The Foxfire Trail

In tonight’s story, you awake in the night, feeling restless. As you try to tire your eyes by reading a book, a forest magically appears in your living room. You find a trail waiting for you, lit by fireflies and glowing mushrooms, and guided by nocturnal creatures. Every being you encounter permits you to ask a question, from the owls and foxes to the trees and mycelia. In this dreamlike state, you uncover riddling answers to nature’s great mysteries.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flow, Gentle Winds by Ethan Sloan, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Listen to the voices of an enchanted forest in tonight's magical 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,

You can let go of the story,

And surrender to sleep.

There is no separate meditation exercise following this story,

But it does contain some light breathing and meditation cues,

Which you can follow if you like,

Or simply let the words wash over you.

In this bedtime story,

You awake in the night,

Feeling restless.

As you try to tire your eyes by reading a book,

A forest magically appears in your living room.

You find a trail waiting for you,

Lit by fireflies and glowing mushrooms,

And guided by nocturnal creatures.

Every being you encounter permits you to ask a question,

From the owls and foxes,

To the trees and mycelia.

In this dreamlike state,

You uncover riddling answers to some of nature's great mysteries.

That very night,

In Max's room,

A forest grew.

Maurice Sundak,

Where the wild things are.

It's been a while since you woke in the middle of the night.

You haven't opened your eyes yet,

Mildly disoriented,

Resisting the urge to look at the clock.

You curl up closer against the warm dip in your pillow,

Pulling the covers up to your chin.

The moonlight streams in effortless,

Through a parting in the curtains.

Eyes bounce lightly in a night breeze from the cracked window.

This is the first night you've done so,

The weather being mild enough,

But it's not the chill that's woken you.

Perhaps it was a dream,

Though any dream details you might have remembered slip through your fingertips as soon as you land upon the thought.

It's the way of dreams,

After all.

Well,

A sigh parts your lips.

For better or worse,

You are awake now.

You slide out of bed,

Wrap yourself in a thick robe,

And go to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

A nice cup of herbal tea should help you slip back into relaxation and sleep.

And perhaps you'll read a chapter or two in your book to quiet your mind.

The kettle whistles,

And you pour the hot water over an infuser.

Instantly,

The heat unlocks and releases the scent of chamomile,

Mint,

And other soothing herbs.

You breathe in the aroma deeply,

Feeling your shoulders drop and the muscles of your face relax.

You retrieve your book from the coffee table and snuggle into the padded window seat,

Pulling a throw blanket up to your knees and flicking on a lamp within reach.

Moonlight streams in through the wide bay window,

And the warm radiance of the lamp meets and mingles with the cool natural light.

The moon,

Big and bright tonight,

Provides enough illumination for you to see the texture of the trees that border your property.

It seems to be a remarkably tranquil night,

Little breeze to sway the branches,

And a delicate midnight peace draped over everything.

You sip slowly at your tea and read the book propped open in your lap.

It's a good book,

Certainly,

But you find your gaze tugged at now and then,

Your attention straying to look once more out the window.

You decide to open the window just a crack,

And a cool,

Refreshing night air,

Fragrant with crocus and violets,

Sweeps in to liven up the stuffiness of the house.

And as you continue to read,

Intermittently pausing to let your eyes settle once more on the moon-kissed pines and birch trees,

A profound sense of tranquil security settles over you,

A cozy,

Nestled sensation only possible at this most magical of hours,

A feeling of absolute trust in the safety of your surroundings,

Like you've slipped from the ordinary world into your own dream cocoon,

Where everything you can see,

Hear,

Smell,

And touch is coming from your own mind,

Messages from the other side of sleep.

Maybe it's the aromatic florals of the night mixed with the herbs in your tea,

But the scent of plant life seems to grow stronger and more intoxicating with every breath you take.

Your eyes wander vaguely from the page,

And for a moment,

You're unsurprised to see the cascades of wisteria that hang from the edge of your window seat,

The network of tree roots that weave across the floor.

But then as you watch,

Before your eyes,

The room transforms,

The roots reach and burrow,

And great trees grow up from nothing,

Stretching toward the ceilings which dissolve into a clear midnight sky.

Soon,

Even that is near obscured by a burgeoning canopy,

Needles and leaves and branches closing in toward each other.

The walls fall away,

And a forest grows right in the middle of your very home.

There's the fragrance of fresh growth all around,

Fresh and bright from the evergreens which retain their splendor year-round,

And diverse flora bloom from what was once hardwood and is now a complex forest floor with many shrubs and flowers now reaching their peak.

Somehow,

As miraculous as the transformation is,

It feels entirely expected,

Like you knew it was coming,

Like you've waited for this.

Because there's a deeper urge now tingling in your fingertips and toes,

An urge to get up and be wild and wander into the woods.

It's a ridiculous proposition,

You know that in your head,

But still,

A little fire kindles in your belly,

An excitement that won't be easily quenched.

The slight breeze through the glimmering trees seems to whisper your name,

Soft and low.

The forest is calling you.

Will you answer the call?

Only moments pass in quivering hesitation before you've thrown off the blanket and risen from the window seat,

Flicking on the flashlight on your phone.

Your mug of tea still steaming waits unfinished there,

Along with an open book.

Tonight calls for a greater adventure.

You breathe in the invigorating night air and the wash of silver moon glow.

The satellite is just a few days short of full,

And it seems to hover only inches from the tops of the trees.

You can almost feel the moonbeams dust your cheeks and hair.

A moon like this,

You think,

Is symbolic of potential,

Growth,

Continuation,

And fulfillment.

And the pines,

All midnight green and silver-tipped,

Wait before you,

The beckoning threshold.

Stepping between them feels like crossing an invisible boundary.

There's an energetic shift that's palpable,

As if you've entered another world entirely.

The moonlight falls on soft ground,

Last season's fallen leaves all decomposing,

And freshly shed needles of pine and fir.

Under dark skies and a silver moon,

You exercise the same restraint and respect you always carry when you enter natural spaces.

Watching to the best ability,

Where you step,

Leaving habitats as undisturbed as possible.

Making little noise in deference to the more-than-human inhabitants of the wood.

The forest comes alive at night,

You reflect.

Every rustle or scurry carries the weight of presence,

Of being.

You feel yourself observed,

But the sensation is not at all unsettling.

In fact,

It's indescribably comforting to know you are watched over by the eyes of the forest,

The ancient guardian trees,

The flourishing plants,

And the nocturnal animals.

In time,

You find that your eyes have adjusted so well that you hardly need the light of the flashlight.

Just as an experiment,

You try turning it off for a moment.

There's a split second of what feels like total darkness,

And stillness,

And sacred solitude,

Before the most surprising spectacle materializes.

There,

Near your feet,

Speckling the sides of the trail you walk,

And stretching out further into the forest,

Are little glowing lights.

It's a mesmerizing bluish-green,

Phosphorescent,

And nearly pulsing before your eyes like tiny,

Cold fires.

And it's not only at your feet,

But there are hints of it from the branches of nearby trees.

The sight fills you with such childlike amazement that you think it must be a sign of some supernatural guide,

As if some good fairy sprinkled footlights through the forest in anticipation of your coming to light your way and keep you safe in the night.

But when you bend low to inspect the source of the little light,

Uncovering its perfectly natural explanation,

You are no less awed by the wonder of nature.

The lights are coming from a cascade of glowing mushrooms,

Which pepper the path so diligently that it's hard to think they weren't placed there with a purpose.

The lights from the trees are from clusters of the same,

Which cling to branches,

Shedding their own luminosity.

What's the word for this phenomenon?

The specific form of bioluminescence emitted by forest fungi?

Foxfire,

You think.

Or fairy fire.

The terms conjure swirling images of folkloric creatures.

You find yourself squinting through the darkness,

Wondering if you can peek beyond the visible world to see the gnomes and pixies dancing in the wood.

This would be the night for such fairy gatherings.

And the fox,

Who plays an important role in folklore from across the world,

Would fit in nicely among the magical beings.

Whether they are tricksters,

Shapeshifters,

Or mystical guides,

Boxes have always held your fascination.

Coming face to face with one,

Rare as it is,

Always feels entirely magical.

So this phenomenon of bioluminescent mycelia,

Which is still not fully understood by the botanists and biologists who study it,

Carries a name that's commensurate with its heightened mystery.

Your mind preoccupied with musings on fairies and the folkloric fox,

It's natural that you might imagine seeing a furry,

Reddish face in the dark spaces between the glowing mushrooms.

Forests,

Even ones that magically spring up inside houses late at night,

Have a way of playing tricks on lonely wanderers.

But there's the rub.

It doesn't seem to be a trick.

It really does look like there are two black,

Shining eyes peeking through that tufty fur.

In a few moments,

It becomes clear that it's not just your mind conjuring patterns in the darkness.

There really is a red fox,

Crouched low to the ground and still as a statue,

Holding your gaze from beyond the trail of mushrooms,

The glow of foxfire flickering in their eyes.

Your breath catches,

And you still your muscles,

Immediately conscious that any movement might alarm the fox and cause it to flee.

But the longer you stand there,

The more it becomes evident that the fox does not feel threatened.

You relax and exhale.

You hold eye contact with the fox for what seems like a very long time,

The only movement you can sense being the occasional swish of the animal's tail in the brush.

The connection between your eyes is palpable,

Almost visible like a trail of light.

You soon feel relaxed enough to move,

And you slowly,

Carefully crouch down so that you are closer to eye level with the fox.

They hardly flinch at your motion,

As if it was expected.

The blue-green glow reflects off the fox's white and orange fur.

Then,

The fox,

Never breaking with your gaze,

Takes a step.

A paw falls in a gap between the glowing fungi,

Appearing to light up as it crosses the plane.

Then another step toward you,

Until your faces are only inches apart.

You've never been this close to a wild animal before,

And the connection between you feels intense and mysterious,

Like you've known each other's souls forever.

You feel so earnestly attuned to the fox that it's almost unsurprising when the animal opens their mouth to speak.

I know why you've come,

She says,

To the forest,

For I was one of the voices calling your name.

You wonder for a moment if waking in the night,

Brewing the tea,

And finding yourself in the midst of all this sudden growth,

If all of it could be a dream in which you're still embedded.

The night has had the surreal quality of a dream,

And yet,

The sights and smells of the damp earth,

The feel of the soil beneath your feet,

It all feels so impenetrably solid,

So potent and present.

You're dancing in the mystery of a nocturnal world,

Unsure which side of the veil you traverse.

You make your reply to the fox.

The forest came to me,

You say.

It grew all around me,

Right in the middle of my living room.

And you took the first step,

She responds,

Which means the forest chose well.

The forest chose me,

You ask.

The stars were right,

She responds,

Only when they fall into just the right pattern,

And the moon skims the branches of our trees,

Just so we creatures of the forest gain new voices.

We can communicate with an ally we choose.

Your eyes float upward to the breaks in the branches.

Indeed,

Here moonlight sneaks through the canopy to fall like silver strings.

You can see some stars,

Too,

Blinking bright against the darkness.

It's an exceedingly clear night,

One when the celestial bodies appear close enough to kiss,

And you can feel the immediacy of your place in the cosmos.

You wonder if this is a specific forest,

When you've wandered before,

Or if it's something more mysterious.

The idea of a forest,

The apotheosis of all forests.

A sense of immense honor settles upon you like a crown of leaves,

To think you've been singled out by the spirits of this place.

I speak on behalf of the forest,

Says the fox.

You will meet others who can do the same,

If you continue to walk the path.

We've watched over you in every wood you've ever walked.

You have,

You inquire,

Imagining the network of tree roots communicating with each other across time and space.

Very few who cross into the still wild spaces of this earth do so with the same reverence.

The forest chose you this night because we see you as a friend,

As kindred.

The fox's words touch your heart.

A slight breeze whispers through the trees at this moment,

Tickling the back of your neck.

You can hear the sound of your name,

You're sure of it,

Between the leaves.

And so,

The fox continues.

On this night,

While you walk safely within our moonlit world,

You will meet the voices of the forest.

Each of them,

Myself included,

Will answer one question for you.

The mysteries of the wild are yours for the questioning,

Traveler.

You are aware now,

Acutely,

Of the multitude of spirits in this wood,

The seen and the unseen.

Birds in the trees,

Insects in the dirt,

The cocoons and chrysalises clinging to the branches,

The roots beneath your feet,

And the networks of plants.

You wonder what else,

Who else will speak to you on behalf of the forest.

And more urgently,

You ponder what your first question should be.

What wisdom do you seek from the fox?

Surely there are many secrets the fox harbors,

Secrets that have made her species fodder for so much myth and folklore.

Trickster,

Guide,

Shapeshifter.

With her ability to slip unseen through forest and city alike,

She must be witness to mysterious and wonderful things.

Yet,

She is one of the quietest of animals.

She keeps her own country and remains tight-lipped.

Considering this,

Your question at last arises.

Why is the forest speaking to me through you,

Who are commonly silent?

The fox's eyes slowly close,

Then open again.

Somehow you have the sense that it's her way of smiling or expressing contentment.

She speaks.

I reserve my voice for those occasions when I cannot stay silent,

She says.

The forest knows this.

In choosing carefully how and when to speak,

I ensure that my counsel falls not upon those unwilling to listen.

To mediate for others and for my kin of the forest is my great honor.

You take in the fox's answer.

Diplomatic as it is,

There seems to be a kernel of wisdom housed in it.

The notion of reserving counsel for those most likely to listen and being a voice for the voiceless.

You will take some time to digest her words.

Somewhere deep in the wood,

An owl hoots softly.

Your next answer lies that way,

Says the fox,

Turning her head down the path in the direction of the sound.

Follow the light.

Thank you,

You offer the fox,

But she dashes off into the darkness of the wood before the words are out of your mouth.

You're left wondering if the interaction was real,

But then the tender hoot of the owl sounds again,

And the spell of the forest weaves itself around you.

You rise to your feet and move down the trail,

Following the foxfire glow.

It isn't long before you find the next guide,

Whose white feathered face shines like the moon itself on a high branch.

You know this is your guide because in the owl's dark eyes,

Striking with that crescent reflection of greenish blue bioluminescence,

It's like you can see the whole dark forest mirrored.

Another soft hoot settles in the air around you,

Like a soothing elixir for the soul.

You gaze reverently up at the beautiful bird,

With its streaked brown and white plumage.

If you're correct,

This is a bard owl.

You recall with amusement that you once thought the name of the species referred to the poets and harpers of the old world,

Rather than the pattern of feathers.

The owl speaks.

On behalf of the forest,

He says with a voice that's raspy and low,

I will answer one question for you,

Traveler.

You've been considering your next question since parting with the fox,

For it was the owl's voice that beckoned you on,

Deeper into the heart of the forest.

What is it you'd most like to know from the owl?

His eyes gleam,

Containing endless darkness and slivers of light.

You ask.

You who have keen eyes for hunting at night,

What do you see that no one else does?

The owl shifts subtly on his perch,

And the bard feathers across his chest shiver,

Then settle back into place.

He answers.

Much has been made about keenness of sight,

The gift I was born with.

My eyes can perceive fine detail,

Minuscule motion,

And grand vistas all at once.

I can see the center,

The above,

The below,

And make out the tiniest mouse,

Scurrying beneath the leaves,

Under cover of darkness.

When the night is clear and the wind is right,

My sight can ride along its stream,

And I can see beyond the mask of mortal vision.

All of us are born into this world with our unique gifts,

But I will tell you something not many know,

The true secret behind the keenness of my sight.

You lean in closer,

Eager to hear the owl's secret wisdom.

From the sharp-eyed eagle to the blind mole,

All of nature's creatures can come close to the kind of sight I practice,

For it is not the shape of my eyes alone,

Nor the width of my perspective,

Which heals discoveries in the dark.

It is stillness,

The patience to stand unmoving,

To surrender to observation.

Stillness tunes one to the frequencies of the forest,

Grants access to higher energies,

And yields motion in others.

Practice it well,

Traveler,

And you may find that your own sight unlocks.

Standing there beneath the owl on the branch,

You try to let your own eyes fall into a wide,

Soft focus,

Allowing your body to embrace the kind of stillness he describes.

You become very aware of the regular rhythm of your heartbeat,

The rise and fall of your chest as you breathe in and out,

And the subtle twitch of your fingers by your sides.

Even the vibrations of the ground beneath your feet are palpable here.

True stillness,

It seems,

Is harder to achieve than you might have thought,

But even here,

In bringing your body and mind together toward a slower,

More deliberate pace in decelerating toward the peace described by the owl,

You find that you can perceive more.

Your peripheral vision widens as you choose not to focus solely on what is straight ahead.

You can sense the presence of the stars peeking through the canopy,

The leaves on the ground,

The glow of foxfire stretching out into the forest.

You breathe.

This is something you can come back to,

You think,

A practice of stillness and observation.

You thank the owl for the gift of his wisdom.

Travel further if you seek more,

He says softly,

And swivels his head as if to gesture on down the path.

Then,

With the swiftness of the fox before him,

And a near silent whistle of wings,

He is gone.

His hunt continues,

And so does yours.

After two otherworldly encounters with the forest's wisest creatures,

You are unearthing a hunger for wisdom you hadn't known was there.

You've always approached the natural world with a sense of open wonder,

Certainly a curiosity about the inner workings of its systems and species,

But never have you considered how thoughtfully it might speak to you,

How a simple enough question can yield entryways into the complex spirals of awe.

So you travel on,

Following the foxfire trail,

Eager to find your next guide.

You wonder who will reveal themselves to you next.

Will it be like in the romances,

When a questing beast or a white stag appears like a flash through the trees,

Setting your heart alight with desire?

Or will you be led to the mouth of a rabbit's burrow,

A pond flush with frogs?

As you walk,

You try to maintain the soft and open awareness of the owl,

Along with the patience of the fox.

These are lessons you hope to take with you when the time comes to leave the forest.

You find that you've been walking for a while,

With no indication of your next guide.

You stop where you are and take a deep breath,

Trying once again to practice near total stillness.

Perhaps you haven't been listening carefully enough to hear the voice that's calling you.

There is little sound in the forest at this hour.

Somewhere far off between the trees,

A twig snaps.

Even further away,

If you listen hard enough,

There's the hum of a vehicle on the road.

It's strange that here,

So deep in the enchanted heart of nature,

You can still sense the encroachment of civilization.

You widen your gaze,

Softening your eyes,

Trying to take in all that's around you.

The fox fire dabbles the path.

And then there is a shimmer that you did not notice before.

Something glints in the strings of moonlight,

Something that clings to the gnarled oak that overhangs the trail.

There,

Glistening like milk-white pearls are what look like berries.

Around them curl silvery green leaves and foliage.

They stand out against the textured brown of the tree's bark,

And in contrast to the familiar shape of an oak leaf.

There is something different,

Something that entwines around the branches of the oak,

Making a home from the tree.

You've seen ivy creep around the base of great trunks before,

But this plant,

With its peculiar white berry,

Is new to you,

At least in such a setting.

Then it comes to you,

What the thing must be,

And you feel almost silly for not recognizing it at once.

It adorns doorways and thresholds all throughout the winter months,

Doesn't it?

Its mistletoe.

Here it's wrapped its roots cozily around the limb of the oak,

So they form a tight bond.

Its leaves flutter gently in a quickening breeze,

Which kisses your shoulders on its way.

There's something about the way the moonbeams skim the white berries that you can't look away from,

And then you hear,

Ringing like a tiny bell,

A voice.

Is there a question you would ask of me?

The query seems to come from within your very mind,

But these are not the echoes of your thoughts.

This is the whisper,

You realize,

Of the mistletoe.

It is your next guide.

You've never spoken with a plant before,

You think with amusement.

Nothing about this night is ordinary,

But the forging of a connection with the plant world feels to you the most foreign event thus far.

It stirs and wakens wisdom within,

Like a kind of cognition you'd forgotten you had access to.

You observe the interconnectedness of the mistletoe and its branch,

And you wonder about the nature of the relationship.

Is it one of mutual benefit or of parasitism?

How did the mistletoe come to curl itself around the oak?

And what,

You think,

Is the way to ask that might yield the purest insight?

You pose your question aloud.

What is your place in the forest?

The oval leaves quiver momentarily in the breeze,

Then return to stillness.

Then the mistletoe's small,

Clear voice rings again in your head.

Long ago,

A bird nibbled at the berries of my great-great-grandmother plant,

Far and away across the world.

The bird migrated and brought with it seeds,

Which grew into leaves and berries and clung to the apple trees on the Isle of Avalon.

And by that same process,

My many brothers and sisters and cousins were born over great distances and left to grow entwined with trees who whispered their secrets to us.

We became oak-wise,

Birch-knowing,

Alder-kin.

We came to know how our firm grasp causes harm to our hosts,

And many branches were felled by our hands.

We regret the loss.

But those fallen branches met the earth and melted there into the soil,

And came to feed the living trees and shrubs.

I know the migratory patterns of birds,

The feel of oak bark,

And the signals of connected roots.

I know better,

Perhaps,

Than most,

That everything is connected,

From the smallest of sprouts to the most distant stars.

I know that boundaries are only erected to sever the inseverable connections within nature.

It's how I know that you are the same as me,

No matter how far your kind drives mine away,

With walls and stories.

You think of the tree roots that stretched themselves across your floors,

And the walls that dissolved into the world.

Walls that only exist to keep the inside out,

And to maintain the illusion that you are separate from the natural world,

Instead of deeply embedded within it,

An integral part of its connected universe,

Like the mistletoe wrapped around the oak.

One more guide will speak to you tonight,

The mistletoe whispers in your mind.

They've been trying to reach you,

Calling your name since first you entered this forest,

But they are very hard for the uninitiated to hear.

This remark gives you pause.

Yes,

You've been hearing your name in the silence of the wood,

You're sure,

But who can the speaker have been?

The wind?

Who or what else has been with you since you first set foot in the mysterious forest?

Your gaze naturally falls downward,

Settling on the forest floor,

Where the little lights of the glowing mushrooms still illuminate your path.

Of course,

You think,

The flux fire has been all evening your north star,

Your guiding light.

This is the beckoning voice.

You drop to your knees and the mycelia seem to glow brighter as your presence nears.

Will they speak to you in the same way as the mistletoe?

A ringing echo in your head?

Hello,

You say,

Unsure of how one introduces oneself to a mushroom.

As if in response,

All the tiny mushrooms in your line of sight blink in unison,

Dimming and brightening like one collective organism.

The visual effect produces an almost audible hum or buzz.

You soften your gaze and try to still your thoughts,

Thinking of the fox's keen listening and the owl's insightful stillness.

And you think of the mistletoe's wisdom too,

Trying to grasp,

To remember your own place within the forest's ecosystem.

Perhaps,

You think,

By combining all these ways of seeing,

Hearing,

And the knowing,

You will come to understand the message in the fox fire.

You press your hands to the soil,

Feeling the cool and satisfying texture of the fallen leaves there.

Instantly,

The connection you feel intensifies,

Like you've plugged in to an energy source.

You let the question form in your mind.

It's a simple question,

But you feel like you can't let the opportunity to understand the answer pass you by.

Why do you glow?

You ask the mushrooms.

And you wait.

And you hope you can decipher the subtle shifts in the fox fire glow.

But you find it's very simple.

With your hands to the earth,

Your focus soft and your senses piqued,

The answer comes through decisive and clear,

Like sound waves pulsing up through your limbs to resonate deep within you.

A secret language in which you'd forgotten you were fluent.

When your children learn to draw,

Hums the fox fire,

With their fingers still undisciplined,

It's only lines and scribbles.

The songs of their souls are still so abstract,

And here the glow shifts with a burst of frenetic energy,

As if your guide is unleashing a joyful and unbridled bellow.

The message continues.

I saw a star once and wondered why it shone.

But it wasn't for me to know.

I brought romantics to the woods and was mistaken for a ghost.

Fairies nested in my aura.

If you or your kind had your ears to the ground,

You might understand.

I am still testing my light,

Refining my rhythm.

I am young like the earth,

And I don't know yet what I'm capable of,

What I can create.

Neither do you,

Little traveler.

You are a child too,

And I do not hold your clumsiness or your naivete against you.

I admire your trying.

There is no secret,

No grander mystery to my cold fire,

My promiscuous glow.

I know as much as you.

I am learning to sing.

The glow returns to a constant,

And the buzz in your limbs recedes.

You kneel and ponder the strange message you've just received.

All the other guides seemed so sage,

So wise,

So willing to impart profound and meaningful counsel.

But something stays with you about the foxfire's tale.

It's a complete surrender,

You think,

To the vast unknown,

To the clumsy nobility of trying and of failure,

To the unthinkable age of the universe,

And the childlike innocence of all earthly creatures in comparison,

To the absurdity of anyone or anything that claims absolute certainty.

There's something deeply comforting about it,

The reminder that you are not alone,

And are in fact held by a whole world of unknowing,

Of utter mystery.

You press your hands again to the earth,

Intending to convey your thanks to the trail of foxfire for their guidance and wisdom,

And also to let that thanks radiate out to all the spirits of the forest.

But beneath your fingers a change is taking place.

Soil and moss withdraw from your touch,

Giving way to the tight threads of a throw rug.

Roots recoil and limbs retreat.

Trees unmake themselves,

And glowing mushrooms shrink from view,

Disappearing into the ground.

The stars blink out overhead,

And the moon disappears,

The night sky replaced by ceiling beams.

The walls rematerialize.

You're back in your living room,

In the cool blue light of midnight,

With a tender breeze sweeping in from the open window.

No more wisteria overhangs the dormer,

Where your book lies open to the page where you left it.

Wisps of steam still rise from the mug of tea,

Scented with herbs.

All is as you remember at the moment you first stepped into the mysterious wood.

Oh,

But you are changed.

You were called to the forest tonight,

And led by animals,

And plants,

And the spirits of nature.

You were initiated,

And you carry now new wisdom.

No,

Old wisdom.

Long forgotten,

And at long last remembered.

Something stirred in you tonight that had long been sleeping.

It roused you from your dreams.

Tonight,

In your home,

A forest grew.

You finish sipping your tea,

Feeling the welcome waves of sleepiness come over your body and mind.

You climb the stairs with visions of fox fire in your mind.

Your gaze is soft.

Your senses are open.

Your mind is clear.

And you surrender to the unknown,

To your place in the natural world,

To sleep.

Good night.

Reviews

I love these sleep stories. Thank you.

Beautiful descriptive language and story that is perfect to visualise and fall asleep to.

Probably my favourite session. Such a beautiful story and yet despite trying to stay awake and listening to a few times I have no idea how it ends! Thank you 🙏

Beautiful imagery and imagination. Thank you for all your stories. They always help me fall asleep! 🙏🏻❤️

So very beautiful. I might need to sit upright with a cup of strong coffee in order to hear it all.

Was afraid listening to the story would make me even MORE awake but fell asleep just as fox appears and woke back up briefly as we returned to the living room. I'll have to listen again just to find out what happens! Lovely.

Fabulous fell asleep before the end was so relaxing thank you x

Glad you are back! And what a touching story. Listened twice and still haven’t heard the whole story 💤💤😴💤😴but I will. Thank you ❤️

I enjoyed visualizing in detail until I fell asleep. Helped quiet my mind 🙏

Pure magic, so fresh and delightful… thank you so much ❤️❤️❤️🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

This is such a sweet story. It sings spring And goes along with the moonflower story. I love them and can’t wait to get out in the garden to listen to what they have to say.r
You are so knowledgeable of the Flora and fauna…..Thank you!