The Departure Of The Elves

In tonight’s story, you – an immortal elf – face the end of an age in your realm. As magic fades from the world, you and your kind construct a new, enchanted world to inhabit, leaving the ordinary behind. But you reflect on the little wonders left on the other side of the veil, and ponder whether you might prefer to stay in the mortal realm, tending to what small magics remain.

Followed by a meditation for enchantment.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon and Fairies Dance by Flouw, Dream Focus Beta Waves by Mandala Dreams, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Build a magical world alongside the elves in tonight's high fantasy 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 surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a meditation for embracing enchantment.

In tonight's story,

You,

An immortal elf,

Face the end of an age in your realm.

As magic fades from the world,

You and your kind construct a new enchanted world to inhabit,

Leaving the ordinary behind.

But you reflect on the little wonders left on the other side of the veil,

And ponder whether you might prefer to stay in the mortal realm,

Tending to what small magics remain.

Now it is thus,

With time in Elfland,

In the eternal beauty that dreams in that honeyed air,

Nothing stirs or fades or dies.

Nothing seeks its happiness in movement or change or a new thing,

But has its ecstasy in the perpetual contemplation of all the beauty that has ever been,

And which always glows over those enchanted lawns as intense as when first created by incantation or song.

Lord Dunsany,

The King of Elfland's Daughter When the last drop of magic leaves the dew on morning flowers,

When it rises from the soil to disappear into the clouds,

When elven enchantment seeps at last away from the mortal world,

That will be a sorry day indeed.

You can feel it slipping,

Slowly like sand,

Through the fingertips a little more each day.

The magic that once infused the very air,

That once resonated like the strings of a celestial harp,

Is diffusing,

Dissipating into barely audible harmonic.

This should not be a cause for grief,

For it is the way of things.

Magic,

Like the world,

Which undergoes its seasonal changes,

Moves in cycles.

It migrates like the songbirds who one morning are a full-throated choir,

Only to be gone the next,

Having moved on to better climbs.

It goes around.

It feels different this time,

Though.

You all feel it,

With each passing year of the countless years you've lived in this enchanted realm,

It seems a little more enchantment slips away,

And does not return on the wings of the west wind.

Each turn of the year heralds a world ever so slightly less magical,

More mundane.

It's this feeling,

This sense of magic being swept away,

That's led your kind,

The last of the elves,

To this,

A bittersweet choice to depart,

To gather up what collective magic you have,

And use it to build a new world,

Away from the realm of mankind,

Where enchantment will be safe to flourish on,

Forever.

It's twilight now,

Or at least it appears to be,

And a sheer golden-violet haze settles over the hill you climb,

Which waves with long grasses.

As you ascend,

You notice a subtle change in the light,

A deepening of the gold to amber,

And the violet to enveloping blue.

This is not,

However,

The effect of the setting sun,

But an experiment.

The high elf Sylvain,

Who stands atop the crest of the hill,

Silhouetted there,

Lifts her arms to the sky,

Making slow gestures to which the light responds.

She raises one arm to bring a saturated magenta to the sky,

Then flips a palm in a dampening gesture.

To this,

The sky answers by muting that magenta,

And bleeding it into a thin curtain of sage green at the horizon.

You approach Sylvain,

Admiring her masterful orchestrations.

She inclines her head to acknowledge your presence,

But continues her work without pause.

Such marvelous,

Blending hues she makes paint themselves across the sky.

What do you think?

She asks,

Lowering her hands to her sides as the sky shimmers,

A smoky purple with auroras of orange and rose.

It's beautiful,

You say,

Noticing that your voice sounds different here,

More resonant,

As if it rides a wave of music as it travels from your body.

This world,

The new world,

Is still being realized,

Layer by layer.

The whole landscape,

From the ground beneath your feet to the shifting lights in the sky,

Is being spun from elven charms and spells.

So even as you get accustomed to the languid feel of your limbs moving through space,

Or the way your hair flows behind you as if through water,

A new element will rise to dazzle you,

Your musical voice,

The vividness of color.

I haven't decided yet,

Sylvain says,

A note of query in her voice,

Whether the sky will change over time in a way to echo the sun's movements in the mortal realm,

Or if I'd rather find the ideal impression,

The ideal hues and qualities,

And leave it in stasis.

She turns to you,

Indicating her interest in your opinion.

You're honored that she'd hear your thoughts.

Well,

You say,

Even as you relish the ardor of the colors that currently tinge the great spans of sky,

I've always found that true beauty lies in the very aspect of change.

We grasp for the ripeness of a red rose in full bloom,

But we marvel all the more,

Knowing its petals will fall.

And there is beauty in the falling,

And the first budding,

Too.

Sylvain nods in assent.

She sweeps an arm over her head,

Lifting a wave of crimson,

Rippling through the colors.

There will be no sun here,

In the immortal realm,

Unless one is made and placed in the sky to remind you of what you left behind.

But even then,

Its heat will not be needed,

For magic itself generates warmth and energy.

It is a wondrous privilege,

And a rare opportunity you have,

To create your own world,

One with magic as its very pulse.

But these are the questions which drive its creation,

Questions of beauty and stagnation.

How do you make a paradise?

Do you spin perfect threads,

Weaving them into a tapestry of immovable perfection,

Where time has no dominion,

And all things are beautiful and still?

Or,

Do you build for possibility,

For potential?

Do you lay seeds and encourage growth,

Even if that growth may surprise you,

Or wind out of your control,

Or lead,

As all things,

To decay?

You take your leave of Sylvain,

Who continues to gesture boldly at the sky,

Experimenting with swirls of color.

This is the elegant backdrop for your musings.

You walk the lush fields where the grasses reflect the shifting light above.

You come to the burgeoning orchard where your friend,

Torian,

Is tinkering.

As Sylvain has a way with color and light,

Torian's special magic is all to do with plants and trees.

You can hear him humming gently as you draw closer,

And you feel the ground vibrate under foot in response.

The trees before him tremble and grow,

Budding forth and bringing fruit which swells before your very eyes.

The plump fruits are reminiscent of apples or pears,

With amber flesh,

Like low firelight.

Torian stands back to admire his work,

Then catches notice of you.

Try one,

He says.

It's my third attempt.

I'd have these trees all over the land,

And abundant with fruit,

If I can only perfect the taste.

Obliging,

You reach up and pluck one of the golden fruits from its branch.

It sits pleasantly in your palm,

Perfectly ripe.

You hold it to your nose and inhale,

Enjoying the ambrosial sweetness of the scent.

Then,

You take a bite.

The fruit is soft and yielding,

The taste sublime.

It's what you imagine the flavor of golden sunlight,

The first glimmer of dawn in spring,

Might be.

You take your time and savor the first bite.

But as you go back for a second,

Something stops you.

There's something missing.

The tanginess of plum or peach,

Or crispness of apple.

Whatever it is,

You can't quite put your finger on it.

The flavor of the fruit is,

By all counts,

Perfect.

But you've no interest in taking another bite.

It's always just ripe,

Torian says,

Noticing the look of satisfaction on your face.

Never ages,

Or rots,

And there will always be plenty of it on the fruit trees.

What do you think?

You explain your dilemma,

How the fruit's flawlessness somehow lessens your craving for it.

Torian looks puzzled at the thought of perfection being somehow not enough.

He concludes that he'll just have to keep meddling with the mix.

If you're finished,

He says,

You can drop that fruit right at your feet.

It'll sprout a new tree in no time.

You let the fruit fall from your hands and watch it plume into sparkling dust as it meets the soil.

Within moments,

A new sprout springs forth,

Its tendrils curling upward.

As you leave,

Torian's side,

You hear him begin to sing again.

His voice warm and clear,

The notes vibrating with the waving wind and growth patterns of his fruit trees.

You glance back as you go,

And you notice the amber fruits shrinking back into buds and flowers,

Before swelling anew,

This time with a scarlet glow.

The sky,

Sylvain's province,

Is frozen once again,

In a sheer and rosy pink like daybreak.

You carry on traversing the evolving landscape of the Undying Country,

This unfinished haven for Elfkind.

You find friends and kinfolk similarly engaged in world creation.

Elves singing the flowers to life,

Flowers undreamt in the ordinary world,

With strange colored petals and intoxicating fragrance.

Elves dreaming up bodies of water,

Vast lakes and laughing streams.

You gaze into a placid pool and watch bright colored birds swim beneath a surface,

The most peculiar and dazzling detail.

There's no limit,

It seems,

To the enchantment that may manifest here.

Wonders that could never exist in the mortal realm,

Colors that could never be captured,

Tastes that could never be dreamt.

A whole world spun from magic threads in the image of the elves.

So,

Why,

You wonder,

Does this marvelous song of a place fail to enthrall your heart?

All this time you've been meddling in the work of your fellows,

And neglecting your own task,

Perhaps because you've been feeling uninspired.

It's in your hands to shape the palaces and gardens of this miraculous land,

Such edifices that should inspire awe in all who approach,

And paths that wind through breathtaking natural splendor.

It's a heavy burden to undertake,

And one that set your mind to wandering as much as your feet.

But as you stroll past the pools and lakes of the elves,

Your unblemished lawns stretch out before you,

Canvas waiting to be painted upon.

It's time.

Elves channel magic in many unique ways.

For Sylvain,

The mere intentional gesture can command color,

Light,

And the illimitable skies.

Magic flows from her fingertips.

Torian,

Like the oldest elves and ancient beings who first brought the world into being,

Works magic through song,

Tuning the vibrations of his voice to those of nature,

And manipulating matter like notes of music.

Those elves who fill the ponds and streams do so by spinning their dreams into water.

They are sleep magicians,

Plumbing the profound threshold of the unconscious world.

Your magic draws from the very forces that keep the world turning,

The untold ages and pressures of the earth itself.

Your magic glimmers in the minds,

Reflecting your efforts and inspiration back with its unlimited facets.

Yours is the magic of stone,

Crystal,

And gem.

You've always been able to speak to stones,

To make them transform,

Dance,

And bend to your will.

Many an impressive stone structure has been erected under your hands,

But this,

The creation of a palace worthy of elven paradise and immortal realm,

Is a challenge you face with trepidation.

Can you conjure the same majesty Sylvain musters in the skies above?

Beauty and sensory experience as ecstatic as Torian's fruit trees.

But you've delayed long enough,

And these shining lawns have sat empty,

Waiting to be filled.

It's time to put your skills to the test,

And add a piece of wonder to this enchanted land.

You've brought with you,

From the heart of the mountains,

You love to walk in the mortal world,

A collection of gems and crystals.

From the shores of the untroubled sea,

Fragments of glass tumbled on the tides.

From the gardens you've kept all these years,

At your own humble cottage,

Unassuming grey stones that lay for decades in the shade of flowers and border trees.

Memories from the domain you're leaving behind,

Hoping they'll infuse this new land with some of the memories of the old.

What is a land,

After all,

Without memory?

Under the rose-tinged sky,

You place your stones thoughtfully in a circle.

In the north,

You set a smooth stone from the garden,

Grey and flecked with little sparkling bits.

In the east,

A crystal,

The same hue as Sylvain's sky.

In the south,

A stone forged in the belly of mountains,

Pressed from all sides by pressure and fire,

Until it emerged shining and clear.

In the west,

A bit of the sea glass harvested from the waves.

You withdraw to the center of the circle,

Acknowledging each of the glittering stones,

And close your eyes,

Tuning yourself to the wavelengths of the rock,

Those you've laid,

And the bedrock beneath the soil.

You breathe with the rhythm of the breeze,

You empty your mind,

Carefully,

Of all thoughts,

All cares,

All concerns,

And let yourself become a landing place for the visitation of creativity and beauty.

A blankness,

A void,

An awakening of vague forms,

Blurred and indistinct.

You bring them in your mind into focus,

And at the same time,

You can feel the ground tremble faintly beneath you.

It's working.

On the canvas of your imagination,

Emptiness erupts from emptiness.

You mentally manipulate its walls and towers,

Which climb to pierce the peachy sky.

Edges grow a labyrinth of them,

Flowering with something like roses,

But oh,

Much more breathtaking than any rose you've seen,

In the autumn sunrise.

Great meadows of golden flowers blanket the soil of your imagination,

And you shape the rose with keen intention.

And there deepens a reflecting pool,

Long and narrow,

Capturing in its waters the image of the palace and its flourishing gardens.

For a time,

You tinker with the vision,

Arranging and rearranging the elements behind closed eyes.

You can hear,

As you go,

The sounds of groaning rock and squeezing earth.

You can feel little tremors in the ground,

Which reverberate throughout your entire body,

And you can feel the waves.

This is the hum of creative magic,

A feeling like no other.

You continue to push the borders of the images,

Manipulating them in your mind,

Until they fall into an aesthetic harmony with which you're satisfied.

You open your eyes.

You stand at the foot of the reflecting pool.

Its perimeter,

Shaped by the contours of your mind,

Sweeps in curling organic grace,

And the clear water within shines like glass.

You kneel beside the edge and reach in with one hand to feel the water's temperature,

But instead of cool liquid,

Your hand slides into the silvery substance with some resistance,

Its texture more like fluid sand.

The pool is filled not with water,

You realize,

But with countless tiny grains of sea glass,

Each casting a shine off each other and reassembling the reflections of your surroundings in millions of facets.

You rise to your feet and take in the rest of your handiwork,

And it is a marvel,

Even if you're being modest.

There at the other end of the reflecting pool of a rapturous palace,

Hewn in gleaming diamond,

Its towers reach effortlessly toward the sky,

Extending to impossibly thin,

Glittering spirals.

Each face catches a different color from the sky's grasses and surroundings,

Setting shimmering shards of auroras outward.

It's almost too much to behold this diamond citadel,

And stretching out from its foundations,

Surrounding and enclosing you are the tall,

Glittering hedges dotted with those jubilant flowers.

There are blossoms like sunbursts.

They look,

Though,

Much like the water in the reflecting pool.

This is all an illusion,

For the hedges bear no leaves,

No soft-petaled roses.

All is crystal,

The hedges hewed with a deep emerald green.

The petals of those intoxicating flowers are like ombréed glass,

So delicate you almost fear to breathe in their direction.

The whole palace and its manicured gardens gleam and glitter,

Forever frozen in static gemstone.

You imagine walking the labyrinthine pathways of this twinkling garden many centuries from now,

Under a milky rose dawn that never shifts to brightened day,

Never dims to purple twilight,

Observing flowers that never lose their petals,

Never brown and bruise under too firm a touch.

And you too,

Unchanged by the ages,

In your immortal realm,

A beauty like this,

Forever preserved,

Unmoved,

Unblemished,

Is surely something to long for,

A world without age,

Without decay,

Without endings or goodbyes.

Oh,

But something tugs deep within your heart,

Even in the midst of all this majesty.

Something aches,

Yearns for the tragic impermanence of it all.

You hear footsteps behind you,

More than one pair.

The other elves must have seen your palace emerge from empty lawn and come to observe.

Sylvain is here,

And Torian,

And the water dreamers and the flower singers and others.

They are wandering the paths,

Shadows swimming behind the near translucent hedges.

Hands reach to disturb the crystalline waters of the reflecting pool.

Figures climb the stairs to the palace.

The doors swing open to let in visitors,

Whose spectral silhouettes move through the icy halls.

There are exclamations of delight and gasps of awe at the facade,

The flowers,

The way the whole place shimmers under Sylvain's perfected light.

You can't help but feel pride to have earned the admiration of your fellow elves.

But you can't shake the empty feeling you're left with,

Even after conjuring such a wonder from nearly nothing.

The fragile beauty of the palace grounds are nearly more than you can take when you withdraw from the company of your fellow elves,

Making for the marches.

On the very edge of the undying kingdom,

A solitary elf stands,

Mithra.

He is building the boundary,

The threshold that will separate this new enchanted land from the ordinary world you leave behind.

With his gnarled staff,

Mithra casts his wards and spells,

Ancient elven magic.

You can see the trails his words leave in the air,

Shining golden symbols that evaporate into mist.

Layer by layer,

The mist is building,

Coming to obscure what lies beyond the border.

But you can still see well enough through the fog,

To the rolling hills and fields of mankind's domain.

You come to stand side by side with Mithra,

Who continues to mutter his spells,

Thickening the mist.

Unlike many of your generation,

Mithra's age shows in the lines of his face an admirable testament to his near-inconceivable time on the earth.

He was one of those elves and other immortals who first sung the world into existence.

Come to take a last look at what we're leaving behind,

He asks,

A paternal tenderness in his voice.

Yes,

I suppose,

You reply,

Squinting through the haze.

You can see that it's late afternoon and a sinking sun is making the rivers flow golden.

Heard animals you can't make out what they are exactly,

Graze on the hills.

The scent of autumn faintly breaks through.

Golden,

Crimson,

And brown are the leaves on the distant trees.

Soon they'll break away and fall to the earth,

Settling there to decompose and feed the next season's soil.

Here,

In this enchanted place,

No seasons will ever turn,

No leaves will ever fall.

This is what it takes to preserve the elven magic forever,

Withdrawal from that world of little wonders.

As if through some charm of his own he sees into the murky muddle of your thoughts,

Mithra says,

You're conflicted.

I guess I am,

You reply,

Admitting this for the first time,

Even to yourself.

You will miss the way the fields change,

The way the shorelines evolve with the ebb and flow of the tides.

You will miss the stars and their wandering ways.

If Sylvain even deigns to dot the elven sky with stars,

They'll be fixed in their positions,

Unchanging,

Only a decorative flourish rather than a cosmic mystery.

You'll miss winter,

Snow and ice,

However unforgiving,

And how they change the land to a crystal stillness.

You'll miss the tanginess of peach and plum.

You'll miss mankind too,

And this you hadn't expected.

They can be a vexing lot,

With lives so short compared to those of the elves,

Driven by whim and often self-centered greed.

But they can also be loyal,

Loving,

And stubbornly brave in the face of challenges.

Despite yourself,

You admire it.

The borders of the immortal realm would separate you from them forever,

For better or worse.

You'll be safe,

Contained,

And comfortable in the enchanted hills and orchards,

Safe with the undying,

Unchanging magic you possess.

And you yourself will cease to age,

Preserving forever your immortal beauty,

The sharpness of your mind and mind matter.

Through the magic that radiates throughout this land,

You will never change.

But the voice that nags at you will not be quiet,

Because in your mind,

Magic is change.

It lies less in spectacular display,

Shaping palaces of crystal or painting the sky,

Than in the myriad interconnected systems that work unseen on the other side of the twilight veil.

There is magic in the parting of clouds,

The movement of stars,

The rippling of a pool when a hazelnut drops from a tree.

There's magic in mankind uttering the names of their gods,

Or making wishes on strange flowers and weeds.

There's magic in sunset,

Which by some alchemy makes water briefly into liquid gold.

There's magic in children,

And in the wisdom of the very old.

There's magic in lined faces,

In shriveled petals and dying oak trees.

There are a few,

You know,

Mithra says,

Who are choosing to stay in the mortal world,

To live with mankind You squint through the haze,

Observing a strong wind that blows the grasses on the nearest hills.

You cannot feel its gusts through the barrier.

The old elf continues.

They will age,

Slower of course than men,

But in time,

They will diminish.

Year by year,

Those who stay will lose most of their magic.

It is the way of things in the world.

But I dare say,

A cup so full may never fully be drained.

When I look into that future,

I see generations of elves in relationship with humankind and with the earth.

Stewards of the natural world and keepers of safe and spirited domestic spaces.

Hidden folk with some magic left in their fingertips,

Watching the world turn.

As he speaks,

It's almost as if you can see his words as pictures in the thickening fog.

A future for those elves who stay amongst the humans,

Going unseen,

But honored.

Little sprites,

Brownies,

Hobgoblins and fairy folk.

Magical mischief makers and granters of boons.

You look down at your hands smooth and unblemished,

With elegant,

Elongated fingers and try to imagine yourself small,

Ordinary,

With none of your current radiance.

Is this so sorry of fate,

You wonder?

I haven't completed the boundary yet,

Mithra smiles,

But it will be finished soon,

And by then all choices will have been made.

You take this to mean that once the wall of twilight mist has fully closed,

There will be no more movement between the realms.

You'll have to decide now whether to stay in the undying lands your magic has helped to build,

Or to return to the mundane,

The only world you've ever known.

To watch mankind from the shadows shape the future.

What will you choose?

Unending,

Unchanging enchantment,

Or a world in flux,

Whose very commonness yields now and then to the most surprising everyday miracles?

You turn to look back at the sparkling silhouette of your diamond palace with its glittering hedges,

How brightly it gleams,

Catching every hue of the sky's gradient,

And splintering its reflections into countless,

Tiny rainbows.

You swell with pride to see it,

This wonder you made.

And then you cast your eyes on the distant hills,

Half obscured by mist,

And you think of the gardens you labored over,

And the satisfaction of seeing those flowers grow.

What gems still await in the mountains and mines?

What hidden marvels quiver in the uncertain future?

Somehow,

Just the sense of the unknown sends a tingle down your spine.

This,

Too,

Is a magic unique to the mortal world.

You extend a hand toward Mithra's wall of mist,

Thickening by the minute.

Your hand almost disappears into the cool fog,

Cloudy and ambiguous as the future.

You close your eyes and breathe deeply of the immortal air.

Enchantment fills your very being.

You half-remember a very old song.

The sweetness of it brings you immense comfort.

Then,

With a full heart and fingers abuzz with magic,

You make your choice.

Breathe deeply,

Softening and relaxing into your support.

Find an inner peace and calm that is supported by your natural breath.

Take a moment here to notice whether you're holding on to tension anywhere in your body.

Consciously send the breath to those spaces,

Using that deep,

Steady breath to slowly massage the tension away.

Pay special attention to the hips,

The shoulders and the neck,

The muscles of the face,

Just letting everything soften.

Now,

Begin to quiet down your mind,

Releasing any worry or anything you're lingering on from the day you've had,

Any thoughts of tomorrow.

If those thoughts arise,

It's okay.

Just notice them and let them go,

Dissolving them into mist,

And bringing your attention back to your breath anytime you find yourself distracted by them.

If it feels right for you,

I invite you to take a moment to think of something you notice or participate in on any regular day that might seem on the outset ordinary,

Mundane or unremarkable,

But that is,

When you really think about it,

Magical.

It could be the way the light comes in through your windows in the morning,

A feeling you get when you see a friend or a loved one,

A new sprout or thriving plant in your home or garden,

Or the joy and relief of stumbling upon an object you thought was lost.

These are simply ideas,

But it can be anything in your life that's easily mistaken for ordinary,

But that carries the weight of enchantment.

Take your time thinking of what this might be for you,

Ensuring that when your mind lands on a focus,

It's something that brings you comfort,

Joy,

Or peace.

Let this be a kernel for meditation,

A seed to plant in your unconscious on your way to sleep.

When you have discovered your small,

Everyday miracle,

Take some time to really imagine the details associated with it.

What visuals come to mind?

What sounds or songs?

Is there a smell,

A taste,

Or a sensation that accompanies this little magic?

What emotions are stirred in you when you witness everyday enchantment?

Consider all the circumstances that must have conspired to make such a simple,

Magical thing possible.

Consider all the individual choices,

Systems,

Relationships,

Coincidences,

And synchronicities that,

When combined,

Produce magic.

Now,

I invite you to transform this little enchantment,

This everyday miracle in your mind into a tiny ball of light that radiates with any color you find comforting and also with a subtle warmth.

Hold it in your hand,

Feeling that warmth move through you from your fingertips to your toes.

Imagine that this little ball of light is powered by the sensations,

Relationships,

And tiny magics that make your miracle possible.

And it's now a power source for you to go forward and spread positivity,

Kindness,

Wonder,

And curiosity.

Like a crystal that grows into a mighty palace with the sheer magic of your intention,

Let this be a seed that awakens inquiry and amazement in you.

Let it enchant your world and everything you touch.

Now,

In your mind's eye,

Feeling the warmth from your little miracle,

Hold that seed to your heart and breathe deeply as the light and warmth and comfort spread outward through your entire body,

Soothing and relaxing your heart,

Your chest,

Your belly,

Your pelvis,

And hips,

Your arms,

And legs,

Your hands and feet,

Your fingers and toes,

Your neck and shoulders,

Your face,

Your head,

And shining outward from your heart,

From your very center,

To your surroundings.

You carry this light,

This enchantment within you,

And you are powerful,

Bringing joy to those around you,

Bringing enchantment to your world.

Breathe into this sensation of warmth and light,

Knowing that you play a part in someone's tiny everyday miracle.

Let your heart be open to such magic.

Breathe,

Soften,

And settle down,

Bringing your seed of enchantment across the threshold into your dreams tonight,

And forward into every day of your life.

Good night.

Reviews

Such lovely bedtime stories. A true Gem💎.
Namaste🙏🏻✨🕯️

These stories are excellent. Congrats on your little one.

Wonderful/- and I enjoy seeing how you’re pulling from your patreon story 💐🙏🏽❤️

Such wonderful story telling 💚 your stories leave me calm and relaxed 💕

Very nice story and reading. Thank you 🙏 blessings