The Flower Fairy | Vernal Equinox Sleep Story

Bring the new season to life in this magical sleep story, perfect for enjoying on or near the Vernal Equinox. In tonight’s story, as winter’s bones melt into the softening earth, you rise to wake the first buds and usher a new season across the land. You are the Flower Fairy, the magical herald of spring, taking over for your wintry cousin and rousing the earth from its cold sleep. This is a companion to the Season 3 story “The Frost Fairy,” but you don’t need to have heard that story to enjoy this one.

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

Transcript

Bring the new season to life in this magical sleep story,

Perfect for enjoying on or near the vernal equinox.

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

My name is Laurel,

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

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And whenever you're ready,

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

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

I'll guide you through a visualization exercise for renewal.

In tonight's story,

As winter's bones melt into the softening earth,

You rise to wake the first buds and usher a new season across the land.

You are the flower fairy,

The magical herald of spring,

Taking over for your wintry cousin and rousing the earth from its cold sleep.

The world is very old,

But every spring it groweth young again,

And fairies sing.

Cicely Mary Barker What comes first?

You or the flowers?

Are they stirring already,

Agitated,

Awaiting the sound of your flute?

Or do they lie dormant all winter,

Inert and uncalled,

Until you've awoken?

Either way,

You could swear upon waking that the scent of snowdrops is already upon the breeze.

The ghost,

Perhaps,

Of last spring's dream still imprinted upon your mind and your senses.

Three seasons of sleep seem to have rushed by in a wink,

The earth turning slowly under your frame.

Your bed,

A mattress of moss and soil,

Softens beneath you,

Rousing you gently from the sweetness of slumber.

You brush particles of frost from your eyelashes,

They melt to dewdrops at your touch,

The tenderest kiss of warmth.

Those flakes were left behind by your kin,

The frost fairy,

Who at this very moment is likely settling down after a long winter.

Pulling a blanket of fallen leaves overhead,

Melting into the ground like the last snowfall in the sun's emerging rays.

Before you're even fully awake,

You take a moment to silently thank your frosty cousin.

Winter,

As you understand,

Is hard on all creatures,

Whether they walk,

Crawl,

Slither,

Or fly,

But in its somnolent stillness,

There is beauty and deep necessity.

Cloaked in crystal,

The earth repairs,

Restores,

And preserves.

In your flitting about each new spring,

You're prone to observation and a fair bit of eavesdropping on the earth's inhabitants.

You've watched and listened,

Amused,

Since they first gathered round the great fires,

Making sense of their miraculous world through story and song.

They gave many names,

Many explanations to the forces you and your fairy cousins work.

The frost fairy,

Perhaps,

Was dealt the hardest hand,

Characterized as cruel and unfeeling,

A force of death upon the land,

While you were always drawn in the figure of flowers,

Of new life,

Of full and blushing splendor.

A tale emerged of you,

Flame-haired goddess of spring,

And she,

The wicked crone of winter,

Locked in fierce battle over the soul of the seasons.

And another story detailed a spring maiden,

Abducted to the underworld,

While her mother,

The goddess of the harvest,

Wept and made the lands barren in her grief.

Similar stories the world over,

Maidens and crones,

Or the bearded kings of holly and oak,

Struggling for dominion.

But it was never so between you,

Never a war for the control of the land,

The plants,

And the animal kingdom.

Each turn of the wheel is a necessary,

And indeed beautiful,

Expression of the earth's capacity for change.

Though the cycles repeat,

And patterns recur,

Each winter,

Each spring is different,

A marker in the march of time,

And a reminder of resilience and wonder.

You stretch your arms wide,

And let loose a wild yawn,

Inhaling the scent of soil and leaves.

Your vision is slowly coming into focus,

A bright moon sends pearly light across your surroundings,

And you smile to see that where you've slept all this past year,

Snowdrops have emerged,

Ringed around you in a perfect circle.

Green shoots with pure white bell blossoms that dip lightly,

Bowing their heads toward the ground.

You can reach one without standing,

And you pull its petals close to your face,

Squeezing a drop of nectar onto your outstretched tongue,

A bit of sweetness to wake you and energize you for the work ahead.

Tiny crystals of frost still sugar the ground as you rise,

But everywhere you step,

It softens and dissolves,

Sparkling in the moonbeams as it goes.

Farewell,

You think,

Farewell to winter's bones and wonder,

The frosty dreamscape you are only ever privileged to behold at the moment of its vanishing.

You turn ice to dew,

Hard ground to soft soil,

And snow-blanketed forests to stirring landscapes of potential.

Farewell,

Farewell is on your lips from the moment you wake,

And echoes sweetly in your mind hereafter.

But before you can begin waking the land,

You'll need a steed.

Unlike some of your cousins,

You were born without wings,

A child more of earth than of sky.

Still,

You've come to make friends and allies in your countless seasons,

And you can almost always find a friend to ferry you across the world in the name of your important work.

You go crunching through the forest,

Through the last gasp of dwindling snow and ice,

Under dripping branches and shrubs.

You can feel the air warming little by little as you walk,

And you whistle softly,

An old tune whose origins you cannot remember,

In search of friends your size,

With wings.

You find what you are looking for in the low-hanging,

Just-budding branches of a buckthorn tree.

From the spindliest branch hangs a single bright green chrysalis,

Gleaming in the shafts of moonlight.

You whistle gently,

Willing your song toward the chrysalis,

Hoping it will wake the little wonder who waits inside.

When the tune elicits no response,

You guess something stronger may be called for.

You cast your eyes upon the leafy forest floor,

Then let out a small exclamation of joy when you find just the thing you need.

You'd never dream of snapping even the smallest of twigs from a living tree,

But you consider fallen leaves,

Sticks,

And branches gifts.

You pick up an unassuming twig of buckthorn from the ground,

Holding the end of it to your lips to gently blow.

With the force of your intention and a sprinkling of fairy magic,

The twig yields,

Smoothing itself out and hollowing out its insides.

Tiny holes cut themselves into the sides of the stick at regular intervals.

You twirl the pretty thing in your hands and it responds to the flourish by self-etching intricate designs into the exterior,

Leaves and vines beautifully stylized and delicate.

You hold in your hands now a musical pipe of the many kinds of tools you've used season after season.

This has become a favorite.

While last year's alder flute has by now decomposed along with that spring's freshest flowers,

This new one,

Born of buckthorn,

Shines,

Awaiting a chance to be played.

Angling the pipe toward the shining chrysalis,

You play a single note which rings gracefully,

Echoing through the drops of melting ice and snow.

Another note,

Then a short melody you play until you begin to observe tiny movements above your head.

The chrysalis twitches,

Then shudders,

And soon something is emerging.

She comes on wings the same otherworldly green,

Like bright leaves themselves and dotted with tiny spots.

She floats and flutters,

A little ungainly in her newness,

But sprightly as the tune itself,

A young butterfly dancing to the first notes of spring.

The dance is instinctive,

A response to the tenderness of the sound,

But it is also in a way a covenant,

The forging of a compact between you.

Through the music,

You whisper to her a secret no one in the world knows,

Your true name.

And in the flit and flutter of her wings,

She tells you hers.

It's in a butterfly tongue you couldn't pronounce if you tried,

But it means marigold,

Like the long-blooming flowers that brighten gardens.

By the tune's end,

You've established a strong bond with the butterfly,

And she floats,

Gingerly down to your side,

Lowering her wings to indicate that you may climb aboard.

With care,

You do so,

Finding stability and patting marigold lightly.

Her wings give a little shiver,

Then she lifts off into the air,

Bouncing on a sweet-scented breeze.

The freshness of it,

The freedom of being carried through the silent moonlight,

Is exhilarating.

You can sense marigold's trepidation falling away.

After all,

She's trying her wings for the first time after emerging,

Renewed from metamorphosis.

But she moves with such excitement,

Such thrill at her first flight,

You feel blessed to be a part of it.

But as much as you'd love to simply float on butterfly's wings,

Carefree and leisure-bound,

There is work to be done.

There's a wheel to turn,

A season to waken.

Guiding marigold softly toward the forest floor with the subtlest touch of your hand on her back,

You retrieve your buckthorn pipe and hold the end to your lips.

Angling toward the ground,

You blow a sweet,

Fluttering tune,

Moving your fingers nimbly across the pipe.

The melody becomes visible,

An effervescent periwinkle shimmer carried across the air.

It twists like liquid,

Then softens and settles into the earth,

Like a shower of sparkles seeping into the soil.

Then where it falls,

With a dulcet music of its own,

Something stirs.

Before your eyes,

A sprout here,

A sprout there,

And soon a cascade of tiny green shoots which drip violet-blue,

Bell-shaped blossoms,

Like little teardrops.

The bells curl and flare at their edges,

A whole blanket of them spreads across the forest floor,

Slowly at first,

And then with increasing swiftness,

Till they engulf the understory as far as your eye can see.

A surge of pride swells in your chest at the excitement of color and life you've brought to the forest.

You blow a kiss to the bluebells,

Breathing in their pleasing aroma.

You once listened in on travelers through a similar wood,

One quilted so with bluebells,

And heard the tale they created to explain the abundant flowers.

They sang of a prince,

Hyacinthus,

Beloved by the god Apollo.

As the prince lay dying,

The blue flowers sprang up from his body and covered the forest floor.

Apollo wept,

Etching the petals with his tears.

Such marvelous stories they make,

You think,

In the generations of the earth.

And the tales are windows into their wonder,

Their sorrow,

Their capacious creativity.

On marigold's new wings you fly on the edges of night,

Leaving the forest behind to visit gardens and groves,

Mountains and roadsides.

In the cracks between sidewalks you wake up the weeds,

Which curl more beautifully,

You think,

Than they are given credit for.

You call forth dandelions and dead-nuttle,

Artemisia,

Thistle,

Clover.

Playing merry tunes on your pipe,

You ripen the rose bushes in a manicured garden,

Priming them for new blooms.

You call up rich purple crocuses and rosy-gold hellebore,

Delicate pink primroses that bloom like the fingertips of dawn.

Their songs waft visibly on the night breeze,

Curling and spinning through the sky to reach the branches of magnolia trees,

Where folded buds emerge and await their moment to mystify.

Melodies meander around bare shrubs of witch hazel,

Which burst forth with bright yellow and orange threads.

You even bring up the first green hints of what will be golden daffodils and brightly colored tulips.

The wind swoops and spirals through the night,

Enjoying the freedom that comes with her wings.

She is a bright green star in the darkness.

She carries you higher at your gentle instruction,

Climbing toward the dim stars that hide behind streaks of cloud cover.

You raise the pipe to the sky and play a lilting tune,

One that resonates just right with the drops of moisture above,

One that makes them shiver,

Open,

And release.

A melody to tease out the first spring rain.

A quiet shower,

Gentle enough not to bruise the petals of the newest flowers below,

But nourishing enough to set the roots happy.

With a touch,

You impart just a little extra fairy magic to help seal Marigold's wings against the falling water and keep her safe and dry.

But you relish the feel of cool raindrops on your cheeks and hair.

Rain is the very language of spring,

One that speaks to buds and flowers like no other.

And you watch as the first drops meet the earth,

Which seems to hum and laugh in response,

Welcoming these visitors from the sky,

Soaking them in,

Enjoying the nourishment they bring before they're sent back like ghosts to the clouds.

There's a feeling of tender anticipation in the hush of this night,

One that's all too familiar to you in your work.

All around you,

The earth and its inhabitants sleep,

Recharge,

And renew,

Wrapped in their wintry cloaks,

That these moments,

In the waking of the first flowers,

The summoning of spring rains,

Feel like the early stirrings of one who's dream-tossed.

Those shallow levels of sleep just before rising with the sun,

Where the most wondrous visions play and dance in the dreamer's head.

You can sense it all,

This collective stirring,

The rapid breaths of rabbits snuggled together deep underground,

The ruffling of bird feathers,

The movement of eyes behind their lids.

How many myths are riding themselves in the minds of the sleeping at this very moment?

How many will be remembered and passed along when those dreamers finally wake?

Your heart smiles for those stories that never make it into human songs,

But fade into distant vague dream memory,

For these are the strange and magical stories that sink into the soil,

Etching themselves upon fairy consciousness.

They fill the long sleep you take as you await your season's summons.

Those stories feed the soil,

The roots,

The flowers.

They'll be picked up again,

Of course,

By future dreamers,

The way the water feeds back in a cycle,

In a never-ending spiral.

Dawn's first amber rays are feeding fleetly over the eastern horizon.

They shift and shimmer,

Gold to peach to violet and back.

The rain shower is over,

But drops still cling to primrose petals and gossamer,

Which flutter in the winds of early morning.

You can tell that marigold is growing weary,

No longer riding the burst of energy fueled by her emergence from the chrysalis.

And you too feel the ache of longing for a bit of stillness,

A bit of respite.

As the sun glints over the far edge of the earth,

You gently guide marigold downward,

Looking for a soft place to disembark and catch a morning nap.

You find your target quickly enough.

Glowing white disks,

Like little moons,

That twine along a garden wall.

Those trumpet flowers,

Datura,

Emit a candy-sweet smell that intoxicates.

Marigold's fluttering becomes more languid,

More lazy,

And you feel your own head swim sweetly.

Here is a soft place to slumber,

You think,

Until your call to awaken springs waves with more of your enchanting music.

The season has many stages,

After all,

And these early flowers will be long gone before the marigolds bloom.

Oh,

There is so much to look forward to,

You reflect,

Sliding from the butterfly's back into the bell of a Datura blossom.

The petals are soft,

But sturdy enough to hold your weight.

The butterfly hovers at your eyeline for an instant,

As if to assure you that she'll meet you here again when it's time to get back to work.

Then,

Dipping slightly as she flies,

Still finding her wings,

She goes in search of nectar.

As for you,

Pipe in hand and soaking up the sun's first glimmers,

You sink into the softness of the flower petals,

Curling yourself into the cup of the blossom.

Snug and warm as it is now,

This flower is prone to close as the morning crests,

And you'll soon be fully enveloped in that soothing,

Lolling fragrance.

Your eyes close like the petals of a morning glory,

And a delirious smile drifts across your face.

You settle down,

Slowing your body and mind until it fills with nothing but the spectral images of spring's heralds to come.

When the witch hazel dies,

Then there will be lilac.

When the hellebore droops,

Soon will come daisies.

When the hyacinth withers,

In will march the rose,

Triumphant.

Cascade after cascade of color to liven up this sleeping land.

When winter,

Brought with such kindness by the frost fairy,

Shakes off its ice and snow,

There will be high spring.

Not a battle,

Not a struggle,

Or some game of death and resurrection,

But a passing of the wand,

The music,

The magic,

From season to season.

Let them tell the stories,

Though.

This is the last thought that lingers before you sleep.

Let their myths and folktales dream us as gods and goddesses,

Fierce kings,

And wise crones.

For those dreams,

Those wild imaginings keep the magic alive,

Keep the land enchanted.

All the world is now softly astir,

On the verge of waking from wintry slumber.

And the verge itself is rich with magic.

Soon they'll wake,

Like the flowers,

With new myths on their lips,

Watering spring with their wonder.

As spring approaches,

The earth begins to stir,

To waken from the sleep of winter.

Such wondrous things have happened under our feet during this past season,

Even when the earth has seemed frozen,

Unyielding.

And now we begin to see the first fruits of that underfoot alchemy.

The vernal or spring equinox occurs in March for those in the northern hemisphere,

And in September for those in the southern hemisphere.

And it's marked by a beautiful balance,

When night and day occupy equal hours,

Sun and moon in cosmic harmony.

With this in mind,

As you prepare for sleep tonight,

I'd like to guide you through a simple visualization exercise to help calm your mind,

Slow down racing thoughts,

And embrace the energy of renewal that comes with the changing of the seasons.

First,

Take a few deep,

Cleansing breaths.

Breathe in,

And out,

Letting the breath travel down the back of the throat,

All the way into the belly.

Imagine your inhale blossoming like the petals of a flower,

And your exhale closing those petals,

Each breath in bringing nourishing,

Regenerative energy to you,

And each breath out carrying away a little bit of tension or worry.

Letting yourself soften and sink down into your bed.

See if you can make your inhale and exhale equal length,

Creating an equinox of your own within your body.

Maybe you breathe in on a count of 4 or 5,

And out on a count of 4 or 5.

In with the replenishing energy of the sun,

And out with the serenity and peace of the moon.

Very good.

Keep breathing,

Finding a natural rhythm and a sense of ease here,

While still bringing new waves of relaxation with each cycle of breath.

Close your eyes if they're not closed already,

And create in your mind a blank canvas,

A pure slate onto which your subconscious can conjure images as I call them out.

I invite you to visualize each image I describe,

Without thinking too much about it or editing as you go,

Just letting the images come to you right away.

I will move fairly quickly between prompts so that your mind has little time to perfect or rationalize the image,

And instead,

The visuals come to you purely from the subconscious,

Allowing you to access even deeper relaxation,

Reaching out to touch the dream world as you drift closer and closer to sleep.

Keep breathing,

And we'll begin.

Sun,

Spring rain,

Wildflower meadow,

Quiet lake,

Melting snow,

Restless roots,

Wind through the trees,

Serene waters,

Moss-covered rocks,

River stones,

Mighty oak tree,

Tranquil sunrise,

Butterfly wings,

Field of wheat,

Morning dew,

Bird's nest,

Reflected sunset,

Peaceful forest,

Rain puddles,

Drifting clouds,

Night breeze,

Overgrown cottage,

Fairytale forest,

Sleeping animals,

Dragonflies,

Sunlight through the trees,

Grasses swaying,

Fairy dust,

Plants growing through concrete,

Moon glow,

Standing stones,

Forest path,

Flowers growing through the snow,

Pink sunset,

Budding trees,

Waxing moon,

Butterflies,

Peaceful morning,

Sleeping garden,

Full bloom,

Mist on the water,

Before the rain,

Full moon,

Starry skies.

Let the visualization go,

And return to your breath,

Steady and nourishing.

Sink into your space,

Letting your body and mind completely relax,

Surrendering to the magic of sleep,

And the ever-spinning wheel of the air,

Which brings new blessings with each turn,

Each new season,

And its crests and falls.

May the promise of spring sweeten your dreams,

And bring you blessings and renewal.

Good night.

Reviews

Very creative story. I loved it. Are there stories of the other seasons?

Beautiful, peaceful and I fell asleep before the end so need to listen to again! Thank you 🙏

It's so lovely to have you back. I've missed you. This was so good, so far but I fell asleep. Oops. But I know it was worth 5 🌟. I will play it again.
xo Léna & girls 🐱🐱🌻🐨

Delicate magic of spring 💐 thank you so much for these tender reflections— always so happy to listen to your reverence, Goddess 🙏🏽🙏🏽💥🌱☀️