The Summer Day Library

In this magical sleep story, you take a visit to a sunflower farm. There, you discover an entrance to an otherworldly library, where the books have the power to transport you to their story worlds. You while away the afternoon by exploring the Hundred Acre Wood, the farm at Green Gables, and Neverland.

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

Transcript

Find refuge from the summer heat in a magical library where you can dive into the books themselves in this fantasy 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.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a soothing visualization exercise for embracing the magic of summer.

In this magical sleep story,

You take a visit to a sunflower farm.

Seeking escape from the afternoon heat,

You retreat to a shady grove of trees.

Soon you discover an entrance to an otherworldly library where the books have the power to transport you to their story worlds.

You while away the afternoon by exploring the hundred acre wood,

Neverland,

And the farm at Green Gables.

All the world is made of faith and trust and pixie dust.

J.

M.

Berry.

As far as the eye can see,

Brilliant yellow sunflowers wink and cascade in a rolling breeze,

Green and golden on the gentle slopes.

You sit on a bundle of straw in the corner of an open cart attached to the buzzing tractor,

Accompanied by a dozen other passengers,

Faces bright with eager grins.

Laughter floats on the air,

Dancing across the buoyant fragrance of ripe strawberries and peaches.

The summer sun crests through a pink morning haze,

And the world lingers lazy in its embrace.

You haven't done something for yourself in a while,

But you had to get away for something fun and relaxing.

A farm not far from home hosts pick your own festivals,

Where visitors can fill baskets with handpicked flowers and fruit.

At the height of summer,

Their trees burst with peaches,

And fields wave with smiling sunflowers.

The wagon slows on approach,

And the driver wishes a good day to all.

You climb down onto the grass,

Retrieve a basket of your own and a pair of shears,

And venture off into the strawberry fields.

You're thankful for a wispy breeze as you stroll through the rows.

You watch caregivers chase after little ones,

Tiny faces and fingers smeared with strawberry juice.

Here and there,

You pluck an especially ripe-looking berry from under the shade of leaves.

You resist the urge to eat them all now,

Knowing you'll have to pay by the pound upon exit.

It's so nice,

You think,

To have a whole day ahead and nothing to do.

No obligations,

And an abundance of homegrown beauty in which to lose yourself.

Soon you venture away from the strawberry fields and toward the towering rows of sunflowers.

Their faces tilt toward their namesake,

With golden petals ringed round dark brown heads.

The leaves tickle your face as you move through the forest of flowers.

You can hear the buzzing of bees floating from flower to flower at a distance.

It's a pleasant drone that makes you think of golden honey in glass jars,

Waiting for you at the farmer's market on the property.

Once in a few paces,

You stop in front of a particularly bright-blooming sunflower,

Extend your shears,

And snip the stalk in the way the farmer showed you,

Depositing the cut flower in your basket.

Smiling,

You have the distinct feeling of filling up the basket with sunshine.

When you look closely at the flowers themselves,

You're drawn in by the tiny folded florets that ring the head.

Dozens of fractalized flowers within flowers.

It's mesmerizing.

While gazing at the beauty of the sunflowers,

However,

A bead of sweat drips from the tip of your nose and lands upon the petals.

The sun beats down,

Growing increasingly hotter as the mild morning wanes to high noon.

At once you find yourself eager for shade and respite.

You take a swig from your water bottle,

The outside of which is slippery with condensation.

Emerging from the tall sunflower growth and stepping aside to allow a pair of children to chase each other across your eyeline,

Disappearing into the rose,

You scan the horizon for some temporary shelter from the heat.

It'll have to be the peach orchard,

You think,

Spotting a line of trees not far off.

The sun cascades through their branches,

Dappling the lush grass with appealing shadows.

You'll head over there to pick some peaches.

You'd wanted to grab a few after all.

Cool off and then head home.

Even though you've been itching to get out of the house,

At this very moment the thought of relaxing in the air conditioning and flicking on the television is unbearably tempting.

Under the peach trees,

The sweet,

Juicy fragrance is tantalizing.

It smells like summer,

You suppose.

You pluck a few peaches,

Some tender and ripe,

Others still firm and fuzzy,

And add them to the haul in your basket.

The shade helps protect you from the blazing sun,

But still you reach repeatedly for your water.

It's a shame,

You think,

To leave such a beautiful place so soon,

When you've set aside the whole day to enjoy it.

But you just don't think you can stand much more of this heat.

Resign,

You pull one last ripe peach from a tree and resolve to return to the entrance where a wagon should be waiting to pick folks up.

As you retrace your steps through the peach orchard,

However,

You find yourself a bit disoriented.

You expect to emerge from a row of trees facing the strawberry patch,

But instead you nearly collide with the trunk of a massive oak tree.

Behind it are several more like it,

And acorns litter the ground beneath.

You didn't see this oak grove on the way in,

You're sure of that.

It's a big place,

But certainly you can't have gotten too turned around.

You look back the way you came,

And squint to try and spot the sunflower fields through the peach trees.

Sure enough,

There's a golden undulation beyond,

Suggestive of the sunny florals.

So really,

This ought to be the way back to the strawberry patch.

Well,

You think,

Perhaps you've just strayed a bit further than you thought down the rows of trees in the orchard.

You'll just have to cut through the oaks,

And you'll get your bearings.

But the moment you step into the ring of trees,

Only now noticing how perfect is the circle in which they stand,

Something changes.

It's as if the grass within the grove stands taller and straighter,

And a shiver rises in you.

You actually halt,

Sighing,

For here beneath the oak's leafy branches you find the sweet relief you've been seeking.

Only narrow rays of sun penetrate the canopy,

And a pleasant wave of cool washes over you from head to toe.

Still,

The sweet traces of peach perfume linger on the breeze,

And your ears fill with the sound of gently swaying branches.

You set your basket down for a moment,

Rolling your shoulders and stretching your arms to the sky.

Maybe a few minutes in this shady retreat will sate your thirst and re-energize you to enjoy your day at the farm.

If only you'd brought a book.

The tangle of roots beneath the largest of the oak trees simply invites a languid lounger to nestle there.

You could spend hours in the exquisite peace of this place,

Reading tales of innocence and nature.

Even without reading material,

You move toward the tree,

Intent on sitting in the snug curl of roots as you recover your energy.

But as you come close,

You notice something you hadn't seen before.

Indeed,

Was it there before,

And you simply glazed over it?

There,

In the hearty,

Thick trunk of the monumental oak tree,

Is a door.

A green door,

Rustic and painted with a shiny polish,

Bearing a brass knocker at the center.

You catch yourself in a laugh.

It looks like the kind of place a fairy or a gnome might live.

It's very cute.

You imagine the owners of the farm built it to amuse children running through the grounds,

And as a photo-op for families.

Are there other secret doors or follies in the landscape,

You wonder.

You smile to yourself as you suppress the urge to lift a hand and engage the knocker.

It's in the shape of a decorative honeybee,

You realize.

And after a moment,

It's just too tempting not to try.

Maybe you laugh,

A brownie or a wood elf will answer the door and grant you wishes.

You reach out,

Clasp the burnished brass bee and knock it against the door,

Three times.

Nothing happens right away.

You sigh and reach down for your basket,

Ready to head back into the heat.

But as you go,

Out of the corner of your eye you catch a flash of light,

A reflection it seems upon the brass,

Which flares and dissipates.

And in a moment comes a creaking sound,

A yawning of metal hinges long at rest.

You turn sharply back to the door,

Which,

To your surprise,

Is swinging inward and open.

No elf or brownie comes to the door,

However.

Indeed,

It appears to have opened of its own energy and volition,

Revealing only a shimmering golden void.

No,

Not a void,

A veil.

It sparkles like gold dust upon the threshold and beyond.

As you step closer,

You might see more than vague and shifting forms.

Beyond the veil,

There is a chamber.

Not the inside of a hollow tree,

But a vast and curious expanse.

You can make out,

Past the curtain of golden light,

Structures short and tall,

Furniture or bookshelves.

Yes,

Beyond the golden haze,

There is,

You realize,

A library.

Is it dehydration,

You wonder?

Heat stroke?

Or did your innocent yearning for a book to read under the trees,

A longing magnified by whatever mystic power exists here within the grove,

Bring this place into being?

Could a magic library simply spring up from your imagination?

Well,

You've been desperate to take some time for yourself.

What better way to do that than by means of escape into the magical?

A rush of intrigue swells in your chest,

And before any hesitation can swim to the surface,

You bound forward,

Toward the golden veil,

Across the threshold of the oak tree door,

Through the shimmer,

And into the otherworldly library.

You shut your eyes tightly as you pass through the veil,

Which only slightly tickles.

Once past the entryway,

You feel cool,

Cleansing air sweep around you.

It's a cool that's so refreshing,

So relaxing,

That you almost don't want to move.

You open your eyes,

And at first you think the change in the quality of light is sending bright spots to swim through your vision.

But after your eyes adjust,

You realize that the tiny golden sparkles remain.

It's like the whole of this space is bathed in the quality of summer sunrise.

The oriferous shimmer that bounces off the surface of a lake at dawn,

Or twinkles through trees in a glade.

Slowly,

With a fluttering wonder,

You begin to take in your surroundings in earnest.

You are indeed within a library,

But it's like no earthly library you've seen.

Wonders wink from every corner,

Impossible and astonishing.

For one,

The bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling,

And the ceiling is wondrous high,

So high you have to crane your neck to spot it.

It's made of wrought iron and peach-tinted glass,

Like a greenhouse ceiling,

And sunlight streams through it,

Picking up its honey hue.

The shelves are not conventional installations,

With straight lines and right angles.

No,

They curve organically against the walls,

With the natural grace of oak trees in a forest.

They look to have grown into the space,

Rather than being built.

Some even have roots that reach across the floor in tangles and knots,

Curling into the perfect cradles for a lounging reader.

Plants grow,

Too,

From between the books,

And there are countless books.

Millions,

You'd guess,

Even realizing that from here,

You cannot see where the library ends.

The library stretches on before you for what might be a mile,

Simply reaching a fuzzy vanishing point at the edge of your vision.

Fiddlehead ferns,

Bright red hibiscus and monstera peak between spines,

Cascading over the shelves.

Even sunflowers sprout from the floor,

Shining their bright faces at many levels,

Some reaching twenty or more feet up toward the sky.

On a small round table by a nearby shelf,

A book sits open to an illustrated page.

From the inner pages sprout delicate wildflowers,

As if they've come to life from the botanical illustrations within.

There is life and light all around,

And yet the air is comfortably cool and sweetly scented.

You walk through the library,

Stepping over mossy roots and admiring the overgrown shelves.

You seek the source of a trickling sound,

The sound of water from somewhere ahead.

Soon you find it,

A gently rushing stream that runs right through the stacks,

Curving and winding round and under bookshelves.

There's even a decorative bridge that arches over the stream.

You step onto the bridge and look down into the water.

In it you catch flashes of gold,

Like drops of liquid sunlight just below the surface.

Fish swept up in the laughing stream.

Though you feel you could explore the peculiarities of the library for hours,

You succumb to the itch and urge to sit down among the roots and lose yourself in a book.

Running a hand along the spines of the books at eye level,

You reach for an old,

Comforting childhood favorite.

Just seeing the cover is enough to make your heart swell with nostalgic bliss.

At the top right corner,

There floats a teddy bear,

Grasping tight to a soaring balloon.

You hold the book close as you find a tangle of roots that's just right to curl up in.

You feel completely cradled and supported as you allow your muscles to relax against the roots.

Then,

Cozy and content,

You allow the book to fall open on your lap and you begin to read.

Before you can take in a word,

However,

An unusual sensation comes over you.

It's as though you're tipping head over heels,

Tumbling toward the pages of the book.

But instead of colliding with anything,

You continue to tumble as though through open air.

You cling tightly to the corners of the book cover.

But no,

It's not a book to which you cling at all.

It's a string.

Trying to get your bearings,

You realize that you are floating,

Gingerly through a blue and cloudless sky,

Clutching a ribbon in your hand attached to something overhead which buoys you in the air.

You look up and there,

Fastened to the end of the string,

Is a swollen red balloon.

Down,

Down you float,

Enjoying the pleasant whoosh of summer air on your face till you descend through an opening in a thick canopy of trees.

This has been a strange day,

Indeed,

You think.

You seem to keep discovering new levels,

Doorways to new places.

First the grove,

Then the library,

And now this dense wood.

How will you ever find your way back out again?

Landing softly on the ground,

You continue to grasp the balloon string.

You scan your surroundings to get your bearings,

And as luck would have it,

There's a crooked wooden post nearby with a hand-painted sign upon it.

An involuntary gasp of delight escapes your lips as you read the sign,

Which reads,

The Hundred Acre Wood.

You've fallen right into the pages of the childhood classic,

Right into the enchanting home of Winnie the Pooh and his friends.

You hardly have time to process the thrill of the realization before you overhear the sound of merry voices through the trees.

A small group of someones are singing,

It seems,

Singing a very familiar song,

Indeed.

Still clutching the balloon string,

You follow the voices past birches and beaches till you find a clearing,

Festively decorated for what looks like a birthday party.

More balloons are tied to chairs and trees,

And many-colored bunting hangs from the branches.

A sheer excitement rises within you when you catch sight of the denizens around the party table.

Each of them is more familiar than the last to you.

There's a tall eagle owl at the head of the table,

With spectacles perched on the end of his beak.

In one hand he holds a small slip of paper,

Which he reads from,

And in the other a glass.

He's reading a toast,

You realize,

To the guest of honor.

That guest,

You surmise,

Is the one to owls left,

A sorry-looking creature seated before a plate of thistles.

It's Eeyore,

You realize with delight,

The gloomy stuffed donkey with a bad habit of losing his tail.

Morose as ever,

He does look done up for the occasion,

A paper crown atop his head and ribbons in his mane.

Seated beside him is Kanga,

The mother kangaroo,

And in her pouch is baby Roo,

Clapping with delight to hear owl's speech.

In the next seat,

A pink piglet fusses over a pot of tea.

Across the table from piglet is a large rabbit,

Who mutters impatiently at the length of owl's toast,

When there's carrot cake to be enjoyed,

Made with fresh carrots from his own garden.

And there,

Right next to rabbit,

You nearly shout with joy to see him,

Is the one and only Winnie the Pooh,

Chubby and golden furred as the honey he craves,

The silly old bear listens attentively to the toast,

Though you notice his eyes wandering now and then to a jar of the yellow nectar on the table.

Owl,

Pompous yet sincere,

Concludes his winding speech about the virtues of our dear friend Eeyore,

To cheers and applause.

Caught up in the celebration of the moment you shout,

Here,

Here,

Before even thinking,

At once all the heads of the cheerful animals turn to you,

Standing between the trees with a red balloon tied to your wrist.

For a moment,

You wonder if you should have stayed out of sight,

And let them carry on with their party.

But in an instant,

They shout with joy at the sight of you,

Crying,

Welcome and join us,

And there you are,

We knew you'd come.

It's curious that they should recognize you,

You think,

Until you glance down at your attire,

Red shoes,

Blue shorts,

And a yellow collared shirt.

Of course,

The animals think you are their friend,

Christopher Robin.

There's an open seat next to Winnie the Pooh,

Which you take just in time for carrot cake,

And the giving of a gift to the birthday boy.

Pooh,

Owl,

And Piglet present a rustic but thoughtful gift,

An empty honey jar,

On which Owl has elegantly written the words,

Happy birthday.

To your surprise,

The solemn mug of Eeyore actually briefly slides into something of a smile.

On him,

Even a half amused expression is enough to light up the whole of the hundred acre wood.

Party games and endless laughs follow.

You feel most at home among the inhabitants of the wood.

In time,

However,

You feel a subtle tugging on your arm.

You look to see that the balloon tied to your wrist,

Which has been content to float listlessly above the table with its fellows,

Is now pulling gently up,

Up,

Upward toward the canopy again.

It must be time to go,

You think,

Back to the library.

So,

With a farewell to your friends,

And a warm hug from the fluffy,

Cuddly Pooh Bear,

You allow yourself to be borne upward by the bright balloon.

The party table and the hundred acre wood shrink from sight as you ascend through the tops of the trees and into the big blue sky.

You float through the mist of a pillowy cloud,

Feeling its moisture on your face.

And then,

All at once,

You find your back in the library,

Clutching not a balloon string but the corners of the book.

You're nestled not in the softness of clouds,

But among tender tree roots.

On the open page before you is a charming illustration of a coterie of stuffed animals seated around a festive table.

You close the book,

Still buzzing from your brilliantly tangible experience in the hundred acre wood.

You can still smell the carrot cake,

Still feel the warmth of your animal friends.

What wondrous magic.

You've always felt that reading had the power to transport you,

But this was so powerfully real.

You're eager to try another text,

Tumble into another world.

Replacing Winnie the Pooh upon its shelf,

You search for another text to catch your eye.

Soon your eyes land on a messy pile of books atop a table.

The gold thread on the cover of the book on the very top of the pile shimmers daintily,

As if beckoning you.

You approach,

Tracing the cover's illustration with your gaze.

Above the letters of the title sits the image of a little boy,

Pan flute in his hand.

He's framed by two languid mermaids,

And below lies a crocodile.

The rest of the cover is embellished with florals,

Candles,

And tiny fairies.

The title is Peter and Wendy,

Otherwise known as Peter Pan.

And who could resist a visit to Neverland on a day like today?

Back you go to the tangle of roots in which you can sit so comfortably,

Excited to jump in.

Opening the book,

You immediately succumb to the tumbling sensation,

Falling and floating gently through mist and clouds and type settings.

With a bounce,

You land on a soft downy surface.

A bed in a nursery,

It seems.

There's a light breeze in the room,

As from an open window.

You look toward the light spill of evening,

Intent on shutting any open window to keep out the cold.

When you regard a peculiar sight,

There in silhouette upon the windowsill is the figure of a young boy,

Hands poised on his hips.

The moon peeks out from behind the clouds,

And suddenly his face is all lit up,

Impish and smiling,

An eternally youthful glimmer in his eye.

His hair is windswept,

And his ears sharply pointed.

He is Peter Pan,

The boy who wouldn't grow up.

Before you can catch your breath,

The boy holds out a moonlight hand to you.

You grasp it firmly,

And with a wink and a wish,

You and Peter take flight.

Out you soar over London,

Under a milky moon.

You round Big Ben and fly over the Thames,

Second to the right,

And straight on till morning.

Together with the laughing sprite,

You fly to the distant island of lost boys,

Pirates,

And fairies.

Together,

Bouncing on billowing pixie dust,

To Neverland.

As you reach the glittering isle,

A creamsicle dawn is just breaking over the horizon and the waves.

All is bathed in ochre and pink.

At last you come to land on the shores of a sparkling lagoon,

With waterfalls that cascade most melodically.

Resting atop a rock,

Peter pulls out a panpipe,

And plays a merry tune.

You dip your feet in the crystal clear waters,

And admire the lush tropical plants and ferns that cling to the rocks all around.

Then your eye lands on a flash of movement from across the lagoon,

The flipping of a fin or a tail from beneath the water.

There's something moving below the surface,

But you're not sure what.

You pull your feet up from the water to be safe.

Non-moments later,

However,

The mysterious mover emerges from the water,

Breaking the surface with a crash and a splash.

To your surprise,

There rises the head of a girl,

Laughing and flipping her long wavy hair.

She grasps a knot in the rock near you,

And hoists herself to sit upon it,

Gazing admiringly at Peter.

But she's no ordinary girl,

You realize,

As she climbs from the lagoon.

She has the tail of a fish,

With scales iridescent and aquamarine.

A live mermaid right before your eyes.

Soon many more emerge from the water,

Smiling and giggling and singing along with Peter's tune on the pipe.

Combing their hair and bathing in waterfalls,

The lagoon is simply alive with mermaids.

It's not long before you're coaxed into the water,

Which is cool and refreshing.

You're a long way from the unpleasant heat of the farm.

You splash and play in the shallows of the water,

Enjoying the music and company.

But eventually Peter's playing stops,

And you hear him conversing with someone atop the rock.

You look up to see him in something of a debate,

With a tiny sparkle of light.

This must be his fairy friend,

Tinkerbell.

Oh,

Come on,

Tink,

You hear Peter say.

It's a beautiful day.

Come enjoy.

Presently the whisper of light tumbles toward you.

You submerge yourself at once to hide,

Opening your eyes.

Under the water you can see scores of fish,

Darting in and out of bright coral.

Seaweeds wave under shafts of white light.

You bob back to the surface,

Coming up for air,

And hoping you've managed to escape the wrath of the pixie.

But there,

Right before your eyes,

So close in fact that you see her in double vision,

Is the aggrieved Tinkerbell.

She screws up her tiny face,

Sticks out her tongue,

And blows a raspberry in your direction before bouncing away back to Peter's side.

You stifle a laugh,

But the mermaids don't hold back on their amusement.

As the morning whisks away on sunny wings,

You take to the rocks to soak up the light and warmth of a Neverland summer.

Summer among mermaids,

Fairies,

Lost boys,

And children who won't grow up.

It's good to be a child sometimes,

You think,

To eschew obligation,

To swim in cool lagoons,

To pick fights with pixies,

And to hide among the stalks of sunflowers.

To do as you please.

You close your eyes in the bright sun,

Still seeing the golden glow behind your eyelids.

You hardly notice the change at first,

But soon you realize the rocks beneath you have softened,

Molded to you,

And the light behind your eyes grows cool and dim.

You flutter your eyelids open and find yourself back in the library,

Cradled among the roots of trees.

What a pleasant escape,

You think,

And good you got back before there was any talk of pirates or crocodiles.

Just one more book then,

You decide.

One more adventure into the pages of magic and wonder.

One more getaway to the lands of childhood fantasy.

You step across roots and over rivulets to find one last book that calls to you.

When you see it,

Your eyes light up.

A worn green cover embossed with the profile of a young woman.

Not just any young woman.

Anne is her name,

Spelled with an E.

Anne of Green Gables.

As you clutch the book,

Intending to return to your nest of roots,

Your eyes fall upon an even more tempting spot.

Between two shelves,

Upon and through which grow abundant marigolds,

Roses,

And coneflowers,

There is strung a cloth hammock.

You stride over to the hammock and climb inside,

Gently swaying to stillness.

There's a plush pillow on which to rest your head,

Were it not for your excitement to visit Green Gables.

You could easily fall asleep here and dream rose-scented dreams.

You open the book.

Within moments,

The tumbling sensation comes over you again,

And with a rush and a whoosh,

As if through a windy tunnel,

You fall head over heels into a new space.

A bumpy movement continues even as you find yourself seated.

You're riding in a carriage,

Drawn by a handsome sorrel mare,

Through a dizzyingly picturesque countryside.

Trees whiz by birch and chestnut,

A lovely tree all fringed with white,

Like a misty veil,

Reminding you of a blushing bride.

Oh,

So many lovely cherry trees,

Wild and wonderful with cloud-like blossoms,

How you might like to snuggle into those blooms yourself and sleep,

All bathed in moonlight.

The landscape sets your mind to all sorts of fantasies and daydreams with its whimsical beauty.

You don't think you've ever seen a place so naturally awe-inspiring in all your life.

But no sooner has this thought crossed your mind than a new wonder springs up on the horizon,

As the buggy drives over the crest of a hill into view comes a pond,

Serpentine and glittering in the sun,

Spanned by a bridge and bordered by amber hills of sand.

In its coruscating surface,

Played upon by light and shadow,

Are a hundred different hues shifting in and over each other by turns rosy and ethereal green with hints and flutters of colors you know no name for,

Shining and shimmering like a diamond.

You turn to the buggy's driver,

A well-dressed middle-aged man who must be Matthew Cuthbert of the farm at Green Gables,

And ask him about the glorious body of water.

He informs you that it's called Barry's Pond,

After the gentleman who lives in the house on the other side.

But you decide that it's no name fit for such heavenly natural grace,

And you give it a new name,

The Lake of Shining Waters.

You ride on through the sublime landscape till the sun begins to set behind the hills.

All the country is bathed in mellow twilight and cresting another hill,

At last you come within view of Green Gables.

Shining like a beacon over the farmstead is one bright star,

A guiding light home.

The farmstead,

White with its eponymous green accents,

Overlooks lush green grass and clover slopes,

And is surrounded by the same blushing cherry trees and poplars from the journey.

The sweet lolling fragrance of lilac travels on an evening breeze.

Over the swell of cricket song,

You can even hear the distant thunder of waves of sea.

Your heart and head and belly fill with warmth and comfort,

A feeling almost indescribable,

But achingly simple.

The feeling of coming home to a place,

To a time,

To yourself.

It's the same kind of feeling you get,

Or nearly the same,

When you revisit a wonderful book you loved a long time ago,

Or when you reunite with an old friend after many years,

Or rediscover a cherished hobby,

A cozy protected feeling,

An initiation into the wonder and magic of the human experience.

You want to hold this feeling,

And the twilight impression of Green Gables,

Forever.

But like the shifting surface of the lake of shining waters,

You know that nothing lasts forever,

Save memory and love.

So bathed in night fragrance and beguiled by visions of natural majesty,

You close your eyes and find yourself back in the library.

You hold tightly to the book for a little while,

As if embracing a dear companion.

Briefly you contemplate taking this book home with you,

Borrowing it as you would from an ordinary library,

If only to savor sweet moments in Green Gables when you need a lift.

But alas,

There doesn't seem to be a librarian anywhere,

Or a circulation desk.

And besides,

You're not sure how you'd find your way back to this place to return it.

Its appearance was,

After all,

So strange and unexpected.

No,

You think,

This isn't the kind of library where one can simply check out books for return at a later date.

What you borrow here are not books,

But experiences.

You borrow slices of life from beloved characters,

Borrow space within their magnetic and magnificent worlds.

The memories you keep,

Always.

You take your time in departing,

Bidding farewell to the roots and the river and the charming bridge.

Goodbye to the hundred acre wood,

To Neverland and to Green Gables.

Goodbye to the magic of these transportive books,

If only for now.

With a last look back at this sparkling palace of letters,

You slip back through the doorway and into the grove of trees.

You retrieve your basket of fresh flowers and fruits,

Then retrace your steps through the peach orchard and the strawberry patch.

The sunflowers simply dazzle in late afternoon sun.

Its heat no longer bothers you.

You carry the memory of cold lagoon waters,

Birthday cake,

And breezy buggy rides.

There's a wagon waiting to take a load of passengers back to the market.

The driver waits for you and a few other stragglers to climb aboard the hayride.

The wagon feels fuller by far than before,

As between every passenger are baskets overflowing with beauty and abundance.

Rosy-cheeked toddlers drift to sleep in their mother's laps,

Lulled by the movement of the wagon.

Other children,

Some with balloons tied to their wrists,

Bite into peaches and strawberries,

Unable to wait any longer.

Sunflowers wink from every direction.

Summer smiles on the rolling hills.

You begin to think about how nice it will be to arrive home,

Kick off your shoes,

And crack open a good book.

Somewhere beyond the orchard,

A summer breeze tickles the leaves of the oak trees.

Slow down and soften.

Let your breath be deep and natural.

Rising and falling,

Like the sun rises and sets over the earth on lengthy days and cool,

Breezy nights,

Bringing heat and nourishment to all that live beneath it,

Warming the waters in which we swim,

Lighting up the moon in whose light we dream.

As you wind down for sleep tonight,

Give thanks for the blessings of the sun and the season of summer,

The pace.

As you breathe,

Imagine your body filling up from head to toe with warm white light moving through you,

Relaxing you,

Softening you,

Opening you up to receive the gifts of the season.

And as you follow your breath's natural rhythm,

Warming and lighting and softening with each cycle of breath,

Allow your mind to follow my words,

Calling up images and patterns without conscious effort or editing.

Just visualize them and let them fall into place as I mention them.

Let your mind and body relax and allow the unconscious to take over this exercise.

Ocean waves,

Gulls floating on the wind,

Sandy beaches,

Your toes in the sand,

Salt water,

Seashells,

Bonfire on the beach,

Salt spray air,

The sea after the storm,

Freshly cut grass,

Dew clinging to the grass,

The first glisten of morning sun on the dew,

Prisms of light through morning mist,

Butterflies visiting the garden,

Flowers opening to the morning,

Honeysuckle vine,

A field of sunflowers,

Sunflowers waving in the breeze,

A field of lavender,

Purple sunset on lavender fields,

Fruit trees at dusk,

Dense woods at twilight,

A winding path through the woods,

Fireflies between the trees,

Fireflies in a jar,

Wind through the trees,

Branches swaying in the canopy,

A blanket of bluebells on the forest floor,

Cloudy nights,

Storms in the distance,

Electric night air,

Soft earth,

Childhood,

Ripe fruit,

Gathering,

Vegetable garden,

Hiding place,

Flushed cheeks,

Cool stream,

Little birds,

Flowering trees,

Long afternoon,

Lazy shade,

Summer storm,

Rabbit hole,

Old friends,

Whispers,

Lake of shining waters,

Summer moon,

Stars on the sea,

Summer sleep,

Good night.

Reviews

I love magical library stories. This is another great one. I still don't know how it ends because I fell asleep just after the door on the tree was opened.

Absolutely lovely!

At first I had trouble understanding it, but then I just fell a sleep in like two minutes.Sleep and sorcery knows what there doing!!😏😏

Divine. To listen & be inspired to do my art. Cheers. 🌻😘🐱😺🐨🌷

Wow, thank you🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻It took me many nights, and now an early morning to discover the whole story.What enchanting adventures and what a way to start my Sunday! Thank you, thank you, thank you🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

I don’t remember any of it because I fell asleep almost immediately :)

Oh dreamy summer visions…entering the season of deep harvest in real life, enjoying this magical journey through childhood’s freedom…and the taste of a ripe peach! Many many thanks🔥🙏🏼💕

I never make it through the story. My favorite story teller!