The Wandmaker And The Thorn

In tonight’s sleep story, you are a wandmaker and the owner of a beloved wand shop in the magical corridor of Surrey Alley. As winter approaches, you undertake your annual sojourn to Somerset, where you’ll retrieve material from a sacred tree in Glastonbury. From this, you’ll fashion a special wand – and you’ll try to imagine what kind of sorcerer will one day wield it.

Harry Potter & Arthurian inspiration

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon, Magic in the Mists by Flow, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Harness the magic of Glastonbury Tor and practice the art of wandcraft in tonight's enchanting bedtime story.

Sleep in 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 in Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation and one part dreamy adventure.

Concentrate on my voice for only as long as it serves you and when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan for peace and restoration.

In tonight's story,

You are a wand maker and the owner of a beloved wand shop in the magical corridor of Surrey Alley.

As winter approaches,

You undertake your annual sojourn to Somerset where you'll retrieve material from a sacred tree in Glastonbury.

From this,

You'll fashion a special wand and you'll try to imagine what kind of sorcerer will one day wield it.

In a forest of a hundred thousand trees,

No two leaves are alike and no two journeys along the same path are alike.

The chill of oncoming winter turns the mist to icy crystals that hang on the very shoulders of morning.

You pull your cloak tight,

Grateful for its thick barrier to the cold.

Your exhale escapes visibly,

Spectral spirals on the air.

You lean for a brief rest on your walking stick and peer through the mists.

This is how Glastonbury Tor appears in your imagination and in your dreams.

How it always appears.

Mist-froded and cold,

As yet untouched by the first true frost,

But bracing itself against winter's breath.

The persistent green of the grass,

Gold-edged by morning's hazy light,

Waits for a translucent kiss of ice,

Then blankets of powdery snow.

A gauzy glimmer of dawn on the horizon breaks the opal-white sheen of sky.

This image of mist-muddled dawn at Glastonbury holds sway over your memory,

So that this annual journey,

Though you've made it many times,

Collapses into a singular tableau.

Your senses remember the sight,

The smell,

The sensations.

Your muscles remember the steps,

The climb,

The motions.

A bloom of recognition energizes this private ritual.

You remember the first time you made this pilgrimage,

How much younger you were then,

Naive and unflinching.

You smile to think of that time in your life when you had such independence as you could not yet understand.

The days of your apprenticeship with the great wand-maker,

Lucan Le Fleur.

He was a splendid teacher,

But he gave you great creative freedom and encouraged you to explore the world beyond your upbringing,

To expand your knowledge,

Experience,

And inspiration.

You owe so much to Le Fleur,

Not least the inheritance he left you.

After you studied under him to become a successful wand-maker in your own right,

He bequeathed you his beloved storefront in Surrey Alley,

The nation's epicenter of magical commerce.

Along with the shop came its inventory and contents,

Thousands of handcrafted,

Exquisite Le Fleur wands,

As well as decades of records,

Sketches,

And journals.

While you donated much to magical museums and archives,

You chose to reopen the store under a new name.

With the blessing of your late mentor,

You sourced wands from all over the world and crafted and sold your own.

Now,

All throughout the magical world,

Your name is synonymous with wandcraft,

And you're respected as highly as Le Fleur was.

But tied now to a storefront and motivated to keep your business thriving,

You can appreciate how untethered you once were.

Adventures,

Flights of fancy were accessible to you then.

Now you must carve out time and space to reflect and withdraw from responsibility.

You suppose that's always the challenge of growing older,

Finding ways to recapture the freedoms of youth while still loving and cherishing your obligations to work,

Family,

Or community.

You regret nothing.

You love the wand shop and the craft itself with a passion that shows no sign of abating.

But this annual escape from the four walls of the store,

With all the planning and preparation that comes with it,

Always rejuvenates you.

It feels like a return home to your creativity,

Your past,

And yourself.

On that first journey to Glastonbury so many years ago,

Your head buzzed with ideas and ambition.

You had traveled the countryside seeking new materials and inspiration.

The Flur was known for wands that were so light and thin they were almost weightless,

Which presented the challenge of enclosing a magical core.

The wand's magic,

After all,

Depends on the potency of the core,

Whether it's unicorn hair,

Mermaid's scale,

Or dragon's tooth.

That whole year you went round in search of delicate yet spiritus magical materials to serve as an arcane power source.

You collected the feathers of a prophetic raven who resides in the Salisbury Plain.

You bargained with a sad-eyed unicorn in the Caledonian forests of the north.

You joined the excavation of an ancient magical site and traded for the horn of a minotaur,

Which,

Powdered,

Might yield a powerful yet temperamental wand.

The Flur always taught you that a great wand was made through the thoughtful and focused marriage of wood and core.

He favored Hazel,

Holly,

And You-wood for wands as they yielded consistent results,

Though they were rarely the most powerful.

He sometimes worked with Hawthorne and Alder and rarely with evergreens.

Your own wand of his make is a special blend of woods,

Honeysuckle and hazel.

The Flur designed it as an homage to a poem he loved,

One of the Lays of Marie de France,

Who wrote charming stories of Arthurian romance.

The Lay in question,

Cheve-Foy,

Describes the true and forbidden love between Tristan and Isolde.

So bonded they were in love,

Marie says,

They were like the hazel and the honeysuckle,

Which may grow entwined around one another,

Sustaining each other.

If one is cut,

The other will die at once.

So they are like two hearts that beat as one.

Of such importance is the relationship between the wood and the core.

Without each other,

They cannot survive.

Together,

They make something greater than themselves.

Magic.

But under Le Flur's tutelage,

You opened your mind and began to rethink the practice of wandcraft,

The theory of it.

What if,

You thought,

The wood itself were treated somehow with natural magic,

Infused even?

Could wands be made even lighter,

More delicate if they didn't require a magical core,

Because the material itself already contained potent magical properties?

You shared your theory with Le Flur,

Who had his doubts,

But always encouraged you to follow your instincts.

Even now,

All these years later,

You feel uplifted by the faith he had in you,

By the steadfast trust with which he sent you to explore this theory.

It was here,

Beneath the majesty of Glastonbury Tor,

That your exploration began,

An experiment that would become the seed of your signature wand and a revolution in the craft.

Glastonbury is a site long associated with myth and legend.

It is the highest of the hills in the surrounding region,

Looming over Somerset like a great sleeping giant.

Round its girth is a ring of terrace-like grooves,

Interpreted by many as the remnants of millennia-old terraforming.

It's in the form of a mystical pattern or maze.

It's been long thought to be the site of ancient pre-Christian worship,

And magic users like yourself have come to the site for generations,

Seeking to steep in its mystical energies.

Glastonbury is also the cradle of British Christianity.

It was here that,

According to legend,

Joseph of Arimathea brought the Holy Grail and buried it.

Supposedly,

A spring began to flow at the site of the burial,

And that spring still flows.

Pilgrims come from all over the world to drink of its waters,

Hoping it will grant them healing and extended youth.

This Joseph walked with a staff,

And legend also holds that when he struck it into the ground at Glastonbury,

The staff grew roots and flowered into a hawthorn tree,

One that miraculously bloomed twice each year instead of once.

And was this part of the legend that drew you to Somerset?

For if it was possible to craft a wand that needed no magical core,

What better wood to work with than that of the Holy Glastonbury Thorn,

Wood from a tree out of legend which drunk of the waters of the Holy Grail?

Today,

Gazing out toward the Tor,

You feel the same electric excitement as you did on that first journey,

The sense of uncertainty and anticipation,

The prickling fire of passionate trust in your vision.

The mist swirls over the town so thick and opaque it resembles a body of water.

Long ago,

A thousand years or more,

The spot on which you stand would have indeed been Lake,

For Somerset,

The summer country,

Was all marshland.

At times when the fens flooded,

Just as the Tor now rises from the mists,

It would have emerged an island from shallow Lake.

A boat would have been necessary to cross to it.

That's what earned the Tor its other great legendary connection,

Beyond the stories of Joseph and the Grail,

Its association with the magical Isle of Avalon.

A place of power,

Enchantment,

And mystery,

Avalon is the legendary resting place of King Arthur.

In the romances,

He's ferried across the lake by his half-sister,

Morgan Le Fay,

And taken to the sacred isle to heal his wounds.

Here the once and future King awaits the hour of his people's need,

At which time he'll awake once more and come to their salvation.

You take a frosty inhale,

On which the scent of sweet grass and winter berry glides,

And you shift your weight from your walking stick.

It's been enough of a rest now,

And with your strength renewed,

You shake off the onslaught of memories,

Preparing to approach the Tor.

On a morning like this,

With the mist so thick it's almost solid,

You summon one of your favorite forms of magical transportation.

Focusing your intention and gesturing deliberately with your hazel and honeysuckle wand,

You call it up from the mists.

The first part to emerge is the carved wooden bow in the elegant form of a dragon's head.

The rest of the boat follows,

Dark wood and just large enough to hold one or two people.

You climb into the stern,

Feeling it rock beneath you on the steady sway of morning air.

The mist behaves like water,

Gently lapping at the sides of the boat.

Then using your walking stick like an oar,

You cut a straight path through the layer of mist toward the shining green hill,

Ringed now in golden dawn.

It's exceedingly peaceful,

Gracefully gliding across the surface of the misty morning.

The haze is thick enough that even the earliest risers in the town would not see the hull of your vessel from the ground below.

As you approach the Tor,

A chorus of birdsong,

Larks and fire crests whistles merrily over the fog.

You feel weightless,

Suspended over the village.

Time seems to slip away and collapse in on itself.

For now you sail across a glassy lake,

Just as the pilgrims of the ancient world did,

Toward the mysterious isle,

Toward this gateway between worlds,

This locus of magic,

Worship and myth.

The boat comes to a pause just as its bow brushes the soft grass of the hill.

You disembark,

Then wave your wand to send the vessel sinking once more into the mists.

Your feet treasure the sensation of solid ground,

Even grass slippery with dew.

Here you can feel the gentle kiss of sunlight on your face,

The sun's warmth at last slicing through the frosty air as it crests over the landscape.

Your body knows the grooves of the hillside and your legs carry you over the ringed earthen terraces in a slow,

Meditative gait.

No one knows the origins of the terracing,

Whether they served an agricultural or defensive purpose,

Or,

Rather,

If they followed mystical patterns and pagan tradition.

Were they created thousands of years ago to serve as a labyrinth,

A care-droya for pilgrims to follow on their journey to the top of the Tor,

A solemn path that encouraged focus,

Meditation and slow revelation.

Whatever their original purpose,

This is how you employ the terraces now.

There's a quicker path,

One that cuts right up the side of the Tor and even a concrete walkway for tourists.

But you are no tourist.

Your craft brings you here,

And the ancient energies that resonate in the Isle must be harnessed through intention and devotion.

Your walking stick springs back against the spongy earth as you go round the rings of the Tor,

Supporting your weight.

You're not as young as you once were,

But you can feel the presence of your youthful self like an imprint or a glittering shadow walking just steps ahead.

You follow faithfully behind.

As you circle the Tor via the terraces,

You intersect again and again with the footpath.

This early,

There are few visitors to the site,

But once or twice you encounter hikers on their way to the zenith.

You greet them with a friendly nod,

Ignoring the puzzled looks they give,

Observing your unusual method of climbing.

Surely,

They think,

It would be much easier to follow the concrete path.

But on you perambulate,

Round and round the rings of the hill.

The sun crowns the monolithic St.

Michael's Tower,

And the morning mist begins to shift and break over the town.

All those years ago,

When you were first testing your new theories of wandcraft,

You came to Glastonbury looking for the thorn tree of legend.

Certainly,

The original tree,

The one that sprung from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea,

Was long gone,

But the gardeners of Glastonbury had taken meticulous cuttings and grafts over the centuries.

New trees were planted,

Cultivated and maintained from that original.

Each year at Christmastime,

When the tree flowered,

A budded branch was sent to the British monarch and set with the feast table.

The tree that now provides this branch has been kept on the grounds of St.

John's Church.

So to the churchyard you went,

Hoping to procure a branch of your own.

Le Fleur taught you much of the technique of wandcraft,

But he emphasized more than anything the importance of relationships to the art.

The relationship between wood and core,

Of course,

But also the relationship between the wand and the wielder,

The bond created through the performance of magic,

And the relationships you,

The wandmaker,

Form with your community.

With this in mind,

And a desire to ethically retrieve the material,

You sought out the head gardener responsible for the stewardship of the Glastonbury thorn.

He was a kindly man,

Just past middle age,

And endearingly enthusiastic about his work.

He agreed heartily to give you a tour of Glastonbury Abbey and St.

John's Church with an eye to the horticultural history of the place.

You admired the way his eyes lit up when he described this species of the Glastonbury thorn its unique characteristics and its remarkable tendency to flower in both winter and spring.

You listened faithfully as he explained the process by which he made cuttings and grafts to cultivate new descendants of that original tree,

Preserving the bifloral behavior.

It struck you at the time that his process,

Scientific,

Precise,

And grounded in natural principles,

Was not so unlike yours,

Not so unlike the working of magic.

Both require,

After all,

Specificity,

Intention,

And proper conditions.

They simply access different kinds of natural energies,

Though both are of the natural world.

While the practice of magic and the whole community of magic users worldwide depends on careful secrecy given the unpleasant history of persecution,

You held Lafleur's comments about relationships at the front of your mind when you made the decision to be honest with the gardener.

You had no intention of stealing a sprig of the Glastonbury thorn from under his nose,

And certainly you did not feel good about glamoring or hoodwinking the gardener through spellwork.

Instead,

Heartened by his bright-eyed devotion to the art of horticulture,

You chose to share with him your own craft.

Of course,

He didn't believe you at first.

He thought you were a charlatan or a prankster.

But when you showed him what you could do,

You demonstrated a bit of harmless magic that made the berries of a holly bush turn briefly to rubies and back again.

He began to soften.

Over a cup of tea to calm his nerves,

The gardener finally admitted that somehow,

Perhaps after living here in this mystifying place for so long,

He'd always known there was some greater force,

Something just outside his reach or just beyond his sight.

He'd always felt the presence of magic.

He'd just never been quite able to grasp it.

It was as though he'd always stood beside some translucent curtain,

Watching vague forms and figures move behind it out of his comprehension.

And it had always been there,

So he'd simply grown to ignore it.

But now,

You lifted the veil and given him a glimpse of what wondrous things lie beyond.

That was the beginning of one of the most important friendships of your life and career.

You and the gardener came to trust one another,

And he agreed to help you obtain the branch you desired.

Together,

You returned to the churchyard to find the tree.

That was on a snowy afternoon at the winter solstice.

When you came to the churchyard,

You found a gaggle of schoolchildren from the nearby nursery,

Gathered for their annual visit to the thorn.

You watched with amusement,

Faces pink in the chill,

As their teacher circled them round the trunk and led them in the singing of carols.

Their voices were high and clear,

Climbing the wintry air like the ringing of tiny bells.

The tree towered over them,

Its widespread branches a burst with the miraculous holiday blossoms,

The white flowers like puffs of snow.

After the children departed,

Leaving snow trails in their wake,

A frosty,

Sparkling peace settled in the courtyard.

You watched with admiration as the gardener lovingly approached the tree to take a cutting of a small branch.

Only one you asked for.

You couldn't hear what he was saying,

But you're certain he was speaking to the tree as he cut the branch,

Perhaps reassuring it that this sprig was destined for something great.

You took that branch back to London,

Where you studied under Le Fleur,

And you carved it into your very first,

Coreless wand.

Just as you had hoped,

The wand performed beautifully and consistently,

Even without the magical core.

For its mother tree had flourished on the waters of the Chalice Well,

And its ancestors had sprung from the source of the Holy Grail.

Le Fleur was proud of you.

He even remarked that you might change the face of wandcraft forever.

With a kind of tragic pride,

He expressed that his way was the old way,

The way of the past.

But no,

You assured him,

His method would persist.

You promised to keep it alive as long as you practiced.

And you kept your promise.

When you inherited the wand shop,

You still sourced and created wands in the old tradition.

But you also made wands in your new style,

Seeking out trees of power,

Ones that sit near healing wells or that house rare magical creatures.

These wands would serve caregivers,

Healers,

Gardeners,

And magic users whose power relies on the cooperation of the natural world.

You became renowned across the world for your innovation.

Each year,

You returned to Glastonbury near the winter time.

Each year,

The gardener met you in the ruins of the Abbey,

And you accompanied him to cut a sprig from the thorn tree.

Each year,

Before you departed the town,

You walked together over the Tor,

Sharing stories of the past year,

Then laughed over drinks in a local tavern.

Things have changed since those early years.

You've grown more skilled and independent as a wand maker and as a magic user.

Le Flair was right in emphasizing the power of relationships.

The one you've cultivated with your craft and with your own wand is particularly strong.

Although you've made many powerful,

Extraordinary wands in your time,

You've never given up the honeysuckle and hazel wand Le Flair made for you.

Like the symbiotic metaphor of the woods themselves,

You feel intrinsically connected to the wand.

It feels warm,

Comforting in your hand.

It knows and anticipates your every gesture.

After the death of the first thorn you used in your wandcraft,

The gardener kindly sent you a large branch of the tree as a memorial.

It was perfectly timed after the passing of Le Flair.

The gardener knew you could hardly make effective wands from the deceased limb,

But he thought you might find some use for it.

And indeed you did.

The walking stick that now supports you on your journey up the Tor is fashioned from it.

You've made this walk ever since.

Thinking about the journey upward,

The spiraling pattern of the walk,

And the reconnection of the thorn to its homeland is a restorative practice for you and a focus of magical energy.

The air is clean and frosty as you finally reach the crest.

St.

Michael's Tower looms.

You can feel a kind of hum in the earth that ripples through your body from your feet to your head.

The walking stick feels alive in your grasp.

A pair of young hikers,

Ones you encountered on the pathway,

Are standing beside the tower admiring the view from the top of the Tor.

They wave sweetly as you approach,

Then bid you a good morning and depart.

You're alone.

The view is magnificent,

As always.

The mist still lingers,

Translucent over the village,

Shifting and twisting slowly.

The town must be waking up,

For smoke is issuing now from chimneys,

And a sense of movement begins to break through the stillness and peace of the dawn.

You feel very far away from it all,

From civilization.

And yet,

As though you've gathered up all the vibrations of the hillside,

You feel surrounded by human energy.

The ghosts,

Perhaps,

Of all who've made this pilgrimage,

Or worshipped,

Or meditated here.

Of your past selves,

The echoes of every walk you've made around the rings of the Tor,

The shimmering shadows of you.

You take a moment to bask in their presence,

The wisdoms they bring,

Even from youth.

With the hikers out of sight now,

Disappearing beyond the slopes,

You close your eyes,

Feeling the warmth of the sun on your face.

Your craft has changed.

You've changed.

You no longer follow the gardener into churchyards,

Cutting the branches of young,

Flowering trees.

You've moved beyond that.

With a deep breath,

Hearing the whisper of music on the wind,

Whether it's really there or in your mind,

You cannot say,

But it recalls the songs of children in a winter chorus.

You summon up a wellspring of magical energy within yourself,

Gathered up from the climb,

The circling,

The ancient mystical pattern.

You grasp your walking stick,

The memory of an ancient thorn in both hands,

And with an issuing forth of your energized breath,

You strike it into the soft,

Grassy earth,

The sound of trickling water,

The shimmer of sunlight behind your eyes.

You open your eyes.

Where your staff thrust upon the ground now flows a tiny stream,

And now something sprouts from beneath the soil,

Twisting and yearning upward toward sunlight,

A small and simple eruption of life,

Reborn from the old thorn,

Made from the bond of earth and intention,

Magic and nature,

Past and present.

You watch as the little thing,

No taller than your knees,

Spreads tiny branches that flower with tiny blossoms,

White and pillowy as snow.

You blink against a glassy layer of tears.

You cannot help but feel overwhelmed at the sight,

Though you've seen it before.

Each time this spontaneous surge of life shakes you to your core.

You are astounded and grateful for the magical gift the earth gives you.

You do not take it for granted.

For some time,

You sit beside the tiny thorn tree,

Resting your weary bones and recovering from the outpouring of magical energy.

You watch the village come to life,

Take in the spectacular vistas of the countryside,

Green meadows and farmland,

Forest and fen.

The earth itself seems to recharge you from below.

When you've rested and restored your strength,

You harvest the tiny tree gingerly and with loving hands and store it in your satchel.

The little spring that flowed forth from the strike of your walking stick slowly dries over the flattened grass,

Leaving beads of dew like minuscule crystals against the blades.

Then those too evaporate into the mists.

The morning wanes and you take your time descending the tor.

This time you take the footpath and you meet many visitors on their way up.

Tour groups and families with eager faces or weary children.

You share kindly smiles and salutations.

Chalice Hill lies beneath the tor and houses a quiet,

Contemplative garden.

Somewhere a lark is singing as you enter the gates.

Ivy climbs the walls and stones surrounding the red spring,

Named for the red sediments left by the flowing water.

Small shrines decorate nooks and crevices,

Filled in with holly and evergreen sprigs.

The chalice well too is wreathed with holly,

Ivy,

Mistletoe and fir.

The red holly berries bright against such deep green.

The well cover is adorned with the symbol of the Vesica Piscus,

Two overlapping circles.

You meditate on the meaning of the symbol,

The unification of opposing forces above and below.

This world and the other world,

The natural and the spiritual,

The masculine and the feminine,

You can feel a soft hum in the atmosphere.

It takes some effort to pull yourself from the exquisite peace of the chalice well gardens.

You seem to be the only person wandering between its walls,

But you have an appointment to keep and you must depart.

It's a short walk to the center of the town of Glastonbury and just a bit further to reach the Abbey,

Which by now entertains many tourists and visitors.

The morning grows late and the sun stretches over the ruins,

Warming the chilly air of late fall.

You sneak past a tour group,

Admiring the rectangular plot and plaque that indicate the supposed location of the tomb of King Arthur.

It was excavated,

Records show,

By monks in the 12th century who found the remains of the king and his wife,

Along with an inscribed cross that read,

Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur with Guinevere,

His second wife,

In the Isle of Avalon.

You smile to yourself as you overhear the ooze and oz of the tourists and the mysterious affectation of the guide's voice as she tells the remarkable tale.

The companion you seek is standing under a ruined archway,

Seemingly preoccupied with something no one else notices.

As you draw closer,

You see that he's studying a weed that sprung from underneath the stone.

He doesn't even notice you approaching until you crouch beside him to observe the weed yourself.

Honey suckle,

You say.

The gardener looks up and his face splits into a grin.

You embrace,

Feeling between you all the distance of a year's time.

There you walk to a nearby cafe for an early lunch and to catch up.

The gardener is long since retired,

But he still visits the abbey and the churchyard regularly,

Sometimes as a volunteer landscaper.

He can't help himself.

You can understand this,

Given the hold your craft has always had over you.

You share stories of the past year with each other.

He shows you pictures of his new grandchild,

A wide-eyed little girl named Violet.

Between the two of you,

He thinks she may have magical inclinations.

He tells you to watch out,

In a few years she might show up at the wand shop.

Later,

You visit the churchyard together,

Admiring the new thorn tree,

Which has grown massively over the year.

The buds are just beginning to flower in anticipation of the winter holiday.

Before you leave,

The first snow flurries of the year begin to fall delicately on the green grass and melt upon the branches of the thorn.

You show him the tiny tree you brought up for the magic of the tour.

His eyes sparkle,

Impressed with how far your sorcery has come,

That you can harness such energy to create new life.

As twilight eventually swells its tide over the summer country,

Earlier and earlier as you creep toward the close of the year,

You and your dear friend part ways,

Looking forward to next year and another reunion.

Heartful and mind at peace,

You prepare for the journey back to London.

Mist is gathering once more over the village,

And you might be able to call up the boat again,

At least to bear you as far east as Bath.

The smells of the wand shop,

Old parchment,

Cedar wood,

And dried ink greet you warmly on your return.

The night is dark,

And the usually bustling corridor of Surrey Alley is as quiet as the gardens of Chalice Hill when you arrive.

As glow amber in the street,

Casting soft light on the cobblestones,

You weave through the stacks and mountains of wand boxes that cover nearly every square inch of the large store,

Making your way to the workshop in the back where you light a candle.

As weary as you are from travel and the long hours on your feet,

Some part of you still feels energized and incomplete.

You retrieve this sweet little thorn from your satchel.

Its flowers are wilted but still just attached.

You admire the tiny thing for a moment,

Its delicate branches and twisted roots,

How time and space have crystallized within it.

As always,

You are in awe of and grateful for your access to magic.

The Fleur once sat in this very workshop and crafted some of the most powerful,

Cherished wands of all time.

Now,

With your little thorn as muse and material,

You sit down to carve a very special wand.

Each year,

Your Glastonbury wand is your favorite to create.

You feel close to it as you yourself cultivated the material.

This year it feels even more special,

More resonant.

As you carve away at the fine branch,

Unearthing the hardy yet flexible wood at its core,

You can almost see the wizard who will one day wield the wand.

You see wide eyes,

Rosy cheeks,

And focused determination.

Violets.

Who knows?

As the wand takes shape under your knife,

You trace elegant vines,

Leaves,

And flowers around the base so it looks alive and festive.

You smooth the wood with sand,

Then polish it to a subtle shine.

It's effortlessly light in your hands.

Just holding it makes you feel younger,

Nimbler than before.

You feel deeply bonded to it.

But you never keep the Glastonbury wands.

You're happy with the honeysuckle and hazel.

You're bound to it.

These thorn wands deserve to find a match like the one you have with yours.

This one deserves to find a truly devoted,

Curious,

And intuitive sorcerer to work with.

You can almost see her now,

Even if it may be a few years before her arrival.

Simply placing the wand in a velvet-lined box,

You snuff out the candle on the table.

Your bones ache from the arduous,

Yet glorious day.

You can hardly believe that you stood on the tour only hours ago.

It seems like a lifetime since.

There are cases when you find yourself at the workbench late in the night.

You keep a modest bed made in the storeroom.

It's nothing fancy or luxurious,

But it's a comfort that you don't have to leave the shop and make the trip home.

Tonight is one of those nights,

You decide.

The bed fits snugly in a corner between shelves and shelves of archives and core materials and boxes of extremely rare or valuable wands.

These are kept out of public view but brought out for interested customers from time to time.

They're all of Le Fleur's make.

You climb into the little bed and draw the covers up to your chest.

It's pleasantly warm in the storeroom.

Waving your wand,

You extinguish the lamp by the doorway,

Ushering in a windowless,

Enclosing darkness.

Your eyes drink it in,

Savoring it before you let them fall closed.

Sleep is upon you in moments like a shroud of mist.

All around you,

Wands are nestled in their boxes,

Humming,

Unheard,

To an ancient frequency.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Breathe naturally.

Let your body sink into a state of peace and relaxation.

Trust that the earth will be there to catch you and support you.

Feel how in this state of peaceful stillness,

There's always movement,

Energy flowing through you and around you.

Your breath,

Your body expanding and contracting with the current of your breath.

The earth,

Still and solid,

Vibrates imperceptibly with the power of its internal engine,

Its elegant rotation and revolution.

Bring attention to the sensation of your body against your sleep surface upon this still yet resonant earth.

Let those energies course through your body like a flowing current.

Feel the sensation of resonance in your right thumb,

Index finger,

Middle finger,

Ring finger,

Pinky finger,

The right palm,

The back of the right hand,

Right wrist,

Right forearm,

Right elbow,

Upper arm,

Right shoulder,

Right armpit,

The right shoulder blade,

Side of the chest and the right side of the waist,

Right hip,

Right thigh,

Right knee,

Right shin and calf,

Right ankle,

Right heel,

The bottom of the foot,

The top of the foot,

The right big toe,

Second toe,

Third toe,

Fourth toe,

Pinky toe,

The whole right foot,

The whole right leg,

The right side of the torso,

The right arm,

The whole right side of the body from shoulder to foot.

Breathing with living energy and softening to calm tranquility.

Now feel that resonant sensation in your left hand thumb,

Index finger,

Middle finger,

Ring finger,

Pinky finger,

The left palm,

The back of the left hand,

Left wrist,

Left forearm,

Left elbow,

Upper arm,

Left shoulder,

Left armpit,

Left shoulder blade,

Side of the chest,

The left side of the waist,

Left hip,

Left thigh,

Left knee,

Left shin and calf,

Left ankle,

Left heel,

The bottom of the foot,

Top of the foot,

The left big toe,

Second toe,

Third toe,

Fourth toe,

Pinky toe,

The whole left foot,

The whole left leg,

The left side of the torso,

The left arm,

The whole left side of the body from shoulder to foot,

Calm and peaceful,

Yet alive and resonant.

Now extend the sensation to the collarbone,

The neck,

Where the neck meets the base of the head,

The jaw,

The mouth,

The nose,

The cheeks,

The eyes,

The brow,

The forehead,

The temples,

The crown of the head.

Feel the whole body,

Pulsing yet peaceful,

Resonant yet calm,

Alive and at rest.

Be still.

Take time to find the same dynamic stillness in your waking life.

Take that pause from work or obligations and seek tranquility,

Solitude,

Reflection.

Whatever feeds that part of you restores you.

The world still turns.

You can return to it with a full heart and a full cup.

Good night.

Reviews

Always LOVE your bedtime stories & voice!

I just love listening to these stories before bed and drifting off…. Thank you 🙏🏻

This is such a beautiful way to drift off to my dreams with this relaxing whimsical escape from reality.

Fabulous, from what I can remember. Fell asleep despite the story being so interesting. Thank you 🙏

Lovely

Fantastic story, with really beautiful messages and themes woven in.

Haven’t gotten through it yet, but amazing every time!

The story begins I think and then I wake up the morning after, brilliant thank you

This is my favorite story yet- thanks for creating these fantastic tales!

Amazing story! I love how her voice can just get me to go to sleep so easily. 10/10 recommend!!!

Chinese restaurants world me into a new world rugby for sleep and I love hearing this series I look forward to hearing more titles in this series.

The part of the story that I heard was wonderfully told with rich visuals. I was soon asleep listening to Laurel's soothing and comforting voice. I love bedtime stories and Laurel's are marvelous.

Thank you! I love these stories and appreciate them! 💖