Tonight's summer sleep story takes you to a peaceful lakeside cottage nestled among the pines of Big Bear Lake,
California.
As golden evening light settles across the water,
You will relax on a quiet porch overlooking the lake,
Wander through a meadow of summer wildflowers,
And discover a tranquil beaver pond hidden among the trees.
There,
Besides still water and a carefully built dam,
You will reflect on the gentle wisdom of rest after effort.
As the day softens into evening,
You will watch the sunset paint the lake in shades of gold and silver,
Listen to crickets sing their gentle nighttime song along the shoreline,
And enjoy the quiet beauty of a wooden dock beneath the fading sky.
Later you will return to the warmth of a cozy cottage where lantern light glows softly through the windows.
With the scent of pine in the air,
The whisper of lake water nearby,
And a cool mountain breeze drifting through open windows.
You will settle into a night of deep comfort.
Peaceful reflection,
And restorative sleep.
You are listening to Summer at Big Bear Lake.
Welcome to the Whispering Willow.
I'm Diana and I would like to welcome you to this place of peace,
Comfort,
And rest.
You've worked hard today,
And now you deserve a few moments to yourself as you end your day and venture into the realm of sleep.
Begin by finding a comfortable position.
Let your body settle into the place beneath you.
There is nothing you need to do now.
Nothing to solve,
To finish.
Or to become.
This time is only for resting.
Let your eyes close if they are ready to close,
Or simply allow your gaze to soften.
Let your shoulders loosen.
Let your jaw unclench.
Let your hands rest easily where it feels natural.
And take a slow breath in.
As though you are breathing in the warm,
Pine-scented air of a summer evening in the mountains.
Hold it gently for a moment,
And then exhale slowly and long.
Emptying out completely.
Letting the day.
Drift away.
Do this again.
Breathe in.
Soft Mountain Air.
Sun-warmed pine.
A hint of lake water,
And the faint sweetness of wildflowers somewhere nearby.
And breathe out.
Letting your body grow heavier,
Softer.
Quieter.
With each breath,
Imagine the world around you beginning to slow.
The light softens.
The air grows still.
And trees become silhouettes against the evening sky.
And somewhere in the distance,
A lake glimmers beneath the last golden light of day.
And when you feel ready.
We can begin the story.
After we were married,
My husband and I shared our first home in Big Bear Lake,
California.
We both loved the mountains and decided it was a perfect time to experience mountain life.
So though we worked in the valley,
We rented a home 8,
300 feet above Southern California's inland empire and made the commute up and down the mountain every day.
In the winter,
Travel could be quite treacherous.
But we were young,
Adventurous,
And in love.
So we didn't mind.
Our home was just down the road from a small ski area,
Which was a lot of fun.
But summers in Big Bear Lake were amazing because of the opportunity for outdoor activities and time spent in the considerably cooler air of the mountains.
We lived in Big Bear Lake for four years until we moved out of state.
This story is inspired by the places that made us feel cozy and relaxed.
And it is my hope that they will do the same thing for you tonight.
This evening you are traveling a narrow road that winds around the circumference of the lake between tall pines and old cedars.
The trees rise on either side of you,
Their branches moving slowly and softly in the warm summer breeze.
You smell the fresh,
Fragrant mountain air.
Breathing in deeply.
Beyond the trees,
You catch brief glimpses of water,
Silver blue.
Than gold.
Then hidden behind the trees.
The road curves once more,
And then it opens to a small lakeside cottage tucked among the pines.
It sits close to the water,
With a wide wooden porch facing the lake.
There are flower boxes beneath the windows,
Spilling over with soft summer blooms.
A pair of rocking chairs rest in the shade.
A lantern hangs beside the door.
And beyond the porch,
A narrow path leads down toward a small dock,
Where the lake moves in slow,
Quiet ripples against the shoreline.
The cottage looks as though it belongs exactly where it is.
Warm,
Welcoming,
And peaceful.
A place where time can loosen its hold.
And you can forget about the demands of the world in the valley at the base of the mountain.
What a welcome thing,
You think.
You step onto the cedar wood porch.
The wood is warm beneath your feet from the long summer day.
Somewhere overhead.
Pine needles whisper softly.
A breeze passes through the trees and carries the scent of sap,
Wild grass,
Lake water,
And sun-warmed wood.
You pause there for a moment.
For standing on the porch.
Letting yourself arrive.
Taking in the sights,
Smells,
And feels of this place.
It's so different from the world below.
The busyness.
The loudness.
There's a small table beside one of the rocking chairs.
On it rests a pitcher of cool water,
A glass,
And a folded note.
The handwriting is simple and graceful.
It says,
Welcome to the cottage by the lake.
The meadow is just beyond the pines.
The beaver pond is just past the meadow.
The dock is waiting for sunset.
And the house is yours for resting.
There is no need to see everything.
No need to hurry here.
Let the evening show you exactly what you need.
You read the words once.
Then again.
Let the evening show you.
What you need.
That thought feels comforting.
When is the last time someone has asked what you need,
You wonder?
The thought of knowing you can do anything you want,
In your own time.
Take what you need.
And not follow any schedule.
You relish the thought of what that might feel like.
The anticipation of it warms your heart inside.
You do not have to gather every beautiful thing.
You do not have to make the most of the day.
You do not have to turn rest into another task.
Here you may simply be.
Near the water.
Beneath the trees.
Held by the gentle quiet of the mountains.
Far from everything other.
Than the mountain.
The lake,
And the cottage.
You set the note back on the table and lower yourself into one of the rocking chairs.
And sink into a thick cushion that has been placed there.
The rocking chair moves beneath you with a slow,
Familiar creak.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
The rhythm is easy and comforting.
Like a peaceful breath.
From the porch you can see the lake through the trees.
It stretches wide and calm beneath the summer sky.
The water catches the light in small shimmering pieces,
As though the surface is made of tiny moving mirrors.
A few birds call from the far shore.
The sound reaches you,
Softened by distance.
Somewhere nearby,
An iridescent blue dragonfly moves through the air.
Its wings flashing briefly in the sun.
Then disappearing.
You imagine it's a forest fairy.
The cottage behind you is quiet.
The porch around you is still.
The waves lapping on the shore before you make the lake appear to be breathing.
In.
And out.
N.
In and out.
You rock gently in the chair.
Enveloping yourself in the knowledge that here nothing rushes.
Or follows a schedule.
Yet,
It all happens in the perfect time.
This causes you to question the value of schedules in general.
What would the world be like?
If we allowed life to happen.
In its own time.
Instead of forcing it to fit into a schedule.
The meadow blooms in its own season,
The lake shimmers when the light finds it,
And the evening settles softly over the mountain without anyone asking it to.
Everything simply becomes what it was meant to be.
Exactly when it was meant to be.
You marvel at the truth of this.
You take the glass of cool water from the table and sip slowly.
The water tastes clean and fresh.
Mountain cold.
You can feel it moving through you,
Cooling the inside of your body.
Quieting the small sparks of restlessness that may still remain.
For a while you do not move.
Enjoying the ability to linger simply because you can.
Simply listening to the lake.
THE TREES the soft creak of the porridge beneath the chair.
The faint rustle of leaves above,
A faraway call of a bird settling somewhere among the branches.
And the longer you sit there,
The more you begin to understand.
That the cottage is not asking anything of you.
It does not expect you to explore or achieve.
It does not ask you to become more interesting,
More useful,
Or more prepared.
It simply offers a place to sit and breathe.
And rest beside the lake.
After a while,
When you feel ready to move,
You stand slowly.
Your body feeling loose and quiet.
There's a path at the side of the cottage,
Narrow and soft with fallen pine needles.
It begins near the porch steps and curves gently onto the trees.
You remember the note.
The meadow is just beyond the pines.
The beaver pond is just past the meadow.
It is all close,
You think.
A small circle of quiet places surrounding the cottage.
Perfectly suited to encouraging wandering.
You step onto the path.
The ground is soft.
The pine needles hush beneath your feet.
Fragrant and thick.
The late afternoon light falls through the branches and long golden ribbons.
The air is warm,
But not heavy.
It carries the delicate coolness of the lake.
As you walk,
The cottage remains near behind you.
You can still sense it there.
The porch,
The rocking chair.
The open windows.
Giving you permission to explore,
And a quiet invitation to return whenever you wish.
Making you feel grounded,
Yet safe enough to venture outward.
The path curves between the trees,
Not far,
Just enough to feel held within the forest.
Tall pines rise around you,
Their trunks dark and steady.
The forest floor is scattered with small cones.
Patches of moss,
And tiny green plants reaching toward the light.
A gray squirrel moves along a branch overhead,
Its long bushy tail swishing through the air.
Then it pauses too,
As if listening to the forest.
You slow your steps.
There is no reason to walk quickly.
The path does not demand progress,
It simply continues.
A little farther.
Then a little softer.
A little deeper into the trees.
And the sunlight shifts with each movement you make.
Playing a subtle game of hide and seek.
Between the branches.
You breathe in the scent of cedar.
Breathe out the last thoughts of the day.
Breathe in the scent of wildflowers.
Breathe out anything you no longer need to carry.
Ahead,
The trees begin to open.
At first,
Only a brighter patch of light appears.
Then the path widens and you find yourself at the edge of a small wildflower meadow.
It seems to have been waiting just behind the trees.
A hidden place,
Secret and mysterious,
You think in your imaginative mind.
Not dramatic or arranged,
Just quietly present.
A natural clearing filled with summer color.
And you imagine yourself someone special.
To know it.
To find it.
Wildflowers sway in the soft breeze.
Purple lupine golden mustard.
Poppies bright as little cups of sunlight.
White blossoms like stars scattered throughout the mall.
The meadow grasses move slowly,
Almost like water.
Each blade bending and lifting.
As the breeze passes through.
Bees hum softly among the blooms.
Butterflies drift from flower to flower.
A dragonfly glints blue near the edge of the grass.
Your familiar forest fairy.
And beyond the meadow through a copse of thin pines.
You can still glimpse the lake shining in the distance.
The cottage is near.
The lake is near.
The whole world has become small enough to hold you.
You walk into the meadow.
The grass brushes softly against your ankles.
Let the flowers lean and sway as though making room for you.
The light here is golden and warm.
Not bright enough to startle,
But soft enough to soothe.
You stop near the center of the clearing,
And for a moment you simply stand there.
Breathing.
Listening with closed eyes.
Feeling the sun on your shoulders.
Feeling the breeze move across your skin.
The meadow has no lesson to force upon you.
It speaks softly.
There is no hurry toward meaning.
It only blooms quietly.
Patiently.
Fully.
Each flower doing what it came here to do.
Opening to the light.
Resting in the soil.
Swaying when the breeze comes.
Stilling when the breeze passes.
You notice a flat stone near the edge of the meadow,
Warmed by the sun.
You sit there for a while.
The stone holds the heat of the day,
The warmth rising gently through you.
Your hands rest in your lap.
Your breathing slows.
The flowers move around you.
The bees continue their soft work.
And somewhere beyond the meadow,
Water glimmers through the trees.
A thought comes to you.
Simple and kind.
Perhaps rest does not mean the absence of life.
Perhaps rest is necessary for life to continue.
A part of the process.
Rather than a break from it.
The flower rests in the stem.
The stem rests in the soil.
The soil rests beneath the sun.
The lake rests in its basin.
The forest rests in its roots.
And you.
You may rest too.
Not because everything is finished.
Not because everything is perfect.
But because rest belongs to living things.
You sit in the meadow for a long,
Quiet while,
Watching the flowers.
Feeling the sun.
Letting the gentleness of the place move through you.
And you imagine yourself a part of it.
Not something separate.
Eventually,
The breeze shifts.
It carries the sound of water.
Not the open lake this time,
Something smaller,
A soft flow.
A little movement through reeds and stones.
You turn to the direction of the sound and notice the path continuing beyond the meadow,
Just as the note promised.
It slips through a narrow opening between the trees.
The beaver pond is just past the meadow,
The note says.
You stand slowly leaving the warm stone behind.
The path beyond the meadow is shorter than you expected,
Only a few steps beneath the trees.
Let the light dim slightly.
The air grows cooler.
You hear moving water more clearly now.
A delicate slipping sound,
A tiny current finding its way through branches and stones.
Then the trees open again and you see a beaver pond tucked into a hollow near the lake.
Small.
Still.
And beautiful.
Reeds grow along the edges.
Lily pads float near the surface.
Dragonflies hover over the water,
Their wings bright for one moment,
Invisible the next.
At the far side of the pond,
The beaver dam stretches across a narrow channel.
It is made of branches,
Stones,
Mud,
Moss,
And thyme.
Nothing about it looks rushed.
Every piece seems placed with care.
Yet it is all quite simple.
A branch here.
A stone there.
A curve of mud holding everything together.
Built little by little.
Over time.
Water gathers behind it,
Calm and shining.
Then slips gently through small openings,
Continuing on its way.
The dam does not stop the water completely.
It guides it and holds it.
Sarfensitt.
It creates a safe space where the pond can rest.
You move closer and sit on a mossy bank beneath a low tree.
The moss is soft and cool.
The water is quiet.
The beavers themselves are hidden away somewhere,
Perhaps in the lodge,
Perhaps resting after the long work of the day.
You do not need to see them to know they are here.
Their presence is everywhere.
In the branches,
In the still water,
In the safety of the pond.
In the way the reeds stand stately at the pond's edges.
The work has already been done,
And now evening is coming.
Nothing more is required.
But the pawn does not ask beavers to keep proving they are worthy of rest.
The dam needs not be rebuilt every moment.
The water needs not be held by force.
What was carefully made is allowed to hold.
And what has labored is allowed.
To be still.
You breathe in slowly,
The scent of moss and water filling your lungs.
You breathe out.
Your shoulders drop.
Your body softens.
The pond reflects the sky in pale blue and gold.
A dragonfly touches the surface and rises again.
A leaf drifts from somewhere above,
Turning once in the air before landing on the water.
It floats there without effort.
Carried by the smallest movement.
You watch it drift.
And for a while that is enough.
Just one leaf.
One pond.
One soft evening.
The beaver dam rests at the far side of the water.
Patient.
Useful.
But quiet now.
It reminds you of all the things that are built slowly.
A home,
A life.
A skill.
Kindness.
A dream?
A way of surviving difficult seasons.
A way of caring for others.
A way of continuing.
But some things are built branch by branch,
Choice by choice.
Day by day.
And perhaps you have built more than you realize.
Perhaps you have held more than you are able to name.
Perhaps you have shaped safe places for others without always seeing how much that mattered.
But here beside the beaver pond,
The lesson is gentle but obvious.
Tonight you do not have to keep building.
You do not have to keep holding everything.
You do not have to keep carrying every branch,
Every stone,
Every worry.
You can simply set them down.
The day has done what it came to do.
And now,
The pond is still.
The water glows softly.
The beavers rest.
And you may rest too.
A breeze passes over the pond.
Small ripples move outward.
Let the reflected trees tremble for a moment,
Then settle again.
You let your breath follow that pattern.
A small movement.
And stillness.
Another small movement.
Then stillness.
The longer you sit there,
The quieter the noise of the world becomes.
Sounds separate and soften.
And you notice the spaces between them.
It is always the spaces in which comfort lies,
You think.
The trickle of water.
The Wrestle of Reeds.
The hum of insects.
A Far Call of a Bird the hush of your own breathing.
You imagine the beavers inside their hidden lodge,
Tucked safely away.
Keep their bodies warm.
Their work finished for the day.
The pond holding steady around them.
The evening gathering gently overhead.
Nothing more to do.
Nowhere else to be.
Only rest.
Only water.
Only Home.
After a while the light begins to change.
The gold deepens.
The pond darkens slightly at its edges.
The reeds become silhouettes against the shining surface.
And you know it is time to return to the cottage.
Though you feel no hurry.
The path is short.
The cottage is near.
And the pond will remain here holding its water quietly through the night.
You stand slowly.
Before you leave,
You look once more at the Beaver Dam.
At the patient arrangement of branches,
At the water resting behind it.
At the small current slipping through.
And you take a deep breath in.
Determined to carry with you its peace and simple beauty.
Not as a thought you must remember.
But as a feeling.
Rest after comfort.
Stillness after building.
Water held gently.
Life allowed to pause.
You follow the path back through the trees.
The meadow appears again now softer in the lowering light.
The flowers no longer seem bright,
But still luminous.
Their colors deepened by evening.
Purple turning dusky,
Gold turning into amber.
White blossoms catching and reflecting the first hint of moonlight.
You walk slowly through the meadow.
The bees have grown quieter.
The butterflies are gone.
The grasses sway with a sound like whispering silk.
You pause near the warm stone where you sat before.
It is cooler now.
The day is releasing its heat.
The meadow is settling.
One by one,
The flowers seemed to bow toward evening.
Not yet closing completely,
But softening.
As though they too are preparing to sleep.
You continue toward the cottage.
The pines gather around the path again.
The lake appears through them more often now,
Wide and shining.
You hear the water lapping against the shoreline.
The water has changed from blue to gold,
Then rose,
Then silver.
By the time you reach the porch,
The cottage windows are glowing.
A lamp has been lit inside.
The lantern beside the door casts a soft circle of light.
Let the rocking chairs wait exactly where you left them.
And the whole cottage seems to breathe out a quiet welcome.
You step onto the porch.
The wood is cooler now beneath your feet.
The lake is just beyond the trees.
Rippling softly in the last light.
You sit once more in the rocking chair,
Enjoying the motion.
Forward.
Back.
Forward.
The rhythm returns easily.
The day has become evening.
The meadow has quieted.
The beaver pond has grown still.
The cottage has begun to glow,
And the lake waits for the deepening of sunset.
After a few minutes,
You rise and follow the path from the porch down to the dock.
It is only a short walk.
A few steps through low grass,
Past a cluster of wildflowers,
Past smooth stones warmed by the day,
Then cooling in the evening.
Then onto the wooden dock,
Stretching gently over the lake.
Let the boards creak softly beneath you.
The water laps against the posts.
Small waves arrive and depart.
Never rushing.
Never holding on.
You walk to the end of the dock and sit down.
Your feet rest above the water.
The lake spreads before you wide and peaceful.
The activity of the day.
Calming now.
As people return to their homes for the evening.
The far hills are darkening.
Pine-covered slopes rise against the sky.
The last sunlight rests on the water in long golden ribbons.
A few clouds drift above the ridge,
Glowing peach at the edges.
You breathe in and breathe out.
The lake does not need your attention to be beautiful,
But it welcomes it.
The water moves whether you watch or not.
The hills stand whether you notice them or not.
The evening unfolds without needing to be managed.
There is comfort in that.
The world can carry some of itself.
The lake can hold the water.
The trees can hold the wind.
The cottage can hold the night.
And you can allow yourself to be held too.
The sun sinks lower.
The gold on the lake softens into rose,
Then lavender.
Than the deepest shade of blue.
The first evening lights begin to appear along the shore,
Small windows,
And distant cottages.
A porch lantern far away.
The beginnings of reflections on the still water.
Near the reeds,
Crickets and tree frogs begin their gentle conversation.
First one,
Then the other.
The peaceful music of the summer.
They sing to you from among the grasses.
They perch on tree trunks near the shoreline.
This is the only magic the evening needs.
Not grand or dazzling.
Just gentle voices blending with the sound of the lake.
When the day has grown quiet enough to hear them.
You listen from the dark.
Your breathing has become slow.
Your body heavy.
Keep your thoughts soft around the edges.
The lake darkens,
The chorus continues,
And peace overwhelms you.
The cottage lantern shines behind you,
And you feel the day folding in on itself and wrapping you in it,
Comforting you.
The meadow is resting.
The beaver pond is resting.
The forest is resting.
The lake is becoming night.
You stay there until the last sunlight disappears from the water.
Until the sky has become nearly black with the first stars appearing above the pines.
Then you stand slowly and return to the cottage.
Inside the room is warm with lamp light.
The cottage is simple and cozy.
Wooden beams overhead,
Soft rugs on the floor.
A small stone fireplace in the corner where a low summer fire has been laid just enough to glow.
A comfortable sofa draped with a quilt.
A little table with a book resting open.
A vase of meadow flowers gathered earlier by someone kind.
The windows are open to the lake breeze.
Sheer curtains move softly inward and outward.
Inward.
And outward.
Like the cottage too is breathing the peaceful,
Carefree rhythm of the mountain.
You step inside and close the door gently behind you.
Not to shut out the world.
Only to let the evening become smaller.
More intimate.
More peaceful.
Let the fire crackle softly.
Amber light moves across the walls.
The scent of pine wood mingles with the cool air drifting in from the lake.
You pour a cup of tea from a small pot waiting near the hearth.
It is warm and comforting.
Chamomile Lavender.
Maybe something gathered from the meadow and dried in the mountain's sun.
You carry the cup to the sofa and sit beneath the quilt.
The fabric settles over your legs,
Soft,
Familiar,
And cozy.
Through the open window,
You can hear the lake.
A slow hush.
A quiet lap against the shore.
Crickets continuing their evening song.
The fire whispers.
The curtains move.
You take a slow sip of tea,
Allowing the warmth to spread through your chest,
Down through your arms,
Into your hands.
The day feels far away now,
Not forgotten,
Just finished.
Allowed to be complete.
A happy memory lingering within your heart.
You think of the beaver pond again.
The still water.
The efficient dam.
The Hidden Lodge.
The way everything there seemed to say enough has been done.
Now rest.
You let that feeling settle into the room.
Into your heart.
Enough has been done.
Now rest.
You tell yourself quietly.
Smiling as you do.
There may still be things unfinished somewhere beyond this cottage.
There may still be thoughts that try to call your name.
Plans,
Questions,
Small worries,
Old tasks.
.
.
But they do not need you tonight.
Tonight the lake is holding the moonlight.
The beaver dam is holding the pond.
The cottage is holding you.
And you can just let yourself be held if you will.
You finish your tea slowly.
Then you set the cup on the table and lean back into the sofa.
Your eyes feel heavy.
Your body sinks a little deeper and you settle into it.
The firelight moves in gentle patterns.
The lake breeze touches your face.
You take another deep breath.
And somewhere outside an owl hoots once.
Than once more.
After a while,
You stand and walk toward the bedroom.
It sits at the back of the cottage,
Facing the lake.
Inside the room is dim and peaceful.
A large bed waits beneath a white quilt,
Soft and inviting.
The wooden bed frame is simple and worn smooth with time.
A small lamp glows on the bedside table.
Large windows stand open to the night air.
Beyond it,
The lake is visible between the pines,
Silver stripes lying atop it from the rising moon.
Let the curtains dance gently.
The room smells faintly of clean cotton,
Cedar wood,
And summer air.
You step inside.
The floor is cool beneath your feet.
You turn down the quilt and slide into bed.
The sheets are soft,
Cool at first,
Then warming around you.
You settle your head into the pillow and let your shoulders drop.
Feeling your arms grow heavy.
Your legs release.
The bed holds you without asking anything in return.
The quilt rests over you like a whispered promise.
Outside the lake continues its slow evening rhythm.
The meadow rests beneath the stars.
The beaver pond is dark and still.
The dam holds.
The water settles.
The hidden lodge is safe.
And the cottage glows softly at the edge of the lake.
You take a slow breath in.
Receiving the cool night air.
The scent of pine.
The softness of the room.
And breathe out.
Letting go.
A little more.
Then again.
Breathing in,
Lake,
Breathe.
Moonlight.
And rest.
Breathing out.
The last parts of the day.
Your thoughts drift now,
Unsorted,
Unordered.
They spill like reflections on the lake,
Soft,
Broken,
And beautiful.
Moving gently across the surface.
You do not have to follow them.
You do not have to understand them.
You can acknowledge they are there and then simply let them ripple away.
The cottage is quiet.
The night is kind.
The lake is near.
And everything around you is settling.
The flowers close in the meadow.
The reeds bow beside the pond.
The fire fades to embers in the hearth.
The dock rests over the water.
The rocking chair's weight on the porch.
And you lie here safe.
Warm.
Held.
There is nothing more to do tonight.
Nothing to carry or build or prove.
The work of the day is done.
And rest is allowed.
Rest is allowed,
You tell yourself.
Rest is allowed.
You let your body sink deeper into the bed.
You let your chest rise and fall slowly naturally.
And gently.
The lake breathes with you.
The curtains move with you.
The trees whisper with you.
And you are a part.
Inhaling the quiet of the meadow.
Exhaling,
Relaxation.
Inhaling the stillness of the pond.
Exhaling,
Release.
Inhaling the silver lake beneath the moon.
Exhaling,
Rest.
Outside,
The gentle voices of the crickets and the frog still continue along the shoreline.
But it all sounds distant in your mind.
The soft lapping water.
The soft music in the air.
They sing.
Then stop.
And sing.
Then stop.
Like tiny reminders that not everything beautiful needs to last long.
Some beauty only appears for a moment.
And that is enough.
And perhaps the magic lies within the spaces anyway.
Some days only need to end gently.
Some hearts only need a safe place to soften.
Some tired bodies only need permission to stop.
And you have that permission now.
Here in the cottage next to the lake.
Beside the water.
Beneath the moon.
You may stop.
You may soften.
Letting the night gather around you.
Letting the quilt hold you.
Letting the lake carry every thought farther and farther from shore.
Until there is only softness.
And you may safely drift now.
Deeper and deeper.
Letting go completely.
As you settle into deep sleep.
Peaceful.
Sleep.
