The Holly King & The Oak King | Summer Solstice Sleep Story

In this Summer Solstice-themed bedtime story, you follow a pack of strange hounds into a mysterious forest. There you witness the ritual passing of the torch from the summer months to winter months, as manifested in the battle between the Holly King and the Oak King.

Tonight’s key ingredients:
Celtic mythology
Solstice meditation

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw; Tranquility by Drift Far Away, Clairvoyance by Syntropy, EpidemicSound

Transcript

Bask in the glow of the longest day of the year and witness the turning of the wheel of time in tonight's relaxing bedtime story.

Sleep in 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 in Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation and one part dreamy adventure.

If you are still awake,

As the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan.

In tonight's story,

On the eve of the summer solstice,

You and your horse follow a pack of strange hounds into a mysterious forest.

There you witness great wonders,

Including the ritual passing of the torch from the summer months to winter months as manifested in the battle between the Holly King and the Oak King.

At the summer solstice,

The sun sits at its highest point in the sky,

Granting the longest hours of daylight all year.

Across the northern hemisphere,

The summer solstice occurs in late June and is marked by celebrations,

Festivals,

And rituals.

To celebrate the solstice is to honor the gifts of the sun,

Warmth,

Light,

And growth.

It's a time to look back and look forward at the midpoint of the year.

Give thanks for blessings and acknowledge the challenges ahead as the earth turns toward autumn and winter.

Before we begin our story,

Take a moment to breathe deeply.

Close your eyes.

Perhaps,

Where you are,

It's still light outside.

Whether you're in the sun's light or not,

Feel its warmth on your eyelids,

On your skin,

Warming you through.

Let the light and warmth kiss and sink into your skin,

Warming you to the core.

Take comfort in the sun's persistence and continuity,

For as it reaches its greatest strength,

It prepares to wane.

And,

When it dwindles to the shortest day,

It will,

As always,

Return.

Take that warmth with you,

Like a little flame burning at the center of you,

Into tonight's sleep,

Into tomorrow's challenges,

And into all the seasons ahead.

The fluting call of a nightingale dances on the warm summer wind.

A chorus of crickets join in,

Creating a low landscape of symphonic underscore to your evening ride.

The sun droops,

Full and fat and low in the sky,

But seems in no hurry to set beyond the distant mountains.

A night like this,

With excess light and warmth,

Begs for a long,

Leisurely ride.

Let the home sit vacant and the tea grow cold.

Much like the sun,

You are in no rush to return.

The evening breeze runs its fingers through your hair and provides only a slight resistance to your horse's canter.

The gentle Bay Mare Winifred snorts and saunters through a speckling of poppies,

Tossing her head with pleasure.

Much of the land that surrounds your home is still a mystery.

As yet unexplored by you and your Winifred.

To the west lie emerald green mountains,

Which stage glorious pink and orange sunsets on most evenings.

Just north of your home,

According to locals,

Is a Bronze Age hillfort.

You've seen it from afar,

Thick grooves carved in concentric circles around the hilltop.

Locals debate its history,

Whether it housed the defensive armies of King Arthur in a bygone era or was a seat of resistance to Viking invasions.

A local man once told you that the hillfort's defenders and wise women carved buried objects imbued with charms and spells beneath the earth to ensure it would never be overtaken.

Just past the hillfort is a vast,

Dense woodland which you've not yet explored.

To be honest,

You've always sensed that the forest holds something powerful and unknown.

It's at once deeply alluring and impenetrably wild.

Someday you think its charm will draw you in.

And to the south,

The ruins of a great stone abbey decorate the rolling landscape.

Tires of abandonment and disrepair leave only desolate archways,

Broken pilasters,

And crumbling foundation.

Robust grasses,

Moss,

And ivy threaten to reclaim the stone for nature.

You visited the abbey once at sunrise,

And you marveled at the golden hue held by the green moss in the early morning light,

The dew that hung suspended in the air all around,

The picturesque-ness of the dereliction.

This land hums with history,

And you can hear it,

Feel it most potently at first light and twilight.

The sweet sun bathes the green mountains,

Hills,

And mosses with a gilded glimmer.

At times like these,

When the wind sweeps through the grasses whistling a low song,

The whole world feels connected,

Alive,

And attuned to one single spirit,

One essence.

Tonight,

Though the sun persists into the late hour,

The scent of evening primrose and lavender from beyond the hills wash over you,

Summery and sweet.

The air is warm but mild,

Succumbing slowly to a cool shade as night creeps across the land,

Lingering lazily behind you.

Indeed,

There is no haste about you tonight.

The sun,

The moon,

The wind,

The stars,

The land,

You,

Your horse,

All surrender to the golden impermanence,

Sliding along each moment like a leaf,

Dancing upon the wind as it tumbles to the ground.

As Winifred sidles along the grooves in the grassy hillside,

Your body sways with the rhythm of her gait.

Your muscles feel loose,

Relaxed,

And languid.

It's as though you move through crystal clear water.

Your eyes slip out of focus for a moment as you let go,

But you blink a few times to return to yourself,

Wondering if you should,

In fact,

Call it an early night.

But as you regain focus,

A flash of red and white catches at the corner of your vision,

Yes,

There is something moving across the grass.

It's too distant to make out clearly,

But there are white forms,

Animal,

Ahead.

They move without clear direction,

And at first,

This leaves you confused until you realize they're playing.

One of the forms stops suddenly,

Standing in attention,

And you imagine it must have seen you and Winifred.

You slow your pace so as not to intimidate the thing,

But after a few moments it bounds toward you.

Then it's followed by two others.

You pull back on Winifred's reins and pat her neck gingerly to calm her.

But she seems undisturbed,

Which is a good sign.

She's always had a strong judge of character and danger.

The first of the white forms bounds into view,

And with a smile,

You recognize it as a mid-size hound.

He bears a wide infectious smile,

His tongue hanging out of one side of his mouth.

The dog and the friends that follow is sleek and muscular with short white fur.

His pointed ears,

However,

Are the bright red of the holly berry.

The three dogs,

White fur,

Red ears,

Play and vocalize joyfully.

Winifred snorts and shakes her head,

Showing kinship with the creatures.

You've never seen anything like these hounds,

But you feel instantly as though they've always been with you.

They project astounding warmth and familiarity.

You find yourself laughing.

Then the first hound,

Recognizable by his eyes,

One brown,

One blue,

Stops his playful cavorting and utters a cheerful bark.

His fellows stand at attention and follow him as he trots off in the direction of the hillfort.

Curious,

You watch the trio of hounds leave as quickly as they came.

You're about to continue your ride,

Dismissing this as a brief,

Charming interlude when you notice the leader stop and turn back to you,

Still smiling.

His fellows do the same before all three turn again and scamper north.

It's as though,

You think,

They want you to follow them.

You stroke Winifred's mane.

What do you think,

Old girl?

Winifred utters a snort,

And before you can even give your signal,

She begins to walk in the footsteps of the dogs.

Very well,

Then,

You think.

Tonight,

Under the waning warmth of the setting sun,

You'll let the animals be your guide.

By the time the hillfort comes into view,

Large and looming over the grassy scene,

The sun is surrendering at last to night's advances.

It's still light enough to see clearly,

But a translucent plum pall has fallen over the land.

The air is cooler than before and rich with the fragrance of primrose.

The sound of swift wingbeats overhead signals the night flight of a corncreek or nightjar.

Somewhere,

Insects are humming beneath blades of grass.

The hounds move apace,

Checking every so often to ensure you're still following.

Winifred marches content.

Deep shadows accentuate the grooves in the hill's earth that endure from the Bronze Age settlement.

Strange to think how long ago they were dug.

You wonder if the diggers,

Defenders of the hill,

Considered how long the fort would stand after their absence.

The world is very,

Very old,

You think,

And yet it bursts forth with things anew each day.

All is alive and in constant motion under the endless waltz of planets,

Moons,

And stars.

For a while,

You think the dogs must be leading you to the hill fort.

Perhaps they've dug up some forgotten treasures or charms of the lost civilization.

And it wouldn't be a bad place to watch the final wisps of sunset on this long-lasting day.

But to your surprise,

They lead you past and around its girth toward the wood.

At last,

You think,

You'll stumble at last into the unknown forest at the behest of these strange guides.

Seems fitting.

You approach the tree line and,

Sensing Winifred's weariness,

Tug gently on her reins to signal that she can take her time.

You are,

After all,

A bit wary of stepping into the wood just as night falls.

But the hounds sally forth unafraid.

The lead dog with the mismatched eyes stops to look at you and barks jovially.

If you're not mistaken,

He even jerks his head as though to beckon you onward.

These are more than average beasts,

You wager.

You spare a moment to look back toward home.

You've ridden a considerable distance but you can see puffs of smoke from various chimneys rising beyond the slope of the earth.

Your neighbors are surely enjoying their tea or reading,

Soaking up the last rays of the sun's lingering presence.

To the southeast,

A pale pink moon already floats in the darkening sky.

A sigh issues almost involuntarily from your lips.

You feel a sense of deep surrender as though you might,

Like a fallen leaf,

Let the wind sweep you onward toward whatever your destiny holds.

So on you ride into the wood.

Your concerns about the lack of light beyond the tree line are immediately elated when,

To your astonishment,

You notice that the white fur of the hounds carries a sheer luminescence.

The glow like moonlight just enough to light the path a few feet ahead.

Winifred keeps pace with them.

Her hooves land in the gentle light spill which dances through the emerald darkness like fluttering fairies.

In local legends,

Woods and natural spaces like this are often inhabited by fairies and elves and the like.

You wonder now how many of those stories of enchantment originated with travelers who spotted these glowing creatures from a distance on a dim night.

But then again you reflect.

There's nothing so natural about these hounds,

Is there?

They might be spirits or harbingers escorting you to the land of fairy.

The hounds lead you deeper into the heart of the forest.

From somewhere in the trees a night thrush twitters.

Pale light splashes against a bevy of arbors.

Mayi oak trees squeeze with ivy.

Alder trees with ghost white bark.

The path,

If you can call it such,

Twists and turns but your guides seem to know the way.

Something calls you onward in their footsteps.

Soon the darkness dissipates and the dogs lose their luster as you perceive a light source ahead.

You,

The hounds and Winifred step forward into a vast clearing.

The sight is dizzyingly picturesque.

Golden fireflies sparkle across your line of vision,

Glancing amid what must be a stone circle.

The stones of various heights are overgrown with moss and vines,

Protruding like natural growths from the grass.

Primroses and toadstools speckle the ground as though they were painted there by an unseen artist.

A full strawberry moon overhead bathes the glade in its rosy glow.

It all seems at once carelessly wild and impeccably placed.

You watch the hounds prance into and among the stones,

Resuming their play.

It would seem you've reached the place they intended to bring you.

And indeed,

It seems like a gateway to another world.

You dismount Winifred and stroke her neck.

She gives you a friendly nuzzle.

You're comforted by her apparent lack of apprehension.

Giving her an assuring pat on the nose,

You move toward the stone circle to investigate further.

The largest stone,

Which stands directly across from where you entered the clearing,

Is wildly overgrown.

It's of an unusual shape as well.

Where many of the others stand straight,

Narrow,

And monolithic,

This one has a high narrow point and a lower level with greater width.

The lead hound follows you over to it and noses at some of the ivy that lies across its width.

Something about it compels you to stare fixedly,

Unblinking,

As though you might miss something if you look away.

And also,

Somewhere under the vegetation and vines,

In the gaps that allow you to see the stone material,

There's a pattern.

Something hand-hewn or carved into the head of the blue stone right at your eye level is looking back,

Hesitating.

Hesitating for just a moment,

You reach out a hand to tug at the ivy.

With a few minutes' work,

You pull away enough vines and scrape away enough moss to reveal something marvelous.

Carved into the stone is a human face.

Smiling and joyful,

Its features resemble those of Father Christmas or Yuletide spirits.

He's old and wrinkled,

But his eyes are smiling too.

You pull away more greenery to reveal more around the face.

Adorning his brow are carvings of a crown made of holly leaves and berries.

Carved pinecones and spruce needles are strewn through his long hair.

More and more vines and moss come away under your hands,

Down to the shoulders about which you reveal a robe carved to look like rich fabrics and furs.

Now it occurs to you that the odd shape of the stone is carved to resemble a chair,

A throne more likely.

You tug away at the vines to uncover the figure's right hand,

In which he bears a goblet carved to look like it's encrusted with rich jewels.

You scrape at the moss to expose the length of the figure's fine stone robes.

Then you uncover his left hand,

Empty but clasped in a gesture that makes your heart leap.

With one rigid stone finger,

The figure points straight ahead.

It's now that you notice the lead hound has vanished.

You rotate slowly to face the direction of the figure's gesture,

The opposite side of the stone circle.

The hound is there,

Sitting dutifully beside another large,

Oddly shaped stone,

Directly across from your carved,

Holly-crowned man.

Your heart flutters.

Something very strange,

Surely magical,

Is afloat.

You glance at Winifred.

She is amusingly asleep.

It seems you already know what to do as you make your way across the circle,

Feet falling between primroses on the soft,

Moon-washed grass.

You make short work of uncovering the counterstone.

Just as expected,

Another carved figure lies beneath the greenery,

Seated on his bluestone dais.

But,

Unlike the holly man,

This figure's face,

Though human-esque,

Looks more like that of a tree with human features.

His eyebrows,

Whiskers,

Hair,

And beard are a tangle of carved oak leaves and twisted branches that sweep upward and outward from the center of his face.

A few acorns stick out from the twists of his beard.

He,

Too,

Smiles with a frozen twinkle.

But you think you detect an expression of sadness or longing behind his stone eyes.

His robes seem hewn from rough tree bark.

You take a moment to marvel at the sheer craft of the carver,

For the style between the two is so similar they must have been made by the same hand.

The realistic,

Intricate detail is ages beyond that of the rudimentary stone-workers who might have inhabited the hill-fort.

But the circle feels immeasurably ancient.

By whose ingenious hand did these exquisite artworks take shape?

And why were they placed here,

In such a remote,

Untraveled place,

Left to be overgrown and obscured with no passers-by to behold and admire their beauty?

You feel a prickle at the back of your neck and a strange tension in the air with both figures now uncovered,

As though the atmosphere is made up of barely perceptible vibrations,

Each with little hooks upon their ends,

Stretching the night taut across the strawberry moon.

The lead hound pads to your side and rubs his head against the inside of your palm.

You respond by petting him gently,

Your hand moving against the tension in the air.

Looking from one stone figure to another,

You have the distinct impression that their gazes are locked.

Another magnificent feat by the artist,

The monumental men hold eye contact across the ages.

With a low utterance and a nudge,

The hound seems to be ushering you toward the outside of the circle,

Where his fellows stand together.

You've placed your trust in them so far,

You think,

So you follow the hound back toward where Winifred rests.

You notice all three of the hound's red ears perk up suddenly.

A moment later you hear something too,

The sound of cracking,

Breaking,

Shifting rock.

What happens next leaves you nothing short of awestruck.

The pale pink moonlight seems to effuse more brilliantly as the two figures,

One decked with holly,

The other with oak,

Begin to move.

Blue stone splits pried apart by shining light as the two towering men emerge from stone like a fragile shell in full resplendent color and texture.

The holly man whose face you first removed to uncover is bright and saturated,

Face pink and plump with ruddy cheeks and sparkling golden eyes.

His long hair and beard are white as the sparkling snow,

Making the brilliant green and vibrant red of the holly at his brow even more intense to look upon.

His robes are lush fabric,

Trimmed with furs and threaded with gold in spiraling patterns.

The cup in his right hand gleams a burnished copper and wine splashes from its rim.

At the crown of his head you marvel to see white candles growing slowly upward,

Each topped with living flame.

And simultaneously the oak man bursts from his stone seal,

Green and brown and all the colors of the earth.

He is all twisting,

Coiling ringlets of tree and vine,

Leaf and fruit.

About his face the oak leaves blend seamlessly with butterflies and lunar moths.

His legs are trunks twisted about with ivy and morning glory,

Mossy at the ends and gloriously alive.

From his head grow the antlers of a great and mighty stag and wisteria falls lazily from the antlers.

His ribs are not so knit and where his heart might be in that open rooted cavern you can see a small suspended crystal glowing,

Gleaming.

They are wondrous,

Strange and beautiful.

Your breath is cool and invigorating.

The night is scented with unidentifiable flowers and spices mingling in such incongruous but appetizing melange.

Cinnamon and marigold,

Juniper and violet,

Sparkling berry and apple blossom.

The two kings rise together from their thrones.

Their movement is slow and deliberate.

So slow in fact that they seem to move against the arrow of time.

The fireflies,

Winds and birds of the glade move faster the further away they are from these two magnetic centers.

You can perceive halos,

Rings of moving light encircling the full monument.

Nights and days and nights pass perhaps before your eyes or is it an illusion?

The kings,

One of holly,

One of oak,

Travel clockwise around the inner edge of the stone circle,

Keeping equidistant from each other in their careful movements.

The earth groans under the weight of their footsteps.

They seem to have grown to the size of giants or gods.

Now they stand facing one another again,

Having shifted a quarter way across the inside of the circle,

Moving along its edges like a wheel of time.

On the night wind you can hear the tiny palpitations of the moths and butterflies,

The crackle of the flame atop the candled crown.

The oak king raises his right arm and from his open palm grows the oaken handle of a great axe,

Its blade formed from the ether of shining greenish-hued steel.

The holly king holds his cup aloft and where there was wine,

Now blue and white flames erupt and crackle.

Tension burns behind the eyes of the rival.

They awake,

You think,

To do battle.

You sense,

And perhaps at the back of your wonderstruck mind kindles a legend you once heard,

That this has happened before,

That this happens over and over,

Or that it is always happening.

As the earth turns along the wheel of the year,

Its spirits wrestle to wrangle its resources,

Fertilizing,

Cultivating,

And decaying.

The oak king raises his axe but does not try to land a blow against his opponent.

Instead he drives the blade into the earth and forth from the wound pour a thousand birds and butterflies,

A rush of wings catching the glitter of moonlight.

The winged army rise against the holly king,

But as they cross an invisible equator at the center of the circle,

They instantly turn to flurries of snow that catch upon the breeze and dance through the night air.

The holly king returns the advance,

Drawing a deep inhale and blowing from his lips a blast of blue and white frost sparkling in spirals toward the oak king.

The frost lands upon the oak king's shoulders,

Face,

And branches,

Resting there like a coating of sugar for just a moment before melting into his bark.

The two kings smile.

This is an old ritual,

You think?

It's more game than battle.

Perhaps they sit in stasis for the better part of the year,

Clad in their blue stone shells,

Imagining what tricks they'll play on their nemesis at the next meeting,

The next rematch.

The battle carries on,

Each king making more and more marvelous advances,

Calling the elements against each other.

From your vantage point,

Protected by the trio of hounds,

You feel only the slightest chill when the holly king strikes,

Only the lightest breeze when the oak king parries.

The night is alight with awesome sights and sounds and smells.

Winifred,

Awake and alert now,

Blows air against your shoulder.

You cradle her head in the crook of your elbow,

Grateful for the presence of your dear friend as you witness such extraordinary mysteries.

As the moon climbs now to its peak and midnight falls on the glade,

Something shifts in the battle.

A new slowness sinks in.

The candle flames adorning the holly king burn brighter than ever,

But the glowing crystal at the heart of the oak king seems poised to dim or even burn out completely.

Now you understand.

The oak king rules the earth for a time each year.

He cultivates the land,

Deposits minerals in the soil,

Brings riches and fruits to the limbs of the trees.

He is the warmth on your cheek on a summer evening.

He is the reluctance of the sun to set on a night like tonight.

He sows and his brother,

His rival,

The holly king,

Reaps.

Bearing the sad,

Mournful smile you saw in the stone,

The oak king slowly kneels with the sound of yawning branches.

He lowers his head.

He holds out the axe.

The holly king takes the weapon in his free hand and he does not strike,

But rather affixes the axe to a belt around his middle.

He cups the oak king's face in his hand.

At the touch,

The oak king's branches seem to shrivel.

His leaves turn red and yellow and orange and brown and drop suddenly.

He grows old before your eyes.

Then,

With patience and pity,

The holly king watches his rival stand across the circle to take his seat.

The oak king sits in the throne where you first uncovered the holly king.

The light of the crystal at his core goes out,

But the same sad smile rests upon his lips as he returns to stone.

Now,

The holly king,

Triumphant,

Surveys his kingdom.

He will let his brother's labors unfold for a few months more.

Trees and grasses will green for now,

And some will stay green through the winter too.

Creatures will have time to gather their stores before they must find warmth and shelter.

The water will flow freely for a bit longer before the first frost.

There's tenderness in the holly king's role,

You think.

He guides the earth toward the inevitable winter.

He softens and prepares it for the chill,

The freeze,

The decay,

Which must occur each and every year for the earth to be reborn.

The oak king sows and the holly king reaps,

Preparing the earth for a time of cold and darkness.

Seemingly satisfied,

The holly king too moves toward a throne,

The one originally occupied by his rival.

A mighty axe at his hip,

A crown of holly at his brow,

And a cup of flames in his hand,

He looks powerful,

Grand,

And benevolent.

He takes his seat and,

Like his brother,

Returns to stone.

It's a long time before you can move.

You hold the two kings in a dazzling afterimage before your eyes for many,

Many moments.

Your limbs feel almost like crackling stone as you finally shift in place.

Something has shifted in the night.

The tension in the atmosphere is gone.

No more little hooks in the blank spaces of the evening.

Looking upward,

You notice that the moon no longer bears its strawberry veil,

But glows more violet now than before.

Then,

Glancing around for your guides,

You realize that the three white hounds have gone.

You and Winifred are alone in the forest clearing,

Where the lead hound with mismatched eyes last stood.

There now sits a brightly lit lantern.

Stranger still,

When you look back at the two opposing thrones in the circle,

Both are once again overgrown with thick moss and vines.

Dazed,

You gather up the lantern and mount Winifred once more.

She remembers the way through the forest.

The lantern casts more than enough light to illuminate your path.

You retrace your winding steps through the forest wilds and finally emerge from the wood.

The purple moon is immense.

The top of the hill fort.

Winifred bears you home.

She's earned her award,

Surely,

And you feed her plump,

Ripe apples from the tree outside your door before leading her to the stable.

Later,

As you lie in bed under a light blanket,

Enjoying the fragrant breeze from your open window,

You can almost feel the earth turning beneath you.

You close your eyes and allow your muscles to relax,

To surrender to the earth and the arrow of time.

Somewhere in the distance,

The moon casts its lavender glow on the ruins of a great abbey.

Moon beams fall through a preserved rose window of delicate stained glass,

Throwing splashes of pale color onto grass and stone.

Deep under the earth of a Bronze Age settlement,

Stone tablets and earthenware carved with arcane symbols pulse with ancient protective magic.

And in the heart of an emerald forest,

A circle of standing stones languishes under ages of growth and greenery guarded by crimson-eared heralds.

The earth turns and the old gods battle for their thrones.

Trees flower,

Leaves quake,

And consider surrendering to the seductive pull of gravity.

Be still.

Breathe naturally.

Feel the natural rhythm of your body in stillness as you move through time.

Feel the rise and fall of your belly with your natural breath.

Feel warmth and light around the center of your navel,

Traveling upward to a few inches below your sternum,

Your solar plexus.

Keep breathing warmth into this space.

Let the breath kindle a little flame and feel your body soften outward from that core space,

Warmth spreading outward toward your chest and your belly and pelvis,

Your arms and legs and your torso and shoulders and your neck and head.

Let the warmth continue to soften your muscles and surrender.

Be still.

Be at rest.

Be at one.

Feel your body in space and the connection points to your sleep surface,

To the earth.

Feel time elongate,

Stretch like the long day of the summer solstice.

Be warm and at peace.

Let the sunlight you absorbed during the day kindle your heart,

Soften your mind,

Relax your body,

Melt,

Store the energy of the sun deep in your body,

Nourish it with your breath and with sleep.

Be at rest.

There is enough time you can let go of anything that's holding you back from surrendering to sleep.

There is enough time.

You deserve meaningful rest.

Let the sun's healing energy rest in your bones and surrender to the moon,

To the night,

To the healing darkness,

To sleep.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

🙏💜🕊️Worked like a charm! Loved what I heard of it! Many thanks and many blessings ✨

Very soothing and soon got me
To sleep thank you x

Marvellous just don’t know why I missed this one…… thank you Namaste

Oh my, one I missed? So excited to deepen my listening again and again❤️
Pure pagan magic, soul nourishing with many nuggets of ancient human wisdom. Deepest thanks🫶🏼💐

Did not hear most of it. Fell asleep quickly. Thank you!

Amazing as always. Soo very relaxing

Relaxing, well told, lovely soothing voice

I appreciate you SO MUCH Laurel! I look forward to putting on your story story at night. It's incredibly soothing. Thank you for the work you do! 💖 Just beautiful.

Love your story's 🙏