The Dream Weaver's Palace | Sleep Story With Music

In this sleep story accompanied by ambient music, you unwittingly wander into the realm of dreams. You explore the surreal, magical palace of the dream world, receive guidance from a wise and charitable owl, and finally meet the Dream Weaver, who helps you craft a dream of your very own. Feat. chakra meditation

Music
Clairvoyance (Syntropy)
The Sleep/Binaural Overlay/Romeo Alpha (Joseph Beg)
Bream Focus Beta Waves/Nordic Sunrise/Thymotic Moments (Bruce Brus)
Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Wander the realm where dreams are made,

And design your own dreamscape in tonight's 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 whenever you're ready,

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

If you are still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a soothing meditation for rest.

In tonight's story,

You unwittingly wander into the realm of dreams.

You explore the surreal,

Magical palace of the dream world,

Receive guidance from a wise and charitable owl,

And finally meet the dream weaver who is busy designing tonight's dreamscapes.

She takes you under her wing,

Allowing you to assist her in crafting a dream of your very own.

Tonight,

As always,

You'll be invited to step into the shoes and experience of the story's main character,

And to infuse them with your identity,

Likes and dislikes,

Hopes and histories.

But this tale is somewhat different in that it takes place entirely in the realm of sleep.

So before we begin,

I encourage you to take whatever steps you need to become as cozy and comfortable as possible.

Think about your sleep ritual.

Winding down for the night,

Putting on your pajamas,

Setting the temperature just right.

Think of all those steps you take before you climb into your bed as cues for the body and the waking mind that they're allowed to take a break and turn off.

When you're ready,

Close your eyes and allow yourself to ease into the space between waking and dreams.

Imagine yourself descending a staircase,

One step at a time.

At the bottom of the staircase is the entrance to the dream world,

The place where our story begins.

From here,

At the top of the staircase,

It looks like sheer darkness lies below,

But that's only because you're beholding it from the waking world.

Take a step down and see how the darkness changes,

Either becoming paler or taking on a new color.

With each step down,

Let the darkness lift or change a little more as you make your way into the realm of sleep.

Another step down,

And another.

At first,

There's only fuzzy darkness,

A blank space waiting to be filled in.

You're quite certain you've just arrived,

And yet you haven't the slightest idea how you came to be here,

Or where here is for that matter.

But surely,

If you keep walking in this same direction,

It will begin to look familiar soon and your purpose will come flooding back to you.

So you go forth,

A lightness in your step that's refreshing.

It's really not like you to get all turned around like this,

But it's just the same.

The funny thing is,

With each step,

Right where your foot hits the ground,

A little pool of light blooms and illuminates your surroundings bit by bit.

Around you,

Brought into relief by your footfalls,

The landscape is materializing.

Impeccably trimmed hedgerows,

Pebbled walkways,

And flowerbeds rise to meet your gaze.

It's nearly all visible now,

Coming to life all around you.

A few more steps,

A few more mesmerizing plumes of color and light paint the corners of your vision till at last you can fully grasp the landscape.

You wonder vaguely if this is the garden at Versailles,

Or another of those perfectly manicured gardens that sprawl outward from the European chateaus.

There are rows of lemon trees,

Fields of garden pinks,

Voluptuous tulips,

And horn beams pruned in precise topiary,

And spiral pathways through neatly groomed grass that tempt you toward a lazy stroll.

You find yourself drawn toward a glimmer at the center of the garden,

A dance of light that plays on the surface of water.

As you move toward it,

It reveals itself as a sparkling pool,

Very vast indeed for a garden feature.

From a ways off,

It seemed a perfectly natural ornament.

But as you approach,

And as you stare from one edge of the pool across to the other,

It feels as if you're gazing across a wide lake toward a very distant shore.

You bend over the side to look at your reflection,

And also because you're curious how many coins linger at the bottom of the pool,

Wishes underwater.

A flicker of bright color catches your eye and attention though,

As various vibrant hued fish dart across the pool.

Such extraordinary colors they are,

Brilliant gold,

Deep crimson,

And striking electric blue.

The pool is surprisingly deep,

You find yourself straining your eyes to see its bottom,

But the harder you look,

The more it seems to sink away from you.

And rising from the center of the pool,

It's a wonder you hardly noticed it till now,

Is a towering sculptural fountain.

Your gaze travels up the piece,

Taking in the many exquisite details.

At the bottom,

Finned horses,

These you remember somehow are called hippocampi,

Or Neptune's horses emerge,

Heads in mid-toss,

Forelegs rearing.

And on their backs are the most curious chimeras,

Which look like a hybrid of elephants and tigers.

Atop them are a row of foxes,

From whose hindquarters spring many tales instead of one.

And resting on top of all the rows of strange and beautiful creatures is one great turtle.

Water trickles and splashes over and through the pyramid of animals,

And the sound is pleasantly musical to your ear.

What an unusual place,

You think.

Unusual and yet charming.

The light is soft and lightly tinged with a honeyed gold,

Bathing everything in sight,

Though you can't seem to locate the sun in the sky.

Though it seems more like the light effuses in all directions so that nothing casts a shadow but everything,

Yourself included,

Participates in the effort of illumination.

You could easily lose an afternoon exploring all the wonders,

Nooks and crannies of a place like this,

But still,

You're sure you came here for a reason,

One more pressing than the pursuit of loveliness and leisure.

No sooner than this thought enters your mind,

You become aware of a looming structure at the edge of the garden.

A striking palace of baroque design with a cream-colored facade accentuated by scarlet trim to lasters,

Lintels,

And pediments.

You make your way up the pebbled incline,

Moving toward the palace with a new sense of purpose.

Whatever it is that brought you to this place surely lies within.

Leading up to the palace's lavish front doors is a divided imperial stair made of dark grey stone.

Along each balustrade are sculpted gods and goddesses,

Some you recognize from their implements Like Athena with her helm and spear,

An owl perched on her shoulder.

Others are less familiar,

A figure with the body of a human woman with the long neck and head of a swan.

Another with four arms and bejeweled adornment stands in the center of a lotus flower and holds two more in her hands.

After a bit of pondering over whether to take the left or the right staircase,

You make your choice and climb toward the entrance.

The towering doors are bronze cast with repeated relief patterns,

The moon in many phases,

Stars and constellations.

You look for a knocker or a bell to ring and in the absence of one,

You decide to try the door yourself.

To your surprise,

It's not nearly as heavy as it looks.

It pushes open with very little effort on your part.

You step inside,

Onto sleek marble floors.

Though the palace looked immense from the exterior,

You can hardly believe your eyes beholding the cavernous space before you.

It seems an entire metropolis could fit beneath the vaulted ceilings.

Beyond the sparkling atrium,

Corridors appear to stretch indefinitely.

There are extravagant frescoes on the walls which only increase the sense of expansiveness about the place.

Painted with trompe l'oeil,

They create illusory gardens and courtyards that look only too easy to step into.

Concealed in the frescoes and only betrayed by the barely visible cracks in the walls you discover are secret doors of all different sizes.

Portals to hidden passageways,

No doubt.

What secrets must a place like this hold?

You find one of these doors,

A tiny one fit only for a small child,

In a fresco illustrating the moss-covered ruins of a temple or castle.

You crouch down,

Gently push it open,

And poke your head inside to see what lies behind.

A gentle wind is present in the chamber behind the secret door,

And a rustling sound that might either be riffled pages or feathered wings.

As you take in the chamber by sight,

You discover that it's both.

For the long and narrow chamber is an archive,

Or a library of sorts,

In which a countless array of papers are presently being shuffled,

Organized,

And filed.

Though the doorway is small,

As you strain your eyes to look upward you count ten or more floors of activity within.

And the archivists,

Busy with books and ledgers and scrolls,

Are squat,

Winged creatures with bright orbs for eyes.

This archive is staffed,

Unmistakably,

By owls.

They push carts of paperwork along thin corridors,

Carry scrolls across aisles to other filing cabinets,

And pour over documents at reading tables.

You notice that the cabinets and shelves are all meticulously labeled,

Though not using words.

Instead,

Each is marked with a symbol or icon.

You can see one marked with a crescent moon,

Another with a rudimentary house,

One with a minimalistic wave pattern,

And a very large row of stacks marked with a pair of wings.

What is it they're archiving,

You wonder?

Shimmying your shoulders into the little opening,

You extend an arm toward a stack of paper within your reach and pull the top sheet down.

The paper is covered in a string of small,

Arcane symbols,

Somewhat akin to runes.

You can't make heads or tails of it.

But the longer you stare somehow,

The more sense it begins to make.

You start to understand it as a report,

A log of some kind.

There are repetitions and patterns among the symbols.

You suspect you're very close to determining the meaning of the document when a rustle of feathers distracts you.

One of the owls,

Bespectacled and with tufted feathers on either side of his head,

Is coming toward you,

Walking,

Not flying,

With a precarious assemblage of scrolls tucked under a wing.

You surreptitiously slide the sheet of paper back onto the heap beside you.

As he approaches,

You can hear the feathered fellow muttering under his breath some exasperated ramblings about discrepancies or efficiency or something or other.

Then he spots you,

Your head stuck through the tiny door,

And meets you with an expression of only mild alarm.

Excuse me,

He says casually.

Carefully,

You remove your head and shoulders from the doorway and the bird waddles out and past you,

Taking no further notice of you as he goes.

Wait,

You call after him.

The owl swivels his head round to look at you,

Impatiently.

There's a question on the tip of your tongue which you sense he may be able to answer for you.

What was that question?

It's not where am I,

How did I get here,

Or anything so obvious as that.

You have to think for a moment,

But then it comes to you like a bolt from the blue.

Whose dreams are those,

You say,

Gesturing to the scrolls under the owl's wing.

That's it.

A little shiver of recognition runs over you.

All those documents and books and ledgers are catalogs of dreams.

The symbols make sense now.

The wings refer to dreams of flight,

And the waves to dreams of oceans and beaches,

And so on.

The owls are archiving the records of people's dreams.

The owl narrows his eyes,

As if for the first time recognizing that you are not one of his fellow record keepers.

Nonetheless,

He answers your question with a low degree of reservation.

These are joint annotated records from two nights ago,

Across multiple dreamers in the southern hemisphere,

He says,

Adjusting his spectacles.

But there's an error,

You see,

The same mistake in each of these,

Which must be corrected and stamped by processing before they return to record keeping.

Oh,

You say,

Of course,

I'll let you go then.

The owl begins to waddle on his way down the corridor,

But a moment later he stops in his place,

Swivels his head once more to look you up and down,

Then says,

Which department are you from again?

Well,

You say,

I'm not from any department,

You see,

I've only just arrived.

The owl's eyes widen.

You're a dreamer,

He says,

With brimming fascination and concern.

But you really shouldn't be here at all.

Forget you saw me,

Actually.

Off you pop,

Back to bed.

But I'm not really sure of the way,

You say.

Could you show me?

With a shuffle and an almost dropping of scrolls,

The owl retrieves a pocket watch and checks it.

He sighs.

These reports will have to wait,

He says,

Resigned.

Come with me,

I'll take you to her.

You feel a spring in your step as the frazzled owl changes course,

Following him through the great atrium and down a columned hallway.

You thank him for taking the time to help you.

He insists it's no trouble,

Though his hurried gait says otherwise.

Can I ask your name,

You say?

The owl responds plainly,

Glaukos,

Senior Archivist.

The edge of annoyance in his voice is softer now,

And you have the distinct impression that he appreciates being asked his name instead of being seen as one among a thousand record keepers.

And if you don't mind,

You add,

Could you tell me who it is you're taking me to see?

Glaukos hoists the slipping scrolls under his wing.

She's the one who makes the dreams,

He says.

She'll know how to get you back where you belong.

What a wondrous thought,

You reflect.

You're going to see where dreams are made.

Glaukos leads you down the ever-lengthening hall.

In between the ornate columns are enormous rococo vessels overflowing with floral arrangements.

You recognize some of the flowers,

Poppy,

Delphinium,

Status,

And rose,

But others are unfamiliar and indeed highly unusual.

Exotic blooms with impossibly full petals,

Flowers that look like bright burning flames,

And others that appear born of ice or crystal.

You pass,

On your way down the never-ending corridor,

A diminutive creature who appears to be spritzing one of the arrangements with water.

Glaukos bids him a friendly greeting as you pass.

Up close you notice that the little person has pointed ears,

Like an elf or a brownie,

And the canister with which he spritzes the flowers is emitting not water,

But a kind of sparkling vapor.

At last,

The corridor is coming to an end.

You observe a pair of tall,

Narrow doors of glass and delicate wrought iron.

The iron dances in spirals and curls in a way that vaguely reminds you of the stunning metro stations in Paris.

And the glass shimmers as you approach with a subtly changing tint,

Now pale green,

Now rich violet,

Now pink.

How much of that color,

You wonder,

Is coming from the material itself,

And how much is generated by the activities within?

Glaukos halts in front of the doors and whispers to you that you should knock.

You do so.

Their gentle rapping comes across much louder than you expected.

You can hear its echo in the chamber beyond.

After a moment of silent waiting,

The doors swing inward,

Apparently of their own accord.

This is where I leave you,

Dreamer,

Says Glaukos,

His tone now much gentler toward you.

Travel safe,

And rest well.

You watch as the kindly owl hitches up the scrolls under his wing and waddles off again down the long corridor.

You hope he's able to make up for the lost time.

As for you,

It's time to discover what awaits in the place where dreams are made.

As you pass through the iron and glass doors,

You're not sure if you're entering a lush parlor,

A greenhouse,

Or the laboratory of a mad scientist.

First your eyes are drawn upward toward the ceiling.

Like the doors,

It's made of decorative wrought iron and stained glass,

Reminiscent of a cathedral rose window.

A diffuse light from above streams through the glass,

Bathing the whole chamber in a shifting interplay of the colors of the rainbow.

It's a glittering rotunda,

And all around the curved walls are shelves of glass or crystal.

These pick up the light from the stained glass even more,

Casting prisms across the room.

There are curious objects lining the shelves,

In row after row,

Stacked all the way to the ceiling.

Bell jars.

You inspect the nearest,

A curvilinear cloche under which there is a little scene.

A miniature diorama featuring dense birch trees and what appear to be tiny houses and buildings made of toadstools and beehives on the forest floor.

Looking closely,

You can see miniscule monarch butterflies floating about the diorama.

But just as you're about to look at what's contained in the next bell jar,

There comes a puff of pink,

Sparkling smoke,

And the forest diorama has vanished.

You release an involuntary gasp at the abruptness of the disappearance.

Not to worry,

Comes a calm,

Musical voice from behind you.

That one's just been picked up by a dreamer.

You whirl around to behold the speaker,

Whom you failed to notice in all the wondrous impressions of the chamber.

In the center of the rotunda there's a marvelous workstation,

Complete with a drafting desk,

A loom,

A simmering cauldron,

And an array of devices and contraptions you can't readily identify.

Surrounding the workstation,

And spreading to the edge of the room till they rest against the shelves of bell jars,

Are all manner of plants,

Herbs,

And flowers in pots.

You have to push aside a fern to reveal the face of the speaker who sits at the loom.

All you can see now is the drapery of her dress,

Ivory silk,

Trimmed with scarlet roses.

It's alright,

She says,

Beckoning you closer.

Her back is to you now,

But you can see a cascade of auburn hair down her back and the suggestion of a diadem at her brow.

She's busy working at the loom,

Evidently weaving a tapestry.

The vibrant blues and greens of the threads blend into a lush,

Tropical palette.

It soon becomes apparent that the weaving depicts a vibrant jungle.

Now the weaver turns her head over her shoulder to look at you.

You can see that the coronal on her brow is encrusted with rubies.

Her own eyes shine like dark gemstones within a kindly face.

Do me a favor,

Will you?

She asks.

You nod,

Unsure if you have a voice to speak.

The fern beside you pull a frond from the plant.

You hesitate,

Not wanting to disturb such a beautifully flourishing fern,

But the weaver gives a subtle gesture of approval,

And at last you reach in and pluck one of the green fronds.

Cast it into the cauldron,

She says.

You cross to the cauldron,

Toss the frond into the simmering liquid,

And watch as it dissolves,

Turning the contents emerald green.

A spiral of green steam rises from the surface,

And the weaver smiles.

Perfect,

She says.

That's coming along nicely.

You are still drinking in the whole magical setting,

Tracing the rows and rows of bell jar scenes with your eyes.

At last you find your voice.

So each of these,

You say,

Is a dream?

Everyone,

Smiles the weaver.

In the corner of your eye,

Another of the bell jars vanishes in a puff of purple smoke.

And they disappear when someone dreams them,

You ask,

Turning the mechanics over in your mind.

Plucked out of this space,

Into the mind of the dreamer,

She answers in a placid tone.

Sometimes the dreamer chooses the dream,

And other times the dream selects the dreamer.

The weaver carefully removes the tapestry from the loom.

It's quite lovely,

You think,

A jungle scene with leaves and vines,

The faces of leopards and tamarins peeking out from behind the ferns.

As you're admiring the piece,

However,

The weaver casts it,

Irreverently,

Into the cauldron.

You stand there,

Mouth agape,

Watching it dissolve into the now turquoise liquid within.

Almost ready,

She says,

Pondering.

Then,

As if struck by a sudden revelation,

Her face lights up,

And she quickly retrieves a vial of some electric blue powder from a rack behind the drafting desk.

She uncorks the vessel,

Shakes the powder into the cauldron,

And utters a sound of delight as the steam rising from the liquid takes the shape of a many-petaled flower.

Then without warning,

She pushes up a sleeve and plunges her hand right into the liquid up to the elbow.

Presently,

She begins to tug upward,

As though pulling something heavy from the depths.

The weaver removes her hand in a gesture reminiscent of a chandler pulling a hand-dipped candle from the wax.

She clasps the end of a string,

At the bottom of which is a small mass dripping with the blue-green liquid.

Once the final drippings fall away,

However,

You recognize it to be a lifelike,

If tiny,

Rainforest such as could fit in the palm of your hand.

The weaver places the tableau upon a pedestal,

Rubs her palms together,

And,

As if pulling glass out of thin air,

Conjures a rounded cloche to cover it.

She bends slightly,

Squinting one eye to inspect the scene,

Then stands up straight,

Apparently satisfied.

Would you kindly place this in the empty space over there?

She says to you.

You jump up to do her bidding,

Gingerly taking the glass bell jar over to the space where you first beheld the vanishing forest.

You peer inside as you place it on the shelf,

And you marvel to see little jungle creatures weaving in and out of the trees.

Toucans,

And jaguars,

And tree frogs.

Meanwhile,

A few rows above,

Another dream disappears in crimson smoke.

You return to the weaver,

Who reclines now at the desk,

Lazily folding and unfolding a small scrap of paper.

It looks a bit like the practice of origami,

But she folds such unusual shapes,

Frowns,

Unfolds,

Tries again,

And repeats.

What is your name,

Dreamer?

She asks.

You actually have to think about it for a few moments.

There's a name that floats to the forefront of your mind,

The one you're fairly certain people call you in your waking life,

But somehow it doesn't feel like a name that has any meaning here.

There's another name,

Though,

That surfaces as you think,

One that feels like a description of your deepest nature.

This is the one you choose to say to the weaver,

And as it escapes your lips,

You find it a very pleasing sound.

You'll have to remember it when you return to your world.

It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,

Says the weaver,

Tossing her final paper-folding creation into the cauldron,

Which gurgles and releases a curl of grey steam.

I must apologize,

She continues.

I fear it's my fault you wound up here,

All turned around as you are.

How is that,

You ask,

A spark of genuine curiosity rising?

The specifics of this surreal place intrigue you to no end,

From the owl archivists to the weaver's inscrutable methods.

I work very hard,

She sighs,

With little to no rest,

For you see,

There are always active dreamers at all hours.

When she sees your look of concern,

She adds,

Oh,

There's no need for pity.

I don't need the kinds of things you mortals do.

You could say I was made for this role.

But sometimes,

Her voice grows wistful here.

Being so preoccupied with dreams and dreamers,

My mind has a tendency to wander.

What I think,

Feel,

And dream can sometimes slip through into my creations.

I think I must have been feeling lonely,

Or curious,

Or simply mischievous,

When I misplaced a door in one of my dreamscapes.

She sweeps a hand across her desk to pick up a small piece of white chalk.

With intention and flourish,

She proceeds to draw an arched doorway in the air before her.

It's as though she carves lines of light into the atmosphere,

Which glimmer a bright white for several seconds,

Then fade and disappear.

Even as the illustrative door fades,

You reach backward and inward for the dissonant memory of entering the dream realm.

Was there a doorway?

Or a stairwell?

You picture a freestanding door stuck right in the middle of the fountain pool,

Surrounded by tulips and pinks in the palace gardens.

The weaver stands as if possessed by sudden inspiration,

Crosses to a chamomile plant,

And plucks one of its delicate white flowers.

She gathers up a pinch of salt and casts both of these into the cauldron.

The steam rises like the patterns on brocade.

The weaver then reaches into the liquid again,

Pulling out another dreamscape.

This one,

At first,

Appears to be a simple china teacup,

Though with lovely hand-painted pink roses on the side and a gilded rim.

But as you look closer,

You realize that there is movement inside the teacup.

You watch as a tiny tidal wave roars upward from inside the cup,

Cresting and falling in its enclosure.

Come luck,

Whispers the weaver,

Beckoning you up close.

You inch closer and squint to see the details of the waves.

The spirals of white sea foam take the shape of galloping horses,

And the crashing sound of the ocean becomes the cacophonous thunder of hooves.

The weaver places this one on the pedestal,

Then conjures up its protective jar.

This she hands to you,

Indicating another empty space for it to be placed upon.

You take your time in returning to the weaver's side,

Stopping to peer into several of the spaces.

The dreamscapes range from serene,

A small fishing boat upon a lake surrounded by weeping willows,

To whimsical,

A chessboard with all different kinds of dogs for pieces,

To entirely fantastical,

A medieval castle with a tiny,

Snoozing dragon curled around the spires.

Here and there,

One will vanish in another puff of colorful smoke.

You wonder lazily about the dreamers.

Who reached in and plucked this dream or that?

And what,

Of themselves,

Do they infuse the dream with?

When you do rejoin the weaver,

You ask about her process,

How she creates such wondrous little dreams.

Just in these few moments,

You've observed her weaving at the loom,

Foraging for ingredients in her nursery,

Folding paper,

And drawing in the air.

Every dreamscape is different,

She says.

Each one calls for its own tools,

Ingredients,

And arts.

My repertoire is always growing,

As is my workspace.

You mean,

You say,

If you needed to use,

Say,

A spinning wheel to create something.

The words are hardly out of your mouth when you glimpse,

In your periphery,

An old-fashioned spinning wheel near the gardenias.

You're certain it wasn't there before,

Not till you said it aloud.

But can you be sure?

The weaver smirks.

That's the general idea,

She says.

Then,

With a kind of excited warmth,

She says,

Say,

Would you like to help me make one?

A dreamscape,

One especially for you.

Your heart flutters,

And a yes is on your lips before you can think otherwise.

In the moment,

You can't think of anything you've wanted more,

Than to design and create your own dream.

The weaver introduces you to the many tools at her disposal.

The drafting table,

Writing and drawing utensils,

Dried herbs,

Teas,

And spices,

Threads and yarns for weaving,

Wool for spinning,

And the live plants in the nursery.

She describes the symbolic meanings and emotions associated with many of the flowers.

The butterfly milkweed,

For releasing attachments and letting go.

The crocus,

For youthful innocence and joy.

Witch hazel for enchantment.

Yarrow for healing.

Gardenia for love.

And good fortune.

Snapdragon for strength.

She encourages you to pick a flower,

To serve as an emotional basis for your dream.

How would you like your dream to make you feel?

How do you want to feel when you wake up?

You ponder her explanations of the various meanings,

And finally select a flower,

Which you pluck carefully,

And drop in the simmering liquid of the cauldron.

The clear liquid instantly takes on the hue of the flower.

A good choice,

The weaver assures you.

Next,

The weaver says she always likes to fill every dreamscape with opportunities for adventure,

Which the dreamer can either explore or ignore.

It's like adding a little flavor,

She says with a wink,

Then describes the different herbs,

Teas,

And spices she likes to use.

Adding bay,

For example,

Often yields dreams of success,

Glory,

And athletic pursuits.

Throw in a dash of this,

And you might dream of competing in the Olympic Games.

Rosemary,

Meanwhile,

Is associated with memory.

Add this,

And you might reunite in your dreams with someone from the past,

Or even venture into a past life of your own.

Add mint or cinnamon to dream of obtaining great wealth.

Cloves or chili to dream of romance.

Blend as many as you like to pepper your dream with several potential adventures.

Lastly,

Into every dreamscape,

The weaver makes a creative offering.

This is the spark that brings the dream to life,

Illuminates the world of the dream,

And makes it feel real to the dreamer.

Using any medium she likes,

The weaver crafts a work of art,

A tapestry her favorite,

A painting,

A sculpture from clay,

A line or two of poetry.

Whatever moves you in the moment,

As long as it comes from a place of genuine curiosity and creativity,

It will yield a dream world worthy of exploration.

You contemplate the many artistic forms available to you,

And consider what kind of world you might like to dream into.

Maybe a distant planet,

Where the plants and animals are all connected,

Like some great psychic collective.

Or a forgotten place of childhood bliss,

Like a woodland stream or friend's backyard where you used to play.

A sparkling city,

Halfway across the world that you've always wanted to visit.

The bottom of the ocean,

In the company of merfolk.

The inside of a magic crystal,

Where everything appears in fractals and tessellations.

There's no limit,

It seems,

To the dream worlds you can imagine.

At last,

After pondering for some time,

You have an image in your mind of the kind of wondrous,

Expansive world you'd like to see in your dream.

You can already envision the choices your dream self could make within,

Leading to wild adventures or moments of tranquility and peace.

You can imagine yourself waking from such a dream,

Rejuvenated,

Surrounded by an aura of the emotion associated with your chosen flower.

The weaver is patient.

As you describe the world you envision for your dream,

She nods and smiles.

She asks how you'd like to craft the creative offering,

Which will help transform your ideas into a tangible dreamscape.

Your eyes wander once more to the spinning wheel,

Which was either always there or sprung from your imagination only moments ago.

There was something so magical about the vision of the weaver seated at her loom when you first approached.

Something deep and mythic about the notion of threads woven together to form the backdrop of a dream.

Your head is filled with floating imaginings.

You can see the three fates who alternately spin,

Measure and cut the threads of human destiny.

You can see the devious fairy tale imp.

Rumpelstiltskin spinning straw into gold.

A beautiful thought comes to your mind.

If I spun the yarn,

You venture,

Would you weave the tapestry?

The weaver's eyes light up at the idea of such a collaboration.

She nods gently.

You take a seat at the spinning wheel.

Somehow your hands know what to do.

You reach for the gauzy fiber in a basket at your feet,

Prepare the bobbin,

And begin to feed the wool as you rhythmically press a foot into the treadle.

The motion feels entirely natural,

And before long,

The spinning wheel begins to transform the white fiber into brightly colored yarn.

Blue,

Magenta,

Forest green,

And even metallic silver and gold spin onto the bobbin.

It's as if the wool is responding to your thoughts to magically change its hue.

As the bobbin fills,

The weaver retrieves the spun yarn and sets about weaving.

You continue to spin,

All the while describing to her the vision you have for your dreamscape.

It is both fantastic and familiar,

Cozy and eye-opening.

As your hands and feet settle into the rhythm of spinning,

Your eyes trace the weft along the loom.

Slowly but surely,

Your dreamscape is materializing in the tapestry.

In and out,

Over and under she weaves,

Up and down your foot treadles,

The cauldron simmers.

Every now and then,

A dream disappears from the shelves,

But there are countless more still waiting to be picked up by dreamers.

You're not sure how much time passes as you work.

The quality of light through the stained glass ceiling never changes to suggest nightfall or sunrise,

And your fingers never tire from the work of spinning the yarn.

But you feel as though days and nights have gone by,

Months even.

Or years.

But that's how dreams are sometimes,

You think.

All the time in the world rides by in the matter of a moment.

The weaver's loom is filling finally.

Slowly you feed the last wisps of fiber through the spinning wheel and remove your foot from the treadle.

You feel the ghost of the movement dance through your arms and legs,

Unready to come to stillness after long repetition.

It's perfect,

You say to the weaver,

Beholding the tapestry on the loom.

Exactly what I envisioned.

Well then,

She responds,

Let us make your dream come true.

Carefully you assist her in removing the tapestry from the loom.

Just as before you feel a twinge of sadness at the thought of casting such a beautiful work of art into the cauldron only to dissolve.

But the weaver assures you that it's not being destroyed,

It's being transformed.

It's an offering,

A starting point for a whole immersive world of your design.

So,

Together,

You toss it into the bubbling liquid which rapidly changes hue and releases a plume of decorative steam.

It's ready,

Says the weaver.

Reach in and pull it forth.

You roll up a sleeve,

Take a deep breath to brace yourself and plunge your arm into the cauldron.

It's funny,

You think,

You expected the simmering liquid to be scalding hot but all you feel is a pleasant tickle.

You move your hand under the surface,

Searching,

Until your fingers meet and clasp something like an upside-down fishhook.

You've got it.

You tug upward,

Marveling at the substantial weight of the thing until it breaks the surface.

You and the weaver watch as the liquid drips over the edges,

Revealing your personal dreamscape at the end of the string.

You feel a gasp rise to your lips.

The tiny scene,

A whole world in itself,

Is more breathtaking and specific than you had imagined.

The weaver congratulates you on a beautiful achievement,

Extraordinary for your first try.

You thank her for the guidance and collaboration.

She leads you to the pedestal where you place your tiny dreamscape.

Here,

It picks up the colored light streaming through the stained glass and sparkles.

It moves,

Sways,

Breathes of its own accord,

A living dream.

Then the weaver conjures a bell jar pulling glass-like tissue paper from the air and encloses your dreamscape.

I'm afraid this means it's time for you to be on your way,

She says,

Repeating the name you gave her before.

It still feels like a true name,

But as it echoes in your head,

Your waking name rises to meet it.

When you leave here,

She continues,

With a hint of sorrow in her voice.

You won't remember what passed within these walls or the gardens beyond.

You were never meant to be here,

Dreamer,

But I've so enjoyed the company.

The thought of forgetting your time with the weaver or your conversation with Glaucus the owl or the marvelous nooks and crannies of the palace weighs heavy on your heart.

Without saying so,

You make yourself a little promise.

I will remember.

I will remember this dream when I wake.

I will not forget.

Then the weaver retrieves her piece of magic chalk and she draws directly upon the glass of the bell jar,

Creating a tiny door in the glass.

Its edges shine as though illuminated from behind.

When you're ready,

She says.

Then she takes one of your hands in hers and plants a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

It's a brief gesture,

But it leaves you feeling cherished.

With the same hand,

You reach toward the tiny door,

Clasp its tiny doorknob,

And pull it gingerly open.

Though the door in the glass is only about the height of your pinky finger,

As you bend yourself toward the bell jar,

You can feel yourself shrinking,

Condensing,

Until you are small enough to crawl through on your hands and knees.

With wide eyes and a full heart,

You enter the dreamscape you made.

You turn around for one last look at the weaver,

But you find that the glass has vanished.

The landscape of the dream has expanded to surround you in three dimensions.

It is lifelike and marvelous.

Everything you could have hoped for.

You set forth into the world of the dream,

Feeling emotion and excitement wrap you up.

Onward to discover opportunities and adventures in this strange new place.

When you wake,

Safe in the comfort of your bed,

You hold still for some time.

The dream lives in your body,

In the corners,

The fingertips,

And the elbows,

Between the bones and the fascia,

In the angle of an arm,

In the power of a hand,

In the pounding of your pulse in your ears,

In the joints.

If you can only hold still all your angles and corners,

You can hold it for a little longer.

You can remember it all.

But alas,

Your stiff body feels a need to stretch,

To reposition,

An ache for comfort.

So you move.

And as you do,

The dream falls away,

Slips through your fingertips like sand,

Rolls off of you like water,

Evaporates.

You find a cozy,

Warm new position,

Your head and a hand resting on the soft pillow.

Maybe it's the way just a trickle of moonlight shines through your blinds,

Or maybe some part of you is already half asleep again,

But from here,

It almost looks like there is a piece of string tied around one of your fingers,

A shining slip of golden thread tied in a delicate bow,

Shimmering,

Like it's there to remind you of something you shouldn't forget.

An owl hoots,

It's still dark,

Probably the middle of the night.

So you close your eyes,

And you go back to sleep.

Feel yourself settle into a deep,

Rhythmic breath,

In and out.

As you breathe,

Let your body sink deeper and deeper into your bed,

And let your mind sink deeper and deeper toward sleep,

Toward the unconscious,

Every exhale bringing you down a level,

Deeper within.

On your next breath in,

Bring awareness to the crown of your head,

Direct the breath there,

And feel an openness as you exhale,

Visualize the color violet surrounding and enveloping you.

Keep sending the breath all the way to the crown of your head,

And visualizing this rich purple color for a few breaths,

Then move the awareness down the forehead,

Sending the breath to the space between your eyebrows,

The third eye.

Feel that space open,

Unfold as you breathe into it.

Exhale to transform the violet color to a deep indigo that floats all around you,

In and out.

Gently let your awareness flow into your body,

Gently let your awareness fall now to the neck,

The throat,

Feeling how your cool breath moves in through the nose and travels down the throat,

Letting it be spacious and clear.

On your exhale,

See the color change to a light blue or turquoise,

And breathe here.

On your next deep breath in,

Let the awareness travel downward to the heart space in the center of your chest,

Exhaling,

Surrendering and opening your heart as the color transforms to a refreshing green.

Feel the chest rise and fall as you send the breath to the space of the heart.

Breathe in deeply as your awareness moves down the chest toward the belly to focus and breathe into your solar plexus,

The space a few inches above your navel,

Underneath the breastbone.

Breathe deeply into this space and see the color change to a warm golden yellow.

Breathe and open Now send the awareness and the breath to the lower abdomen,

The sacrum,

And really feel the expansiveness of this breath deepening.

See the color change to orange and keep breathing into this space of the low belly.

Finally,

Allow the awareness to fall to the base of the spine and the pelvic floor.

Erode.

Breathe deeply into this grounded space as the color changes to red.

Soften and sink into it with the breath.

When you're ready,

Let go of the visualization,

Let go of the awareness,

And simply surrender,

Sending the breath to all corners of the body sinking into the bed and letting your mind slowly slip under,

Preparing for deep rest.

Let yourself be relaxed and receptive to whatever comes your way in the realm of dreams and the world.

Let go of the dreams knowing that what is coming toward you is coming from you,

That you are your own dream weaver.

Let go and know that you are there to catch yourself.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Amazing thank you for bringing this into the world 🌍🙏

Enchanting, beautiful imagery and smooth, calming voice ♥️🙏🌻

Your voice relaxes
Thank you 😊

Amazing— loved creating the Dreamscape and spinning (real life joy also) enjoyed the music too— thank you dear mama! Hope all is well with your expanded family!❤️❤️🙏🏽😘

I love these stories Al though I haven’t heard the end of any of yours yet which is wonderful for me as someone who has had sleep issues my whole life. Thank you so very much.

Very relaxing and allowing a quick time to sleep.
Thank you for the opportunity to share this story with you.

Don’t remember too much. I fell asleep, which was my goal. So thank you!

Wonderful imagination! Love the names given for these unique beings. 😊🩵✨🫙

I love her magical tales with their intertwining lessons.