The Fruit Fairy | Summer Solstice Sleep Story

Charm the fruits of the summer to ripeness in tonight’s summer solstice bedtime story. In tonight’s story, as gentle spring prepares to surrender to the bounty of summer, you awake. You are the fruit fairy, and you wind your way across the land with an ever-growing entourage of birds, animals, and insects, all charmed by the music you make. Your song of summer has the power to make the whole earth dance and yield its ripe fruits. If you’re still awake at the end of the story, I’ll guide you through a relaxing meditation to welcome summer.

Music & Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, At the Break of Dawn by Jakob Ahlbom, A Bard’s Minuet by Jon Bjork, Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Charm the fruits of summer to ripeness in tonight's summer solstice 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. Follow along with my voice for as long as you like. And when you're ready, Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep. If you're still awake, As the story concludes. I'll guide you through a relaxing visualization to welcome summer. In tonight's story, As gentle spring prepares to surrender to the bounty of summer, You awake. You are the fruit fairy, And you wind your way across the land with an ever-growing entourage of birds, Animals, And insects, All charmed by the music you make. Your song of summer has the power to make the whole earth dance and yield its ripe fruits. A note for listeners, This story contains some descriptions of wine consumption and intoxication. This is done with an eye to poetic and mythological parallels, But if you would prefer to avoid any references to alcohol, Listener discretion is advised. Pour libations. Cover your head with ivy. Join the dance. Euripides, The Bacchae. Oh heavy is the sleep that clouds the eyes of those who wake in late spring. Already the lilac has come and gone. Only the ghost of her perfume lingers. Crocus and Snowdrop were the first to wake. And now they too have receded back to the underworld of soil and sleep. The once-vibrant azalea drops her rotting blossoms. But fear not, Lazy bones, Late riser. For though you may have missed the first flush of color to brighten the earth after a long season of snow, You are just in time for the symphony of summer. Poppies shuffle off their shrouds to stretch their wrinkled paper petals. Snapdragons, Foxgloves, And stargazer lilies climb ever upward. The breeze is redolent of honeysuckle and rose. New generations of rabbits and deer and starlings and waxwings are finding their footing in flight. In the cacophony of life and growth that heralds the doorway of summer. Even you, Perhaps the heaviest sleeper on earth, Cannot help but stir, Stretch wide your arms, And brush the sleep from your eyes. Somewhere in the world, Perhaps in the snug bell of a foxglove, Your cousin, The flower fairy, Must be closing their eyes now. Having thawed the frozen soil, Called down the rain, And ushered in a splendid spring. Their work is done. It comes to you now, The steward of summer's blessings and bounty. Is it wrong if it's never felt like work to you? This is summer, The time for play. So sleepyhead, Arise. The whole world is waiting for you. You and the sun are waking at the same time. This will be a long day. One of the longest? And do you intend to fill every moment of it with dizzy delight? So hazy and languid as you are. You mustn't waste the tender morning. Emerging from the shaded soil of the strawberry patch, You shake sleep from your wings. Plucking a scarlet honeysuckle from the nearby vine. You pull on the delicate thread to unearth a golden drop of nectar. It hits your tongue like liquid sunshine. You close your eyes and sweetly savor it. You regard the spent bloom in your hands, A narrow, Trumpet-shaped throat of brilliant fuchsia. From which the thready stamens reach. These flowers may prove useful for your travails, You think. You carefully pluck the threads from the flower and store them at your belt. Then, Hold the blossom to your lips and blow. The honeysuckle horn transforms your breath to music. A ringing note so pure it seems to harmonize with the frequency of the morning, Bringing beads of dew to shudder on the petals of primroses. It's clear and cautious, The first note of summer containing all the stored energy and breath of the previous seasons. It is an exhale. An embrace of the potential exuberance ahead. A clearing out of old energy. It is beautiful. It gives you goosebumps. And yet. . . You still think you can do a little bit better. Limbs loosening after months of slumber, You climb the fragrant honeysuckle vine to pluck another flower. This one slightly wider at the throat than the last. As before, You extract the shimmering bead of nectar for your enjoyment. And stash the stamen threads for later use. Now, With two blossoms to your lips and nimble hands prepared to play, You blow again. This time, There arises a hypnotic harmonic Two notes, Equally sweet in isolation. But together. The combined effect makes you shiver. A wind rises and tickles the back of your neck. The echo of the notes gives way to a swelling buzz of bees. The sun inches above the horizon as if straining to look upon your cluster of vines. There, You say, Your body still humming with the vibrations of those two strange and sweet notes. Let the summoning of summer begin. The bees have already heard your call, And the hummingbirds too. On spirals of breeze they flutter and float into view. The hummingbirds, With wings a blur and iridescent. Bee is fuzzy and nectar-bound. You kick off from the vines and set your wings to worrying too. You lift the honeysuckle instrument to your lips again and begin to play. Experimenting at first, Then gaining strength and composure. You settle into a rhythm as the dueling tones compete and resolve, Entwining to form a strange and dissonant chorus. A wild and unpredictable harmony. The music. Is at once resonant. And uplifting. It rumbles in your core, Shaking the leaves below, And it trills playfully, Catching the golden rays of sunshine and twisting them into knots. This is the song of summer. It is never the same from year to year. Always shifting cadence and quality. But it remains irresistible to beings great and small. It is a song meant for the birds, The insects, The species that live below the soil. The roots, The trees. And the droplets of water that form the scudding clouds. This is an invitation. An invocation. An initiation. You catch the breeze yourself, Like a dance partner, Letting your wings rest and be carried across the meadows. The bees and hummingbirds, Already dizzy with nectar, Follow lazily behind. Enticed by the honeysuckle music, You continue to play. Over fields of wildflowers. They will break away to drop into the bell of a foxglove, The velvet petals of a wild rose. This is inevitable. And indeed desirable. From flower to flower, They carry the matter of life. Bursts of pollen clinging to their bellies and backsides. But they will always rejoin the caravan, Sooner or later. They always come back to dance again. And by the time you've touched down in the vineyard, Your entourage has grown. The baby doll sheep who graze among the grapevines are drawn to you just as winged creatures are. A colorful kestrel hovers overhead, Bobbing in time with your song. Perched upon a training stake, You play a merry tune. One just right for dancing. The double notes weave in and out like unruly vines. And they should. For this is the music of the great. As the song swells, So too do the fruit of the vine, Ripening at your command. The air fills with a sweet and citrusy aroma. And bundles of green grapes begin to sag along the rows. A vineyard is a place of magic, You think. A place of untamed alchemy. Here among the neatly ordered rows, Where climate and conditions are so carefully controlled, Grows the grape. A peculiar fruit which, Once fermented, Is the ultimate agent of transformation. For thousands of summers, Humankind has farmed this treasure. Guided its transmutation. Reveled in its harvest and indulged in its playful sorcery. They've consumed wine and shed their inhibitions, Donning masks and animal skins, And engaging in ecstatic rites to please their gods. It is amusing to you, Seeing their depictions of Dionysus and Bacchus. Hedonistic gods of wine, Agriculture, Theater, Wildness, And ritual madness. Or Aegir, The sea-giant, Whose abode was a grand brewing-hall. Brigid and Hathor. Soma and Ogun. Varuni, And Tez Katsontekati. Without fail, It seems, Every human culture, To spread across the earth, Has found a way to assign grapes to the divine. To some larger-than-life deity or supernatural being. It's especially charming. Because it's not entirely wrong. As you enchant the fruit of the vineyard to ripen with your alluring double pipes. Coaxing the wild creatures of the earth. To follow you and dance. You can understand the impulse to mythologize. You're just perhaps a little smaller than they might have imagined. And your coterie are not the wine mad. Feral women of the villages. They are the orchestra of pollinators to whom the earth owes her colorful flourishing. They are the dazzling flowers themselves. They are the whole, Interconnected and abundant web of life that reaches its peak in the summer sun. And now, As you play your enchanting music among the vines and swelling grapes, Your numbers grow. The oak trees in the grove are bending softly in your direction. They too are fruiting. Acorns develop and mature on their branches. Though the trees may not be able to wrench their roots from the soil. They dance in their own way. And overhead a murmuration of starlings flop. Twisting and shifting like a single organism underwater. Listening to each other's cues and yours to change direction, Spiral inward, Spiral out. Spiders weave their webs in time to the music, As if building traps to catch the sticky notes of song as they travel through the air. Even the owls and bats that haunt the corners of the vineyard. Fast asleep by day. Perk up their sleepy ears and let the music infiltrate their dreams. This is how flowers become fruit. Your cousin, The flower fairy, Who coaxed awake the petals of snowdrops and bluebells, Who rested the earth from winter's icy grip, Set this process in motion. But the next step. The culmination in your eyes. Is not something you can do alone. If the spoils of the earth are to come to fruition. Bonds must be forged. It must be done together. Which is why. The music of your double pipe. The honeysuckle sweetness of it. Could never be enough. Not on its own. You've enticed the grapes to grow and stretch, The acorns to hang heavy upon the oaks. But there's a whole world to pollinate. And a host of allies at your beck and call. Tenderly, You pick a grape from the vine. Where it splits from the stem, A tiny plume of juice bursts, Landing sticky on your hands and smelling of sweet citrus. The grape is so heavy, You must bring it down to earth. Unable to balance any longer on the leaves. If you are to make the earth fruitful. You need more than an entourage. You need an ensemble. A festival even. You peel a patch of skin from the fragrant grape and stretch it over the belly of an acorn cap you find on the ground. You tap at the skin, Which resonates powerfully in the hollow cap. Here is a drum, You cry, For anyone who wishes to play. And this drum you pass to a visiting squirrel who, With practiced pause, Produces a playful rhythm. Now, You are a duet. And your companions have a beat to move to. All year, The plants and animals and rocks and insects wait for you. For the first note of summer. For the first grape in the vineyard. For three seasons, They make their homes. They shelter their families. They birth their young. But when the song of summer starts to play. They cast aside their obligations and run wild. They take up instruments and dance. The younger generations, Brought forth in the spring, Know you only from the stories their elders tell. In their eyes as summer ripens. You see wonder and mystery glow. And in the veterans who reluctantly leave your side as the leaves begin to fall. You see renewed wildness and ecstasy. So you go across the fields and orchards. You play the peaches ripe until you and your company are frenzied with the intoxicating perfume. With the honeysuckle threads you saved, You string a cherry stem into a harp, Presenting this to the spotted toad who's just joined your circle. He plucks the strings which quiver and resound through the trees and grasses. On together you dance, Toes in the soil. Wings in the Wind. Waves in the water. Everywhere you go, Your music delights the flowers, Brings the fruits to ripen. Peaches, Pears, Cherries, And chestnuts. You pull garlands of ivy from the trunks of trees and dress your heads with wreaths of it. Everywhere you go, More creatures join the dance. Sparrows damsel flies frogs and wild cats. You build more instruments of music. So that anyone with breath or beating heart can play along. Pipes of fennel and reeds, Drums and horns built of flowers and shells. And the lulling sweetness of the music. There are no predators, Nor prey. There are only fellow limbs of one spiraling constellation of dance. Together you are like the murmuration of starlings. United. Of one mind. Even as more and more join the fold. Twisting and shuddering like the strings of the honeysuckle harp. So you are the initiator. And you hold your instrument aloft like a conductor's wand. This ensemble is self-organizing. It has no cosmic bandleader. Every entity who joins the dance invisibly tethers themselves to seven neighbors sensitive to the subtlest of swishes. You ring against each other like tuning forks, Echolocators, Attracting and repelling within the magnetic spiral. You tramp across the land, You band of playful merrymakers, Leaving toadstools in your wake. The fruiting bodies of a subterranean kingdom, Arranged according to some sublime and unexplained symmetry. The sunlight on your skin is a curious potion. It makes you lightheaded and giddy. Makes you sleepy and restless. It is one of the great magics of summer. Of a light and heat of the sun, Amplify the season's enchantment. Amplify sensation In the warm and golden air, Scent and sound travel faster. Sap and honey flow more freely. Water sparkles in the stream with a brilliance almost impossible to behold. All the inhabitants of Earth are wider awake, And yet. . . They sleep the deepest in the summer. And under the inescapable sun. The burning agent of life and bounty. Wildness takes over. If the harvest season to come is one of careful consideration, Counting crops, And preparing for the recession of the light. If winter is for conservation and rest. If springtime is for welcoming the sun back after a long time away. For convincing the first green shoots to take another chance on the world. SUMMER is for sensation. Summer is a time for full fruits, Nectar dripping. Warm skin. Fermentation. And play. Summer is for seeking the coldest water to quench the unquenchable thirst. Summer is for dancing and sweat. And forgetting. Summer is for the fragrance of honeysuckle in the morning and jasmine at dusk. Summer is for turning the flowers inside out. That they might bear fruit. Now the tune that swells the service berry Now the dance that enchants the persimmon. Across field, River, Mountain and valley. You bring your music to summon the fruit. Even on the longest day of the year. The sun is eventually destined to set. It takes its time, Sliding from the sky like a thick drop of honey along the cells of a beehive. Shadows lengthen and the song and dance change shape again and again. As evening comes, You and your troop of revelers trip the light fantastic across lily pads on the surface of a pond. Your footfalls and wing flits and rhythms drum up ripples in the water. Sound. Disturbance made visible. Under the surface, The water lilies are fruiting too. Producing clusters of seeds and arils. So much of the seasonal magic you think is unseen. But like sound and scent and taste and touch. The invisible growth of a fruiting world. Resonates deep within your body. And thus the dancing bodies that surround you. A murmur of song ripples. And weeps from the center of the universe. Into the night, You twirl and play. Someone brings armfuls of bright sticky berries the fruit of your labors to feast on in the twilight What would they think? Those dreamers of the old myths, If they came upon this moonlit revel. This bacchic frenzy of fruit and fairies and music. Where they fold the strangeness of the spectacle into their mythologies. Or would they cast aside their reason? Crown their brows with ivy. Or libations. And join the dance. Summer. Glorious summer has begun. This is only the invitation. The invocation. The initiation. A season of splendor and epiphany awaits. You raise your splintered honeysuckle pipe to the sky like a wand. Throw your head back and release a feral sound. Unbridled. Your voice breaks in the night like a howl and the others join. Your friends. Your allies. Letting loose their hollers and songs. Bellowing and braying and breathing together. The earth shudders back. Becomes fruitful. And on. And ever. Together. You dance. Breathe naturally. Letting your body sink into the surface that supports you. Tuning in to every sensation. The air against your skin the texture of your clothing or blankets. The position of your body Adjust your position if you feel you could be just a little more comfortable here and find a relaxed stillness. Where your breath can guide you deeper into peace. As summer ripens in the northern hemisphere. And we approach the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. It's a beautiful time to reflect. On the magic of the green earth. All the wonders that surround us. That move through us. The natural systems in which we are embedded. It's a time to savor sensation. The warmth of the sun. The smell of flowers. The taste of fresh fruit. The bounty of color. The music of the birds and the wind. Summer is a time of intense activity. When the whole world is buzzing with life. And it is also a season that welcomes withdrawal. From the rigid structures of modern existence. We are invited back into communion with the world outside our walls. Tempted by trees and shade. Called to the water. Invited to dig our feet into sand or dance barefoot on dewy grass. As you loosen your grip on the day. Preparing to slip into sleep. I invite you to visualize your sweet spot for summer. A place of pure peace where you have no obligations. No stress. Nothing tugging you away. A place of sensation and comfort. It might be a garden full of flowers and butterflies and hummingbirds. Or a beach with steady waves. Or a shady grove in a forest. Take yourself to that sweet place. And furnish it with all the comforts of a perfect summer day. A day that's long and languid and sunlit and mild. Where you can let yourself go. What does this place look like to you? What is the aroma? What can you hear and feel? Soften. Wrap yourself in the magic of this place. The peace of this place. The buzz of life all around you. There's nothing you need to do right now. But tune in. To the sensation. To the enchantment of this summer haven. Breathe. And relax into your sweet spot. Let your body fill with inner light. And warmed. As if the gentlest drop of sunlight The tiniest bead of nectar is suffusing your entire self. Starting with the crown of your head. Traveling down through your scalp. Your face. Unite. Your shoulders. Your arms. Into your hands. Into your fingers. The warmth and inner light. Filling your chest. Radiating outward. Down into the belly. Into the pelvis. The legs. Softening. Melting down into your feet. Down into your toes. And connecting you with the ground Feel the light and warmth. That sunny sweetness swelling through your entire body. Nourishing you. Filling you with the magic of summer. And also grounding you. Reminding you of your connection to the earth. The vital energy of the earth. Summer is a time for fruit. And flourishing. Or reveling in the sun. And for feeling your feet on the ground. For dancing to the rhythms of an animate world. Savor it. The days are long. But the seasons turn and turn. And turn. Wishing you blessings. Joy. Music Wisdom. And to play. In the months ahead. Blessed Be.

Reviews

Loved this one but only heard half of it was asleep pretty quickly. Thank can’t believe we are reaching another summer equinox already x

Enchanting