The Fall Fairy

In tonight’s magical sleep story, as the sun sets on a glorious summer, you wake up and prepare to turn the world toward a new season. You are the Fall Fairy: the bringer of crisp mornings, vibrant foliage, and waning days, taking the torch from your summery cousin and moving the Earth through a seasonal transition. You treat nature as your canvas, bringing new colors to the harvest. If you’re still awake as the story comes to an end, I’ll guide you through a visualization to welcome autumn.

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon and Fairies Danc by Flouw, Binaural Alpha by Syntropy, Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Paint the world with the colors of autumn 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 it serves you,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of this story and relax into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story comes to an end,

I'll guide you through a visualization to welcome autumn.

In tonight's story,

As the sun sets on a glorious summer,

You wake and prepare to turn the world toward a new season.

You are the fall fairy,

The bringer of crisp mornings,

Vibrant foliage,

And waning days,

Taking the torch from your summery cousin and moving the earth through a seasonal transition.

You treat nature as your canvas,

Bringing new color to the harvest.

Bright and wild and beautiful for the autumn festival,

I will hang from tree to tree,

Wreaths and ropes of briny,

To the glory and the praise of the sweet September days.

Cicely Mary Barker,

Flower Fairies of Autumn If summer is a long and languid sigh,

Autumn is the first intake of cool,

Anointed breath.

How daintily it comes,

At first only a tease of crispness,

Then a rush,

Invigorating and bright,

On spirals of apple-scented breeze curling the edges of the maple leaves.

Your season approaches,

And you awake to steward its transition.

Beyond the buzz of honeybees,

Past fields of late summer flowers,

The zinnia,

The dahlia,

The sunflower,

And so forth,

There is a stately oak tree.

Its roots run deep and limbs extend from thick,

Sturdy branches to spindly twigs.

And in the mighty trunk of that oak,

There is a hollow,

A cavity which,

Over the years,

Has been home to nesting bluebirds and chickadees,

To a family of squirrels,

And once to a screech owl who hunted at night.

But now it is your home,

And oh,

How cozy and safe it is.

For three seasons of the year you've slept,

Nestled in your bed of thistledown,

Your wings wrapped around you for warmth in the winter.

In the spring,

Sweet scents of snowdrop,

Daffodil,

And daisy wafted through your gentle dreams.

And in the summer,

Hazy lights streamed in,

Shining behind your eyelids,

Tempting you to rouse.

But it's only now,

With the world turning back beyond the apex of the light,

Toward those darker,

Chillier months,

That you finally stir.

Shadows stretch long as your cousin,

The summer fairy,

Relinquishes hold over the landscape.

In the time it takes for a thread of sunlight to glisten green on the surface of a lake,

Or for a bead of dew to form on gossamer,

The world is soft and waiting.

It is the exact midpoint between seasons,

A collective note of anticipation and longing,

A quiet revolution.

And in that sweet,

Quivering softness,

A bell rings.

It sounds different to all who can hear it,

And there are few who can.

To you,

It sounds like the crackle of a flame in the night,

And it wakes you blissfully from slumber.

It is twilight.

It is always twilight when you wake.

Purple dusk settles in and you stretch your arms wide,

Releasing a yawn held in for many months.

You wipe the sleep from the corners of your eyes,

Shaking fairy dust from your fingers.

Your wings are gently folded at your back.

You step gingerly from the hollow and tiptoe onto a nearby limb of the oak.

Here you have space to extend your wings,

So long unused.

You cast your gaze across the fields where pumpkin vines begin to flower and white detera are bursting open,

Releasing their candy-sweet fragrance.

Your eyes attune to the myriads of colors awash over the world.

You can see colors no other can,

Every hue fragmenting into a thousand different shades,

Kaleidoscopic prisms all around.

Color is your special magic,

After all,

And it's time to begin your work.

You are the catalyst for autumn's glorious approach,

The fall fairy.

Without you,

There might be endless summer,

At least until the frost fairy appears,

Scattering a sudden chill over the unprepared earth.

But you could never allow such a thing.

The flora,

The fauna,

The whole interconnected organism that is this wondrous world all need and crave transition.

That is what your season is.

The easing,

The graduation,

The liminal time the world endures as it moves away from summer and toward the frost.

And you are the guide.

You prepare the way,

Signaling to the birds to begin their migration,

Waking the instincts of mammals to forage and hoard their resources for the approaching cold.

You're the ripener of fruits,

The bringer of the grain,

The steward of the harvest,

The painter of colors that delight and inspire.

And what is a painter without a brush?

You are slowly coming back to yourself,

Feeling energy pour into your limbs and excite your senses.

You inhale the sweet scent of twilight grass,

The familiar aroma of your beloved oak tree.

With nimble steps you move along the branch toward those diverging twigs silhouetted against the darkening sky.

You run your hands along the smallest,

Most delicate sprigs,

Feeling for the innate warmth you've come to expect when you find the one.

It doesn't take you long to find a tiny,

Knobby shoot that radiates a soft,

Pleasing glow as your fingers hover over it,

As if it's responding to your presence,

As if it's been waiting for you.

This will be the handle of your brush,

The wand with which you will paint autumn into its full splendor.

You grasp it and pluck tenderly at the base of the branch.

As the twig comes loose,

Its glow intensifies,

Etching spirals and leaf-like patterns into its surface.

These patterns emit their own warm,

Golden light.

You smile,

Turning it over in your hands,

Getting accustomed to its shape and feel.

Now all you need are the bristles.

To find these,

You will need to scour the fields of flowers,

Harvesting pigmented petals,

The dying embers of summer.

Gripping the brush handle tightly,

You prepare for your first flight of the season.

Closing your eyes,

Tuning in to the music of the evening breeze,

You leap from the limb.

For the first few moments of your first autumnal flight,

You like to imagine you're taking the journey of a leaf,

Feeling the wind on your face,

Letting yourself dance with the night air,

Bouncing like a butterfly upon it.

And then you spread your wings.

They are like two oak leaves,

Poised at the moment of transition,

A deep emerald green at the base,

Fading into hues of copper,

Gold,

And crimson.

They catch the wind and bear you upward,

Soaring into the night.

Under the crescent moon,

Your gaze travels the landscape,

Perceiving prisms of color augmented by moonglow.

You dive,

Eyes falling on a patch of brightly colored marigolds.

Their intense,

Golden hues,

The color of pure sunlight,

Will be perfect for painting the maple,

Beech,

And chestnut leaves.

You land softly in a patch of grass,

Gazing up at the swaying flower heads.

You bow your head and ask the flowers,

Reverently,

If you might have a gift of a single petal.

In return,

You'll keep the marigolds' colors alive throughout the season,

Even as the flowers themselves fade.

A rustle moves through the foliage,

And you hear the hum of some familiar tune,

The ghost,

Perhaps of spring,

When the marigolds' roots first began to stir.

A message from your kin,

The spring fairy.

Though your paths never cross,

You feel the spring fairy's presence in such subtle communications.

You speak to each other across time,

Through the flowers and the leaves.

And then,

A single,

Fiery orange petal loosens itself from a flower and drops toward your outstretched hand.

You catch it,

Admiring up close the stunning shade.

You fasten it to the handle of your brush,

Then thank the flower for its gifts.

The petal kissed by moonbeams shines almost pearlescent there.

From flower to flower you go,

Like the eager pollinators of spring and summer,

Asking for their favor.

A wine-dark dahlia gives you its petal of deepest burgundy,

And a black-eyed susan offers one of vibrant yellow.

From the aster you fill in your brush with hues of pretty purple,

A soft pink from the echinacea,

And varied shades of magenta,

Gold,

And red from a flush of snapdragons.

You take a moment to marvel at the brush you've made,

And how the flower petals pick up the wash of moonlight,

So vivid they reflect off one another.

You think of your cousins,

How despite your inhabiting different seasons,

Rarely glimpsing each other,

If at all,

You are eternally connected by the flowers.

When the frost fairy dusts them with ice,

They retreat to the nurturing soil,

Taking that much-needed winter's rest.

In the spring,

The flower fairy wakes them,

Ushering them through a rebirth and infancy.

In the summer,

The fruit fairy brings them to full bloom and bounty,

Sending butterflies and bees about,

Bringing forth berries and honey.

And you,

At the harvest,

Collect their loveliest gifts as you prepare the way for the next turn of the cycle.

By the generosity of winter,

Spring,

And summer,

You arrive to paint the landscape in the colors of fall.

In many ways,

You feel you are like the flowers,

Blossoming at your fullest expression for only a short season,

Then returning to a state of rest and renewal.

With your brush at last complete,

You take flight,

Eager to begin your work.

The trill of an owl joins the music of the night,

Crickets chirping,

Grasses swaying,

A river somewhere.

You float along the stream of the first chill,

Your wings tinging the breeze with crispness.

In the morning,

The earth's human inhabitants will step outside their doors and smile to feel the change pulling their sweaters over their chests,

Basking in the way the early autumn sunshine slices through the brisk.

They'll smell fall in the air and sense it in their bones the way the other animals do.

And for a moment,

They'll remember their place in all of this,

In the cycles and rhythms of nature.

You alight on a witch elm,

Its limbs curved and ambitious.

As your tiny bare feet touch down,

The branch seems to bounce or bend beneath you,

The subtlest response to your presence.

The tree remembers you,

Yields to you.

You and the trees naturally speak different tongues,

But of all the living things on earth,

It is the trees with whom you communicate best.

They are your most beloved charge in the seasonal transition.

With voice and touch,

You greet the elm as an old friend,

Admiring the depth of green in its leaves.

The witch elm's voice travels up from its roots,

Which whisper all day to the other trees in the forest.

The elm responds bittersweetly,

It's happy to see you again.

But your presence,

However welcome,

Is a reminder of the darker days to come.

The elm laments its emerald leaves,

The flowers and fruit it labored so long to bear.

It will miss the way the sun graces its leafy branches in early morning,

And the length of shadows as the day grows long.

Soon it realizes its leaves will drop,

And the witch elm will carry on bare through the coldest months,

Limbs heavy with snow.

Forgive me,

The elm whispers,

Its voice carrying on a rustle of leaves.

All things must change,

I know.

The year must turn.

But the forest was so lovely this summer,

My friend.

The older I get,

The more I cherish the birdsong,

The little squirrels and rabbits,

The warmth of summer nights.

Your heart feels for the witch elm,

And for all the trees you'll carry with you into the next turn of the wheel.

These long-lived spirits are watered by deep wells of memory,

And they inherit the ages through their root systems,

Interconnected and strong.

You suppose it is easier for a tree to look backward into the past than to imagine the future,

To count the rings within themselves,

Never realizing that at every moment they are growing new ones.

It is hard to trust,

When staring down the road toward a bitter winter,

That you will one day flower anew.

It's hard to let go of your leaves.

You sit with the elm for a little while,

Lending compassion and grace to its lament.

It's natural to feel this way,

You tell the tree,

But I'm here,

Let me ease the way.

And then,

The way the morning's dew evaporates in the afternoon sun.

You sense a softening,

A melting of the tree's resistance.

You imagine if a tree could smile,

Even through a veil of tears,

That's what the witch elm would be doing now.

You raise your brush,

Burnished with the flowers of high summer,

And with gentle stroke,

Begin to paint,

One leaf at a time,

Not too many at once,

In the elm's preferred yellow dressing.

As your brush makes contact with each leaf,

The color springs forth,

Spreading like liquid gold over the surface,

Sparkling.

For now,

You only select a few of the leaves to dab with your brush,

Only a hint of the stunning foliage to come.

Tomorrow,

Those with keen eyes will notice the first flush of color among the leaves,

And they'll know autumn has only just begun.

And when the moon shines again,

You'll return to the grove,

Painting more of the elm's leaves.

You'll do so night by night,

Until the whole tree,

The whole forest,

Shines in glittering gold.

But you've other trees and forests to visit tonight,

A plethora of leaves to turn.

With love in your heart,

And gratitude,

You bid farewell to the witch elm,

And take wing once more.

You visit a stately maple who takes great delight in your approach,

For the touch of your brush brings the most spirited reds and oranges to its leaves.

You paint the leaves of the birch in striking contrast with its ivory bark.

From tree to tree you flit,

Invoking stellar gradients upon the leaves,

Listening to the voices of the trees,

Who whisper welcome to you,

To autumn.

Some will mourn the summer like the elm,

Others look with hopeful hearts toward the promise of spring.

You nod in reverence to the evergreens,

Immune to your brush,

Acknowledging your ages-long stalemate.

And then you greet trees,

Ever so often on this flight,

Whose limbs sag and trunks groan,

Weighed down by age and infinite memory.

These oldest trees,

Who've watched cities rise and fall beneath their canopies,

May not see another spring or summer.

When the last leaf falls,

You fear new ones will never sprout.

With these trees,

You sit and spend some time listening to stories.

They sing of the movement of mountains,

Of gradual and unending change.

Some remember a time when the trees themselves walked,

Enchanted,

Marching into battle.

They are wistful,

The willow withs,

Swaying like a sigh.

But they are not sad.

They know the course of things,

For they were once saplings in the shadow of greater trees.

When those giant oaks and elders fell,

They fed the soil,

Continuing to nurture future generations.

You admire the nobility of these ancient arbors,

Who gracefully accept and love their fate.

And so you go on,

Dusting the willow boughs and hazel leaves,

The beach and hickory with shades of ochre,

Crimson and brown.

You weave a web of color across the night,

Marking the trail you'll follow in the days to come.

Soon the hillsides and forests will burst with splendid hues.

And even that dazzling sight will be but a moment in the memory of the trees.

So swiftly does it fade and yield to the loosening of leaves.

So fleetly do they fall,

Laying a crisp carpet over the forest floor.

All seasons,

You suppose,

Are only moments,

Doorways,

Transitions.

One slowly softens into the next,

Like the gradient colors on the leaves themselves.

The stars glitter overhead,

Diminishing under the lessening contrast as faint rays of sunlight begin to edge over the horizon.

As if reflecting the shades of your flowery brush,

The sunrise blooms in peach and scarlet and gold.

When the first strings of light fall across the forest,

You beam with pride at your accomplishment.

The sun gilds the green and makes your handiwork luminescent.

A fine job you've done,

And it's only the beginning.

The first scent of fall is on the breeze.

And now,

You think,

It's time to rest.

You've strength to gather for your next outing.

You float lazily through the sky,

Serenaded by the songs of birds who wake with the sun.

You take your time returning to the old oak with the hollow in its trunk.

When you arrive,

Its leaves lightly shiver in greeting.

Before returning to your nest,

You land lightly on an outstretched branch.

You breathe deeply,

Inhaling the sweet scent of the oak tree,

Gazing fondly at the deep green of its leaves.

You saved your oak for last tonight,

Letting it revel in the bounty of summer for a moment longer.

Now,

With tenderness and love,

You touch the first of its leaves with your paintbrush,

Watching the color spread outward across the lobes.

Perhaps you're partial,

But it's always the oak trees whose transition fills you with the most awe.

Mightiest of trees,

Wisest in the forest,

King of summer,

Surrendering to autumn.

You've always favored oaks as your sanctuary for this reason,

For their willingness to concede at the height of their majesty.

In the months to come,

The holly,

Evergreen,

Will reign as the oak gives up its greenery.

But that is true strength,

You think,

And selflessness.

Satisfied,

You fold your wings behind your back and climb into the hollow you call home.

Here is your bed of thistle down,

A safe place to sleep the day away.

You may find another nook in which to slumber as the season ages,

Nestling amid the fallen leaves or among the fields of grain.

But for now,

You cling to the oak,

Your fondest friend.

A crisp breeze tickles your face as you drift gently into sleep.

You dream of trees that walk the earth,

Slow as herons on the marsh,

Of bright holly berries and waxwings in flight,

Of apple orchards alive with song.

Find a soft focus as you allow your body and mind to relax,

To switch off.

Soften into your bed and take a deep breath in,

Feeling the cool air travel in through the nose,

Down the throat,

Filling up the belly.

And exhale,

Releasing any tension in the body.

Take two more deep breaths in and out.

Relaxing deeper as you go,

Allow your mind to soften,

Letting go of everything that happened today,

And preparing yourself to rest.

Now,

Visualize a tranquil forest.

The air is crisp and fresh,

Carrying the cozy scent of wood and fallen leaves.

As you breathe in,

Feel the sensation of that cool autumn air traveling in through the nostrils,

Nourishing you.

With every breath out,

Let go a little bit more.

Surrender.

Picture the trees around you,

Their leaves a kaleidoscope of color,

Warm orange,

Scarlet,

And gold.

Watch as a leaf falls from one of the trees.

It gently drifts down from the branches above,

Twirling and floating through the air.

Very soon,

More leaves begin to fall.

Very soon,

More leaves begin to fall.

Follow their journeys with your inner eye,

From the canopy to the forest floor.

With each leaf that falls,

Notice how you feel lighter,

More at peace.

Visualize these leaves as your thoughts or concerns,

Softly detaching from you,

And disappearing as they touch the ground.

You don't need them now.

Autumn can be a busy time for many of us,

But it's also a time when the natural world slows down.

The days get shorter,

The light begins to wane,

And there's a beautiful balance to be found in embracing those natural cycles,

Remembering that we are not disconnected from nature,

But part of it.

Feel the stillness and serenity of the forest,

The soft rustle of the leaves,

A quiet breeze,

And feel yourself slowing down in the same way.

Just as the earth prepares for winter,

You are slowing down,

Preparing for a deep,

Rejuvenating sleep.

You are safe,

Warm,

And cherished as part of the natural world.

Just like the birds who know when it's time to begin migration,

And the animals who gather resources for the winter ahead,

And the trees who let go of their leaves,

You know what you need.

You can let go,

Surrender,

To rest,

To sleep.

Know that by letting go,

You are giving yourself a gift,

A chance for renewal and rejuvenation.

Breathe,

Softening deeper still,

Letting your leaves,

Your thoughts,

Your cares fall to the ground and fade.

Embrace stillness and transition the portal of autumn.

Wishing you blessings and deep sleep in this season and all the seasons to come.

Good night.

Reviews

Autumn is my favourite season and even though it’s only just started I was so keen to listen to this and I was not disappointed. I did listen to it all, well there are gaps when I drifted off and I will listen to again. As always so calming and such a peaceful way to fall asleep. I am so grateful for these stories, I never stop being amazed by how well they are written and read, they truly are magical . 🙏

Ironically just the tale I needed about letting go right now… very lovely. I still have a weird sound issue where the first syllable, sometime two, of a new phrase will be cut off— it’s strange! I listen to a lot of different offerings from others, but it’s only with yours🤷‍♀️😘🙏🏼❤️ still love them dearly!

This was so colorful !! Will watch the fairy paint more leaves with colors from the remaining flowers.
Thank you for your wonderful imagination. 🍁🍁

Thank you 🙏 🌞 🌛 💚

Welcome back. Have really missed you.

So amazing! Welcome back to making these amazing meditations for all of us to enjoy!

So glad you're back! I just received your book recently and I absolutely love it!!! Amazing layout and beautifully done!

So nice to have you back 💕

I love your writing and storytelling style. Welcome back! 💚💛

Beautifully created as always! Loved the lyrical musings and delightful images welcoming this new season. Thank you and Blessings 🍁🌻✨

Wonderful! Welcome back, we missed you!

Welcome back, Laurel! I hope your little one is bringing you so much joy. As always, such lovely and magical storytelling. Thank you! 😊

What a beautiful story to welcome you back from your time away..you were missed.🍁🙏🏼✨

Very soothing thank you xx

Welcome back! I hope you and your new little one are well. Your stories always help me fall asleep - thank you 🙏🏼

Wonderful and beautifully poetical. I'm so happy you're back with more enchanting stories. I'd woken up with insomnia and was delighted to find this story - and soon I was sleep again! Thank you!

Hello and welcome back. This was lovely per usual. Thank you!