The Pageant Wagon | Winter Solstice Sleep Story

In tonight’s cozy sleep story, you have inherited a historic estate in the country. As the winter solstice nears and you finally attempt to organize the storage, you unearth an enormous, antiquated carriage among the effects. Investigating further, you are magically transported to another time and place, and into the company of a band of actors who keep the winter cold at bay with a mummer’s play.

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Is It Still Yours by They Dance by Day, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Slip through time to a cozy solstice play in tonight's meditative sleep story.

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

My name is Laurel and I will 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.

I'm here to help you fall asleep.

So whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of my voice and surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing meditation and sleep countdown.

In tonight's cozy sleep story,

You have inherited a historic estate in the country.

As the winter solstice nears and you finally attempt to organize the storage,

You unearth an enormous,

Antiquated carriage among the effects.

Investigating further,

You are magically transported to another time and place and into the company of a band of actors who keep the winter cold at bay with a mummer's play.

On every world,

In the deepest part of the winter,

At the exact midpoint,

Everybody stops and turns and hugs as if to say,

Well done.

Well done,

Everyone.

We're halfway out of the dark.

Doctor Who,

A Christmas Carol.

The summer is a time for late evenings,

Exploring your new surroundings.

A time for slow-paced rides on your horse,

Getting lost,

Getting found again.

For following your instincts,

Following your nose.

But as the year yields and the days darken,

You can feel yourself retreat,

Naturally,

To the relative comfort of Coventry House.

Since you inherited the remote estate last summer,

Seems a lifetime ago somehow,

You've spent curiously little time indoors.

Whether it's out of sheer curiosity for the wonders that lie in this part of the country,

Or avoidance of the mountain of household projects,

You can't say.

It was also very strange and unexpected,

The inheritance.

When you received the news,

You thought it was someone playing a trick on you.

But you soon discovered it was true.

The manor was yours,

At the bequest of an uncle you'd met only once,

As a rather young child.

Your instinct was to sell the place.

What would you do with a Georgian country house in clear disrepair,

Or with acres of untended land?

But a visit to the country moved your heart and stirred your emotions.

So accustomed to city living,

You were wrapped with awe at the stillness of the mornings and the stately home's silhouette.

With childlike impulsiveness,

You resolved to make this place a home.

You could have a horse,

At last,

After dreaming it was such a thing for years.

You could dedicate yourself to restoring the place,

A truly fulfilling idea.

After you moved in,

However,

Bringing the possessions that had filled and cluttered your city apartment,

And now looked meager in the vast halls of the country house,

You found ever more excuses to avoid doing the work of restoration.

Instead,

For months,

You've spent more time on horseback or visiting neighboring villages than you've spent tending to the house.

It's been little more than a cavernous place to rest your head at night.

Now as the days grow short and the sun sets earlier and earlier,

You must put away those excuses.

It's time now to withdraw indoors,

Seeking the warmth within the walls.

The stories your family tells of the uncle who owned the estate paint a picture of eccentricity and seclusion.

Perhaps that's contributed to your reluctance to spend much time in the house itself.

For the last ten years of his life,

Your uncle never once left the residence.

No one in the nearest village recalls him except as a sort of folk tale,

The old recluse of Coventry House.

You have only one memory of him from your only meeting so many years ago.

It was Christmas Eve,

And for the first time in your life,

The whole extended family gathered for dinner and celebration.

The house was full to bursting with children,

Cousins upon cousins,

And it rang with the kind of laughter and merry chaos that's typical of such a gathering.

But for some reason,

And you cannot remember it now despite trying,

You were feeling out of sorts that Christmas.

An unwanted melancholy had fallen over you,

And you sulked for much of the evening while your cousins ran and played.

Your uncle took notice,

And before the night was over,

He pulled you aside to give you a special gift.

He had kind,

Crinkly eyes,

You remember,

Which almost disappeared with a smile.

You unwrapped the small parcel,

The paper thick and heavy in your hands,

That texture you can still remember,

Along with the warm smells of bayberry and cinnamon that surrounded you.

The gift was a funny sort of wagon,

Made of light wood and hand-painted with red and green and gold,

Even a dusting of glittery snow on its roof.

A little box on wheels,

Like a carriage,

Just a bit larger than the palm of your hand.

You weren't sure what to make of it,

But your uncle gestured to show you that you could hold the thing up to your eye and look inside.

You did so,

Squinting one eye so you could peer through a tiny pinhole in the wood.

Inside,

To your delight,

Was a miniature diorama of sorts,

A winter scene with pillowy snow on the ground and sparkling evergreen trees against a black and starry sky.

In the foreground was a figure,

A merry little man in the costume of a harlequin,

With tiny bells on his shoes and hat,

Frozen with his arms in a flourish.

You laughed and marveled at the splendid details of the picture,

So miniscule and yet so fine they could hardly be believed.

You recall your uncle's smile of satisfaction when he realized the gift had lifted your spirits.

You lost track of the little carriage somewhere along the way out of childhood.

You hadn't thought about it,

Or your uncle for that matter,

In years before you heard the news of his bequest.

It pains you to think of him holed up in this house alone for so long.

You wonder why,

Of all the members of your extended family,

He chose you as his heir.

You wish you'd gotten to know him.

So despite having called Coventry House your home for the past several months,

You've cultivated very little familiarity with its halls,

Chambers,

And apartments.

It's a stranger to you still,

As you finally set yourself to task.

You've decided to start with something relatively simple,

Organizing the mess of belongings your uncle left behind in the large banquet hall.

You suppose it didn't see many banquets as the old man got on in years,

Which must be why it's become less of a glorious chamber for feasts and dancing,

And more of a glorified storage room.

You've set eyes on it only once in the time you've resided here,

And it's so overwhelmed and intimidated you that you've avoided passing by it ever since.

That's easy to do,

Given the layout of Coventry House,

Which has so many staircases and passages,

It's possible to take a different route through the house each day of the week.

Today,

You muster the courage to face the banquet hall again.

There's nothing better to do with the snow blustering through a freezing wind outside.

You flick on the lights in the hall,

Illuminating mountains of books and loose papers,

Rotting wooden furniture heaped unceremoniously almost to the high ceiling,

And dozens of vague forms draped in sheets and paint-spattered dropcloths.

Perhaps it's not such a simple task you've chosen,

You think,

And for a moment you almost balk at the prospect.

You nearly turn on your heel and head straight for the sitting room,

Determined to light a fire and curl up with a book.

But something tugs at you,

A nagging desire to mark something off your to-do list,

To put these cold winter days to some good use.

Heaving a sigh,

You tiptoe into the heart of the chamber,

Navigating around stacks and piles of objects and archives,

Careful not to trip or knock anything over,

Looking for a place to start.

You begin with a fairly reasonable stack of books and journals,

Which you organize into various piles.

Books to be returned to the Coventry House's small library at the end of the hall.

Books to be donated or sold in the village.

Books with bindings and pages so unsalvageable they must be thrown away.

You flip through the pages of the journals,

Which are an eclectic melange of task lists,

Stream-of-consciousness writing,

And sketches.

There are nature studies,

Renderings of the view from the sitting room window in different seasons,

Drawings of birds and foxes and deer who must have happened by that window.

It's like a little doorway into your uncle's secluded life here.

Outside,

Snow is falling fast and frenzied,

Dancing on the wind.

You find method in the task,

And soon,

You've tackled numerous disorganized stacks and begun to dig some kind of order into the chaos of the banquet hall.

The hours slip by steadily as your hands fall into a rhythm of sorts,

Your mind fading into a tranquil,

Meditative state.

You hesitate to break your stride,

But after a few hours,

Your stomach growls with hunger,

And you pull yourself away to make a late lunch and eat it over the kitchen counter.

Then back to it.

Elongated shadows stretch across the room.

Until now,

You hadn't realized that tonight marks the winter solstice,

The shortest day and the longest night of the year.

The realization comes to you as you watch the shadows creep across the floor to the ticking of an unseen clock.

It reminds you of Stonehenge,

That mysterious monument that might be an ancient solar calendar.

The shrouded furniture and piles stand in for sarsen stones,

Marking the months of the wheel of the year.

A little shiver passes over you,

A flash of synchronicity perhaps.

You first moved to the country near the time of the winter solstice,

When the sun shone late into the evening and the earth was bright and green.

On one of those lazy exploratory rides,

You witnessed something magical in the wild woods to the north,

Didn't you?

You'd almost forgotten,

As though upon leaving the wood the memory slipped through your fingers like the details of a dream.

There was a stone circle in the wood,

Wasn't there?

Like a little Stonehenge,

Hidden away in a forest glade.

This place is strange and wondrous indeed,

You think.

The light is already beginning to fade outside.

There never was much sun to begin with in all this storm and cloud cover.

But a translucent azure descends over the countryside,

Turning the blankets of snow iridescent.

You begin to uncover the forms,

Shrouded in drop cloths,

One by one.

Here,

A chaise lounge with elegant,

If worn,

Brocade.

There,

A leather chest,

Locked of course.

You'll have to keep an eye out for the key.

Now you uncover an antique grandfather clock,

Still functional,

And the source of the ticking and chiming you've heard throughout your work.

There are all sorts of forgotten treasures,

A silver samovar grown tarnished over time,

A dust-covered rocking horse with black buttons for eyes.

Many of the items you uncover bring you little gasps of delight.

Some need restoring,

But you're excited to spruce them up for continued use in the house.

You marvel at where it all came from,

And why your uncle must have hidden everything away in this underused hall.

Now you come to a covered mass at the center of the room.

You wonder that you didn't see it before,

As it looms monumental compared to everything else.

But of course it was obscured by piles and piles of other things,

Books and furniture and the rest.

You amble around it to get a sense of its true size,

And wonder what might be beneath the cloth.

It must be the size of a cargo van,

You think.

What can it be?

With some effort,

As the cloth is heavy muslin draped over the enormous,

Hulking thing,

You pull down the shroud.

Particles of dust fly upward in its wake,

Sparkling like tiny snowflakes in what's left of the light.

You wave a hand to clear the dust from before your eyes,

Stifling a sneeze.

And then you see what was hidden beneath the sheet.

Almost as big as a house,

Here in a once lavish banquet hall laden with forgotten things,

Is a carriage.

You suppose that's the word.

It's like a great windowless house on wooden wagon wheels.

Your breath catches as you're thrust once more into childhood memory.

You can almost feel the tiny wooden carriage turning over in your hand,

Almost see the sparkling winter scene that materialized past the pinhole.

Though ancient,

Worn out,

And dust laden,

This life-sized carriage was once surely painted a deep red and gold.

There's a faint ghost of lettering on the side,

But it's nearly impossible to read.

You extend an arm,

Intent on wiping away a portion of the dust.

On contact,

However,

The dust particles burst forth and hang almost suspended in the air around you.

Now you let go the mighty sneeze you've been holding in,

And you back away from the cloud of dust.

As it begins to settle,

You squint to see the writing revealed.

Just before it comes into focus,

A great and sudden darkness falls around you like the swift falling of a heavy curtain.

The storm must have knocked the power out,

You think.

You look toward the windows,

Hoping for a glimmer of moonlight to illuminate a path through the stacks,

But there's not even the faintest sliver of starlight.

You'll have to feel your way out of the banquet hall and get some candles lit,

A fire in the fireplace to stay warm while you wait for the power to be restored.

What a fine time for an outage,

You think,

As you extend your arms and begin to shuffle blindly forward.

But as you take your cautious steps in the direction you think of the hallway,

The floor beneath your feet seems to change.

Where you expect your foot to fall on solid,

Polished hardwood,

Floors for dancing and feasting,

You start to feel a soft crunch and a sinking.

The quality of the atmosphere changes,

Too.

Cold nips at your fingers and nose.

Surely you can't have stepped through an open door to the snowy grounds of Coventry House.

If you had done so,

Wouldn't you see the stars?

You look up into the sheer darkness,

And you double-take.

You do,

In fact,

See stars above.

It's calm and quiet.

The storm clearly and swiftly passed,

But delicate flakes of snow still land on your skin and quickly melt against its warmth,

Not falling from the clouds above but blown away off the drifts and tree branches in a gentle night breeze.

How amusing,

You think.

You're so unaccustomed to the halls and passages of Coventry House that you've walked right out the door.

Well,

Back the way you came,

Then.

You turn on your heel,

Crunching snow beneath your feet.

You can see a little better under the starlight.

You should be able to see the way back to the house.

But that's funny.

The house isn't there.

How can you have misplaced an entire country manor?

But in its place,

There is something.

A structure.

You feel a prickling sensation at the back of your neck as you approach it.

It's the wagon.

The carriage with the funny writing and worn paint.

Only the paint isn't worn anymore,

Is it?

It's fine and crimson with shining gold trim.

It passes for regal,

Despite the cart's rustic appeal.

You can see it clearly under a bright moon and lit also by a small crackling fire.

The fire looks so inviting as the cold sinks in.

You haven't got on a coat or anything to shield you from the chilly night.

It would be nice to warm your hands.

And whoever lit the fire can point you the way back to Coventry House.

You still can't believe you simply wandered out into the night and got yourself this turned around.

Your surroundings are coming into focus under the soft moonlight.

A whisper of wind rustles through a copse of evergreen trees,

Each so perfectly frosted with snow it's like a picture on a Christmas card.

The little fire is blazing steadily.

You can feel its warmth softening your tension already.

There's a tree stump by the fire you see now.

On it rests a folded cloak.

Mercy you think,

Lunging for it and wrapping it tight around your shoulders.

The effect is instant as the cloak seems to absorb all touch of cold,

Melting the ice from your muscles and letting you thaw and relax.

Looking around for any sight of your benefactor and finding no one,

You take a seat by the fire.

Just to warm up for a bit before attempting to find your way home.

You let your eyes fall once more upon the wagon,

Now so clean and shining bright like new.

This is a strange night indeed.

But now you can make out the writing on the side of it,

Clear as if it was freshly painted this day.

It reads,

Festival Players,

Established 1644.

In a curious black script beneath,

There's a Latin phrase,

Totus Mundus Agit Histrionem.

You only know enough Latin to understand the first two words.

Something like,

The whole world,

Or all the world.

Even without warning,

With a creak and a thud,

The whole side of the carriage you're now reading falls forward like a crashing drawbridge.

You flinch before realizing it won't fall anywhere near you or the open flame.

But fall it does,

Revealing a most splendid,

Lavish interior.

Your first impression is only of candlelight and blurry color bright against the washed out haze of night and snow.

It's clear in an instant that this falling open was no accident,

But a carefully orchestrated bit of stagecraft.

After all,

Within the chamber of the wagon is just that,

A stage.

Lit from below by flickering footlights,

The platform is richly decorated.

It appears to be broken up into three smaller segments,

Each its own elegant tableau.

Painted backdrops flutter slightly from the commotion and the night wind.

There's a quiet winter scene,

The backdrop painted with falling snow and stars and fir trees.

In the center,

An interior scene resembling a rich,

Royal palace.

Real deckings of holly and spruce against a luxurious drop.

The third tableau is painted to look like a dark cavern,

With three-dimensional stalactites hung from the ceiling of the wagon.

You are so enwrapped with the lovely details of the sets that you hardly notice the appearance of a figure on stage.

He arrives seemingly out of nowhere,

And his guise makes your heart flutter.

For here,

Center stage,

Is someone you've seen before.

Not on the green earth,

Surely,

But in the palm of your hand.

He's clad in a harlequin's costume,

Green and gold with bells on his shoes and hat.

He bows low upon the stage,

So low that his nose nearly touches the floor,

And his bells jingle merrily with each movement.

He opens his mouth to speak,

And the voice is clear and bright as a bell.

Honored guests,

To you,

A wink and a nod.

I am Thomas,

He says.

Tom Fool,

They call me.

It is my honor to be your host this evening,

And to introduce you to the talented troupe of performers who grace our stage.

They are the most spectacular,

The most entertaining,

The most insufferably vain people with whom to share tight quarters,

My friends.

You catch yourself laughing at this,

Even in your disbelief.

The harlequin continues.

On nights like this,

When the wind is cold and the dark overstays its welcome,

It's our duty to bring warmth and light to the world,

He says.

The wheel turns ever on,

As they say,

And the sun will return if the past is to be our guide.

But for tonight,

Dear friends,

Let us be your light.

Let us be a candle to hold the place of the sun.

You let the words sink in,

Finding them as comforting as a drop of hot tea.

The scent of fresh spruce and fir floats on the chilly air around you.

There's a ringing quiet,

A strange harmonic tranquility.

You feel as though you are one among hundreds,

Gathered together for warmth on a freezing winter night,

Standing in anticipation before this magnificent stage to hear carols and farce.

And yet,

You feel too the spell of solitude and peace enclose you.

The harlequin says,

And now,

Without further ado,

I present the festival players.

Where they've come from,

You do not know.

But one by one,

Brightly costumed actors dance across the stage.

Their dress gives away their character types immediately.

There's a wide-eyed ingenue in the robes of a princess,

A sneaking black-clad villain,

An over-the-top dame,

A nightly hero,

A pair of boisterous clowns.

They parade by with curtsies and bows before assuming statue-like stillness in an opening tableau vivant,

Each in their appropriate segment of the stage.

Tom Fool,

The harlequin,

Is the last figure moving.

He dances across the stage and pulls faces at the motionless players.

You can't help but laugh.

Then he sets the scene,

A pair of hopeless lovers kept apart by a cowardly courtier.

The winter solstice approaches,

And in the dark of night,

They hope to slip away and marry.

Meanwhile,

The peasants of the kingdom are busy preparing for Christmas,

Even though they've been banned from celebrating the holiday by the evil lord protector of the realm.

At this,

You can almost hear the hisses and boos of an invisible audience.

Little do they all know,

At the outskirts of the kingdom,

A beast slumbers in its cave,

And it will wake on Christmas Day.

What follows the harlequin's introduction is a raucous mummer's farce,

Full of slapstick humor and comic asides.

The princess and the knight,

The unhappy lovers plotting their escape from court,

Play everything straight down to the forlorn devotion in their voices.

The pantomime dame as a peasant barmaid sings ridiculous songs,

Flush with off-color jokes.

There's a Christmas carol here too,

With the lyrics mostly changed for comic effect.

And,

For some reason,

There's a dragon involved.

Three or more actors work together to manipulate a large green dragon puppet.

But instead of fearsome,

It's mostly cumbersome,

And the comedic characters take turns hitting it on the snout.

The play is silly and charming,

With a rather funny incongruity between the truly decadent sets and costumes and seemingly low subject matter.

You find yourself laughing and singing along with the play,

And you even become invested in the various plots.

The villainous Lord Protector,

Surely a proxy of Oliver Cromwell,

Draws your ire,

And the droll and bawdy peasants attract your sympathy.

But mostly you feel warm,

Soothed against the darkness and the cold of the winter night by this absurd spectacle.

You feel displaced,

Lifted to another time,

When to stave off the chill and the dying of the earth,

People sought comfort in each other and in stories.

Has the world really changed that much,

You wonder?

Have you changed that much?

You watch the play with a rising sense of delight and comfort,

With predictable promptness The night slays the dragon,

Emerging a hero.

Father Christmas appears,

Naturally,

To marry the two lovers.

The Lord Protector groans as all the peasants and the heroes celebrate Christmas in the streets.

The snow is falling again,

From heavy clouds above that shroud the moon.

But you are safe from the snowfall,

In the protective circle of the fire and beneath your cozy cloak.

Whatever forces move outside the circle are no concern of yours.

The turning of the earth,

The slow march of time.

You applaud vigorously when the performance ends,

The actors bow and curtsy.

You feel again the hovering presence of that invisible crowd,

Jolly with cheers and applause.

They echo inside your head and brace you against the cold.

As much as you enjoy your solitude,

At this moment how you'd like to reach out and take someone's arm,

Embrace a friend or a loved one.

You think of your uncle,

In whose hallowed manner you've come to stay.

Wouldn't it be nice if he were here with you,

Cheering on the players,

Singing along with the carols,

If you'd shared some time together here in the country.

At the very thought,

You can almost feel him by your side,

A hand squeezing your shoulder,

A crinkle-eyed smile and mischief in the eyes.

The bittersweet childhood memory returns once more.

You have the strange sensation of being outside your body,

Turning over the little wooden carriage in your hand,

Squinting through the pinhole to behold a winter scene,

To behold your very self,

Side by side with your uncle,

The two of you as miniatures in the sparkling snow,

Standing before a lavish pageant on a dark night.

You shift your feet ever so slightly beneath you.

There is resistance from the ground,

No longer crunching and shifting and melting,

But solid and smooth,

Polished hardwood.

You lower the small wooden toy from your eye.

The lights are back on.

The door must have been restored.

You shake your head against a dizzy feeling.

It's not quite déjà vu,

Something else,

Harder to identify or understand.

There it is,

In the palm of your hand after all,

Not some large hulking mass looming over the banquet hall,

But a tiny wooden wagon that would fit in your pocket.

Hmm,

You utter softly.

The banquet hall is still and silent,

Save for the constant tick of the clock.

You stand motionless there for some time,

Not ready to move just yet.

The clock strikes upon the hour.

It's getting late.

The windows are dark.

Outside the storm really does seem to have stopped.

All is still.

Clustering in effort,

You pull yourself from the spot,

As though resting out of deep snow,

And you move through a narrow path you've carved in the chaos of storage.

You'll come back tomorrow and make some more progress.

A good night's sleep should clear your head after the strange vision you've just received.

Before retiring,

You make some herbal tea and relax beside a fire in the sitting room.

You bring one of your uncle's notebooks with you,

And you flip absentmindedly through it as you sip your tea.

Handwritten reminders,

Fragments of poetry,

Sketches of local wildlife,

Winter scenes through the window.

Then at last,

Feeling at ease,

You make your way up the grand staircase to the second floor.

You had many bedchambers to choose from when you moved into Govinshire House,

But you selected the one toward the front of the residence.

Why this one?

You liked the wallpaper and the furnishings,

The mahogany floor poster and the matching wardrobe.

And mostly,

You liked the view from the window.

Looking out on a clear night,

You can see the swell of the countryside,

The colossal Bronze Age hillfort to the north,

And the wild forest just beyond.

Now it's all blanketed with snow,

Sparkling in the light of the full moon.

The night chimmers with effortless stillness and fragility.

On this longest night of the year,

Time seems to slow down,

Almost to a stop,

To savor the sweet repose of healing,

Sustained darkness.

You climb into bed,

But you don't close the curtains of the canopy all the way.

You want to look out the window for as long as your eyes will remain open.

It's all too beautiful to waste the world.

The night.

You place the tiny toy wagon on your bedside table.

For a moment,

You're tempted to look through the pinhole once more,

Curious if the picture within has changed,

But you're asleep before you can reach for it.

An owl whinnies.

Rabbits snuggle together in their warrens.

A gentle breeze sweeps curtains of snow from the boughs of evergreen trees.

The wheel turns.

What's next.

Release any areas of tension within your body.

Scan from head to toe to find those areas where you might be tightening and relax those muscles,

Especially the forehead,

The jaw,

The neck and shoulders,

And the hips.

Let all the tension just melt away,

Slowly relaxing into your bed,

Feeling soft and loose.

The winter solstice marks the shortest day of the solar year,

And the longest night,

The longest stretch of darkness.

Let yourself be still,

And find peace in the darkness.

Let it surround and comfort you.

Let it wrap around you like a blanket,

And start to let it clear your mind,

Preparing you for rest.

Now flush out any worrisome thoughts in the same way you flushed away muscular tension.

Power that clarity through the safety and comfort of darkness,

And tap into your inner darkness,

Your innermost wellspring,

Your most authentic self,

That place from which creativity and inspiration are born.

Dive into that inner darkness,

The quiet,

Tranquil space,

Your place of rest and healing,

Where you can recover from overstimulation and distraction.

Sink down past the layers of consciousness,

Down level after level,

Inward and downward,

Into a peaceful place within.

Feel comfort in this stillness,

This tranquil night space within yourself,

Your inner solstice.

Breathe naturally,

And feel yourself slide into repose.

Downing down from 10,

We'll sink deeper and deeper into healing darkness and rest.

10,

9,

8,

7,

6,

5,

4,

3,

2,

1.

Good night.

Reviews

Fascinating and soothing 🙏🏽

A delightful bedtime story. Thank Laural

Love all your stories. Great imagination!! Your voice is perfect. One of these times I’m going to stay awake to hear the whole thing!! Haha!!!

Was nice to go back to the pageant wagon not listened to it for a while. Thank you as it soon got me to sleep x

Knocked me right out!

Lovely ☺️ going to have to listen again because I fell asleep 😴

I really loved this one Laurel, Thankyou very much. XO 🍃😘🐱🐱🐨

I love this story and have listened to it many times. It's my favorite in this amazing sleep series. Thank you so much Laurel! Could you please make a few more stories about magical places in Coventure House? Also, I love how other of your stories relate to this one and are referenced. And how the listener is immediately drawn into the story with the "you" point of view which somehow is important for helping me fall asleep. Thank you for sharing your beautiful gifts and creativity with us!!

So beautifully worded and told. I love this gentle and magical story.

So fabulous that I made myself stay awake! Now that I know the story, I think next time I could fall asleep, quite easily. Such a creative story! 🙏

Absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much! 🙏🙏🙏

Love your stories!

Thank you

Can’t remember a thing so it must have put me right to sleep, yeah!

One of your best ones. It’s very relaxing 😌 and calming.Perfect for sleep.💤💤💤💤💤😴😴

Wonderful, and definitely achieved a beautiful sleep.

Thank you! I appreciate and enjoy these so much! 🤗

Another beautiful story to help me and my kid sleep 😴Thanks for creating these amazing stories!

Thank you🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Wonderful as usual. I love it when I see you have dropped new content.