Crystals collecting on the shoulders of your shining coat.

You return from the village exhausted,

But happy at the thought of sitting by the fire as the snow falls round.

The sun is not yet down,

And the western sky is a searing crimson.

You smile through tears at the empty clearing,

And the empty house,

Each lightly dusted with snow.

It was a night like this that first she came,

And began your journey toward a new,

More complex happiness.

You are happy after all.

Before you step over the threshold into the little woodland cottage,

A tremolo sounds above.

You lift your gaze upward,

And the snowflakes fall and quickly melt on your cheeks.

Up above,

Through the falling flurries,

There is a crane on wing.

She soars in a lazy circle,

And her call is like music,

Like a medicine to you.

It warms you from within.

One day,

You think,

As you watch her circling,

Then gliding off toward the setting sun,

You will be worthy of her return.

And when that day comes,

You will ask nothing of her,

Save friendship.

Wild things must be wild.

It is not for you to clip her wings,

Or tether her to a loom.

You look forward to the day she arrives once more on your doorstep,

Robed in moonlight.

For now,

Though,

It is enough to know that she misses you,

Too.

Come to find a comfortable stillness and soft awareness,

Breathing naturally,

Letting yourself settle and spread out with each cycle of breath.

Relax in the muscles of the face,

Unclenching the jaw,

Releasing any tightness in the forehead,

Around the eyes,

And feel as you loosen up in these muscles,

How the rest of your body takes those cues,

Softening,

Releasing,

Relaxing deeply.

As you relax,

I invite you to visualize a soft,

Warm,

White light that surrounds you,

Enveloping you like a cloth spun of starlight.

Feel yourself enfolded in light.

And let a sensation of warmth and heaviness travel throughout the body,

From the crown of your head,

Throughout your neck and shoulders,

Your chest and arms,

Your hands and fingers,

Your back and belly,

Hips and pelvis,

Your legs,

All the way into the feet,

Everything becoming warm and heavy.

Now,

As you sink into this pleasant,

Relaxing sensation,

Consider that this warm,

White light,

This cloth of starlight,

Is really woven from threads made of love,

All the love you have for others,

All the love that others have for you.

Imagine that the threads are spun from every act of kindness,

Every display of generosity,

Every show of compassion and sacrifice in your life,

Flowing to and from you,

In a beautiful warp and weft,

So tightly intertwined that it appears seamless.

Take a moment here to reflect on how loved you are,

Summoning gratitude for all you have,

All the love,

Kindness,

And generosity you've experienced,

And all that you are worthy of,

Let yourself be held by that web of love,

Breathe it in,

And now,

Reflect on how much love you have to give,

How kind,

Giving,

And compassionate you are,

Reflect on your capacity for connection,

And recognize that the more you give,

The more you have,

Breathe it out,

Breathe love in,

Breathe love out,

Breathe gratitude in,

Breathe gratitude out,

Breathe kindness in,

Breathe kindness out,

Wrap yourself tighter in the threads of love and generosity,

And let yourself soften here,

Held by all that love,

Know that you are worthy of it,

And that you have so much to give,

Relax,

And allow yourself to be carried,

Sweetly,

And softly,

To sleep,

Enfolded in light,

And love,

Goodnight.

Reviews

Beautiful thank you 🤍🤍🤍

I love this tale and your voice is very soothing. I listen to your Folklore stories on a regular basis and I enjoy your use of language and the way you deliver them. Thank you 🙏🏻

Beautiful!!

Her voice and stories are the best! I didn’t hear much… fast asleep!

Perfect!

Delightful!

Loved it! Fell asleep and didn’t finish :)

Hello Laurel. This is a really stunningly visual Legend especially because your narration is so beautifully accomplished. I have never heard of it before. Thankyou ☺🙏🌻💕🐱🐱

Always wonderful stories with laurel’s lovely voice. Did not put me to sleep so I’m listening again. Thank you, Laurel.

What a beautiful story… so moving, and wonderfully told. Thank you Laurel 🙏❤️

Thank you, Laurel🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻LOVED your story, and as always, beautifully told. I will keep on listening, as there are still parts I have not heard.
Grateful you picked up your storytelling again, notwithstanding the new baby. A belated congratulations, and may he/she be a continuous source of joy.🙏🏻🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🙏🏻

Beautiful story. 💜🕊️🌟

Beautiful - asleep so quickly! But I will return to finish this special story!

Thank you so much - I lived in Japan for 3 years so this story really touched my soul when I listened in the morning. Maybe your best. …. But then I think that of each one. 💕

Absolutely lush and gorgeous… even if I didn’t sleep, the depth of relaxation and peace are helpful. Thank you so much!🙏🏼❤️

This is lovely.