← Get Sleepy: Sleep meditation and stories
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Get Sleepy is a production of Slumber Studios and is made possible thanks to the generous support of our sponsors and Premium members. If you'd like to listen ad free and access weekly bonus episodes, extra long stories and our entire back catalogue, you can try out premium free for seven days by following the link in the episode notes. Now a quick word from our sponsors. Thanks to Shopify for sponsoring this show. Starting something new isn't just hard. Sometimes it's terrifying. So much effort goes into this thing that you're not entirely sure will work out and it can feel difficult to take that leap of faith. When we started this podcast, we had no idea if anyone would listen and the worry was always there of what if it doesn't work out? But now I know we made the right move in believing in ourselves and launching this show. For budding entrepreneurs, taking that leap of faith is made all the more doable and reassuring with Shopify on your side. Shopify is the commerce platform behind millions of businesses around the world. With tons of great features to support you. With sales, marketing, inventory, branding and everything in between, Shopify is the platform you need to start or progress your business today. It's time to turn those what ifs into sales with Shopify. Sign up for your $1 per month trial at shopify.com getsleepy go to shopify.com getsleepy that's shopify.com/get sleepy.
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Welcome to Get Sleepy where we listen, we relax and we get sleepy. I'm your host, Thomas. Thank you so much for tuning in. We have a very special story tonight as it is both written and narrated by Chloe. Thank you Chloe for sharing your amazing talents and being a part of the Get Sleepy team. Shortly in Chloe's story, we'll join a woman named Olive as she practices her crafts in a cosy cabin at the edge of the woods. But first, if you'd like to listen to Get Sleepy completely ad free and access our exclusive weekly bonus episodes, you should try Get Sleepy Premium. It's the very best way to listen to the show and get a good night's rest with access to well over a thousand full length episodes and counting, you'll never run out of options for a soothing bedtime story or meditation. In tomorrow's Premium bonus episode, I'll be reading our sleepy take on the ancient Greek myth of Athena and the olive tree, sometimes called How Athens Got Its Name. So why not start your 7 day free trial of Get Sleepy Premium and join me for that story tomorrow night. For more information, just head to getsleepy.com support that's getsleepy.com support and I'll pop the link in the show notes too. Thank you so much everyone. Now, before we begin our sleepy tale, let's prepare our minds and bodies for rest. In a world that moves so quickly, it's easy to forget the value of simply being with oneself. Not as an escape, but as a quiet return. So consider this an invitation to rest in your own company, without demands and without any roles to play. Just you, your breath and the soft space around you. Here, solitude becomes sanctuary. Allow your body to settle in pure comfort, releasing the weight of the day. Gently close your eyes and take a slow deep breath in through your nose. Then exhale softly through your mouth. Again, breathing in and back out. Let the breath come and let the breath go like waves on a calm shore. Notice how relaxed and cozy you feel here, held and supported by the surface beneath you. With each breath, imagine a little more space opening inside you. Space to be, to breathe. Just simply exist. Now picture yourself walking slowly through a quiet woodland. Leaves rustle gently above, birds sing from somewhere unseen and the light filters through in golden dapples. The air smells of moss and sun warmed earth. Up ahead, nestled in a glade, you see a small wooden cabin, weathered, warm and inviting. A cottage garden blooms all around it, full of wild herbs and buzzing bees. You pause, wondering who lives there. And then a calm realization. Perhaps no one does. Or perhaps it's waiting for you. In this still and peaceful place, you feel the truth of it. How beautiful it is to be alone. Not lonely, not lacking, but whole and quietly content. This is where our story begins.
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In a quiet corner of the world where bramble hedges stitched a patchwork of farmland to the edge of a vast whispering wood, a woman lived alone and crafted very beautiful things. At the very edge of the wood, where the trees loosened their hold on one another and the sea, sky and sunlight spilt freely onto the earth, there stood a small wooden cabin in a clearing weathered by time and softened by moss. This place was home to Olive, the solitary crafter. Her wooden cabin sat comfortably in a broad open glade, a little pocket of sunlight where the trees stood back respectfully, allowing wild grasses and buttercups to dance in summer and white wood anemones to appear like stars in springtime. Each year, as winter sighed away and the tender fingers of spring pried open the sleeping earth, the bluebells reigned supreme, unfurling their electric lilac blue carpet across the woodland floor and spilling onto the edge of the glade. The air was pungent with green sweetness, the zing of fresh beginnings, and a tantalizing trace of earthy wild garlic that brushed the woods with its peppery aroma. Olive adored these mornings best, when the world was new and heavy with dewdrops. The songs of blackbirds laced the crispness of the dawn, their fluting liquid melodies trickling from the treetops, weaving a golden thread of life through the morning mist. Finches, trilled robins chirruped with plump breasted determination, and the woodpigeons cooed their lazy lullabies from hidden leafy perches. From the tiny creaking stoop of her cabin, Olive would sit with a chipped bone china cup of lemon balm tea, her two Indian runner ducks bustling and clucking at her feet like excitable children. Olive lived alone, save for the two inquisitive ducks who roamed freely alongside her, a soft brown one she named Cinnamon and a gleaming white one called Francis. Olive loved to see them in the morning light, splashing in the little stream that ran beneath an orchard that skirted the glade. The ducks were a curious pair, all upright, gangly, expressive honks, dabbling in puddles and chasing dandelion fluff, their long necks bobbing and their curious waddles brightening even the dullest of days. No other company was needed. Olive's heart was full. Sometimes, from across the fields, a farmer or rambler might catch a glimpse of Olive at the edge of the orchard that bordered her glade. She was a wholesome vision in gently billowing patched skirts and a faded straw hat, giggling as she hosed the ducks with her garden sprinkler, enjoying their delight as they darted in and out of the sparkling arcs of water, their honking laughter rising with hers into the clear sky overhead. The orchard stretched out lazily there, thick with apple and plum trees in spring the branches were laden with clouds of white and pink blossoms, and their fragrance, strong and sweet, drifted on the breeze through Olive's open windows. These were the times when the days lengthened, bringing the inside and the outside seamlessly together, feeling almost endless until the first frosts arrived. Olive's days were woven at her own pace, unhurried, taking pleasure in simple things. She gathered wildflowers in the warm, dappled sunlight that found her, and she made treasures of yellow archangel, tiny star like stitchwort, and spires of foxglove, pressing them later on between creamy parchment leaves of thick books until they became pictures she'd return to with fond memories. She crafted many delicate blooms into wreaths and bouquets, fresh and vibrant ones to be displayed and sold sooner, and dried arrangements in more muted tones to be enjoyed later, each one a tribute to the fleeting beauty that the woods gave so freely and Olive received with gratitude. The bluebell woods gave to their mushrooms after rainy days, plump and mysterious beneath the shelter of ancient oaks and nestled amongst the roots and rich soil, truffles lay waiting like hidden treasure, which the ducks helped dig up, too, if she was lucky. Earthy, aromatic gems prized in the nearby town for the culinary delight they brought to those fortunate enough to savor them. In summertime, Olive gathered sweet woodland strawberries, blushing beneath the ferns, and in autumn, when the bramble thickets groaned with blackberries and the orchard trees bowed under the weight of damsons and Mirabel plums, Olive's basket was never empty. There was only always something to gather, tender green shoots in spring and rose hips sweetened by autumn's first frosts, Olive foraged with care, her fingers deft and gentle. She gathered her harvest in baskets woven from the rushes that grew along the stream, where its clear, tumbling shallows flowed more quietly into a river deep and brown. The river flowed more gently here, its waters glinting under the gentle light that filtered through the overhanging trees, the orchard behind her home was a kingdom of enchantment. In spring, when the apple and plum trees exploded into frothy clouds of blush and creamy white, the air was heavy with a fragrance so rich it made the world feel slower, dreamier somehow. The Mirabel plums blushed golden among the leaves, bright and new in the dewy morning light. The damsons wore coats of dusky velvet, and the Victoria plums grew as rosy and proud as can be in the balmy late summer sun, their translucent fullness promising all sorts of tasty offerings, from pies and tarts to sticky, glistening preserves that would be enjoyed later on as the days drew in, filled with golden autumn light. Inside Olive's cabin, the scent of jam simmering in great bubbling pots wound itself enticingly around the home. Glistening jars of every size and shape neatly lined her shelves, each brimming with the riches of the seasons, gleaming BlackBerry preserves, amber hued apple butter, and jams as dark as the autumn nights, Olive stirred enchantment into her recipes in a sunwise direction, enchanting. This one with good fortune and that one with love. This one with protection and that one with vibrancy. A small gust of magical will and a sprinkling of care. Olive topped each finished jar with a neat round of cotton tied with twine. As she deftly wound the twine around each one, she would bind in magic and intention with her expert fingers. Finishing with a neat bow, she would tuck a little note into the twine that she hoped would bring a smile to her customers when they opened it. Then she would step back to admire it, pleased with her work. In the golden quietude of an afternoon where honeyed sunlight glowed across her worn wooden table, Olive sat an inspired enchantress, cloaked in quiet reflection. Her hands were slender and lyrical, moving with grace, performing silent spells. Her well kept clean nails and long elegant fingers danced across fabric and thread, clay or paper, whatever medium had the luck to fall beneath their touch. Her beautiful hands were instruments of creation, often adorned with little flecks of paint or a soft dusting of flour. She shaped things the way dreams take form, organically, gently, with a secret smile playing at the corner of her lips. A curl of ribbon here, an intricate stitch there as she sighed contentedly. Olive's crafting was like watching magic happen slowly, each piece a story unfolding through a rather beautiful choreography of hands that remembered what it meant to love the world and all its beauty, to make something new from it. Olive had a place for everything. The walls on one side of her cabin were lined with bespoke repurposed antique cabinetry with butter yellow painted shaker doors and aged brass handles. The cabinetry housed compartments for all types of fabric, twine and ribbon, a library of texture and colour to choose from for each and every one of her planned and sold. Sometimes more spontaneous projects. Each compartment held wooden dovetail jointed boxes and drawers that could be smoothly pulled out to reveal their immaculately ordered contents. She even had a place where she stored and displayed foraged or acquired items for assemblage art that was yet to be created. Olive had an eye for collecting interesting and beautiful objects and an imagination for their future potential of what could be. She had a knack for putting things together and displaying them in an artful and pleasing way, her nimble hands turning this way and that as she worked her magic. Rows of embroidery, silk skeins painted a neat rainbow of color in every hue imaginable. Crafting tools hung glinting at their stations, kissed with the morning light. Each day ready for the work to begin, beautiful paint brushes stood in sequential size and shape, upright and prepared to be selected for use. Watercolour pans were next to the brushes, and oil colour tubes, a bit messier through use, lay scattered in organized chaos. In their own compartment, too, every type and texture of paper lay waiting in wide printer's drawers, each a blank canvas that invited Olive's artful attention. Near the open kitchen window where Olive washed her utensils, her cottage garden sprawled a riotous tangle of hollyhocks, nasturtiums, sweet peas, and rosemary, presided over by softly droning bees and the gossip of goldfinches. By day the light that flooded Olive's home was warm and full of dancing motes, and as evening fell, the cabin's whitewashed walls were painted with the soft flicker of a friendly lantern. It was especially during those quiet evenings with the cool breath of spring at her windows that Olive truly knew herself. The day almost done, she would close the window, the gentle clack of the wrought iron rod falling into place, soothing in its small familiarity. Pulling her blue gingham curtains closed, Olive would curl into the soft embrace of her wide, worn, overstuffed armchair. Rain in April patted a tattoo against the roof, but inside her world was a cocoon of golden warmth, and the only other sound was the comforting crackle of the fire that danced with pictures. A favorite book, bound in green leather with gold leaf lettering, was often close at hand. She would open its weighty cover with reverence, losing herself in tales of faraway lands where the stars sang and the trees whispered secrets to wandering travelers passing through in search of their heart's desires. Sometimes the fireflies would call her. She would notice them flickering like stars caught low to the earth, dancing. Beyond the orchard, where the meadow opened up, a gentle rolling sea of grasses and wildflowers kissed with moonbeams. There a mown path meandered into the growing velvety darkness, a quiet invitation to those who might walk it at twilight. Wrapping a soft knitted blanket around her shoulders and taking up her lantern, Olive would follow the lights, accompanied by the sound of the crickets and the frogs singing their twilight song. They led her to the little stream beyond, which murmured an ancient lullaby. It whispered over mossy stepping stones that she would pick her way across the cool water rushing over her boots when the rainfall had lately been heavier. Beyond the meadow in the moon shadows, there waited a place between waking and dreaming. The fireflies danced a jig to a tune only they and Olive could hear, painting their soft, pulsing glow into the air. The cadence of the rising and falling of their light was reassuring, and Olive felt pure peace. And sometimes foxes cried their melancholy songs in the distance, a sound both wild and mournful, their voices curling and echoing through the hedge lined ditches and far off woods beyond. Olive would lay her blanket down in the middle of it all, placing her lantern at her side, the grass whispering beside her. Lying back, she would gaze up into the gathering darkness and watch as the first stars pricked holes in the indigo sky. Olive loved to lay nestled on her soft woolen blanket, its familiar threads warming her as the hush of night unfolded over her. The sky shimmered above a vast, breathtaking storybook. The constellations turned slowly overhead. Cassiopeia, Orion with his steadfast belt, the silver scatter of the Pleiades, the gentle curve of Leo, the sweeping wings of Cygnus and the glittering crown of Corona Borealis all watched over her like old friends. Planets shone green and red above as if glowing just for her. While the crescent moon smiled gently, a silver cradle hung in the velvet dark. If she stayed long enough, shooting stars would arc across the heavens, trailing faint flashes of rainbows that melted into the deep, dreamy blue. There was a rhythm to it all, a beat only she could hear, a pulse that vibrated in her bones and matched the gentle turning of the seasons. She had never needed much company, not really alone, but never lonely. Olive let the night fold itself around her, a cloak made just for her from firefly light and the deep blue hush of the softly dreaming woods. Her mind, bright and busy, did not move through life in straight lines but in spirals, flashes of imagination and brilliant kaleidoscopic arcs. She remembered stories not only in words but in smells, textures, colors, and shapes, forming pictures that slid like minnows through the memories she'd collected. She dreamt in directions that most wouldn't even think to look in. In this world she had created half real, half wonder. She was entirely blissfully herself, and when the days grew long and golden with summer, Olive would begin her preparations for the busy market in the small town nearby. The morning of the market was always the same, a dewy start, blackbirds tuning up their instruments and beginning the slow symphony of daybreak. Olive rose early, packing her baskets with thoughtfully gathered treasures until they overflowed with jars of jewel toned jam and green dried herbs and fresh green woodland pesto made from wild garlic and jack by the hedge her morning routine began gently with a cup of tea brewed on her old aga and a breakfast consisting of a rich yolked duck egg cooked delicately in her very own tarragon and wild garlic butter and enjoyed with a piece of warmly toasted salt sourdough. Now she surveyed the fruits of her labours, all lovingly collected and assembled, ready to make the journey. There were bundles of brightly colored wreaths, bunches of flowers cultivated in her cottage garden, and blooms that snow smelled of the sun, baked fields beyond the orchard, all neatly tied with twine. She gently folded her latest finished quilt and placed it into the cart. There was a special wooden chest to hold small containers of precious ointments and preparations made with night blooming jasmine, honeysuckle and daisies. Small treasures and trinkets and pieces of Olive's artwork had their own special place too, wrapped in soft wool to protect them on the short journey, Olive wore her linen dress embroidered with forget me nots and tied her long hair back with a ribbon. After loading her hand cart, being careful not to jostle the precious jars, she would set out along the winding path that skirted the woods and led to the town. The small market town nearby woke each Saturday with a splutter of striped canvas tents and the sweet scent of roasting chestnuts. The market square positively sang with life, merchants shouting greetings, children darting between stalls, the sharp, happy tang of fresh bread and fruit. Birds flitted above, their songs joining the clamor, and buskers played their music. Olive's stall, simple and sweet, was a little island of calm amongst the bustle. It was dressed with white calico and wildflowers in jam jars. Her goods spoke for themselves. No loud call was needed, only a gentle, welcoming smile. Even watching her set up her stall was hypnotic. Her delicate hands deftly laid out her wares with finesse. The curve of her wrist as she carefully placed each item. Enchanting. The items were arranged in pleasing little groups with effortless artistry. And yet, all the while, the display maintained a harmonious balance. Market goers drifted towards her, drawn by the appeal of her culinary delights. The strawberry, BlackBerry and plum preserves glistening like jewels by the delicate artistry of the pressed flower frames, tiny nature paintings and exquisite embroidery, and by the simple, honest magic she spun into every jar, every wreath, every pie. She loved to meet the people who were attracted to her stall. They felt the warm promise of the woods displayed in Olive's offerings and appreciated the time and effort she'd put into creating each item. She enjoyed meeting so many characters and having interesting conversations. She laughed easily and listened to people's stories. Strangers paused, drawn in by the quiet beauty of her wares. An old man, a busker, friendly and weather worn, struck up a tune nearby on his fiddle. Olive loved hearing him play and gifted him a posy of dried lavender for his top hat. A woman who enjoyed gardening spent time examining the plum jam, eventually purchasing multiple jars as gifts for her friends. Olive, observing the woman's gardener's hands allowed her to try some of the daisy ointment. The woman loved the fragrance and the way the soft beeswax preparation melted easily into her skin. She decided to buy two for herself and two more for her husband. In between more sales, Olive jotted notes in her linen bound notebook, catching thoughts like butterflies, tucking them away for winter when she'd reread them. People were fascinated by this crafter who lived, for the most part, a solitary life. They would ask her how she lived all alone at the edge of the woods, and she would smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She would explain in soft tones about the bluebells and the fireflies that danced, the tame ducks, the wild geese that flew with the moonlight on their wings, and the way the orchard whispered under the same silvery full moon the moon shadows the morning dew, the fox's song, the owl's gentle hoot, and the coolness of the babbling brook on a hot summer's day. And they would sigh a little wistfully for a life most had forgotten how to imagine, Olive lived a life that many only dreamt of. She slept well, content and fulfilled from her days in the fresh air. She woke refreshed each morning to craft her days as she did her wares quietly purposeful, artfully pressing wildflowers, sewing intricate embroideries and patchwork quilt designs depicting the nature around about her and her way of living, baking apple pies, gathering plums and blackberries for jam, neatly arranging jars and preparations in rows on wooden shelves. Everything had its own place in the little cabin, and calmness prevailed. Her hands were always busy, her mind always calm, and every moment was peaceful. At the end of a market day, when the sun slid low and the world was dipped in warm hues of lilac and gold, Olive would trundle her cart home, her heart full. The ducks would greet Olive with excited honks, chasing each other around the garden in absurd comic circles. She would laugh, gather up her skirts, and join them for a moment, dancing barefoot in the cool grass. As the late amber afternoon began to lean into evening, Olive would notice the coolness creeping in and close her window, pulling her curtains against the dusk. The cabin glowed with lantern light, the scent of wood smoke and warm apples curling through the air. Outside, the geese murmured in their straw bed, the fireflies began their slow golden dance and the first stars blinked patiently in the velvet dark. Later, Olive would settle back into her chair. The night was drawing in, but the walls of the cabin were warm and close and she enjoyed the comfort of the fire purring in the hearth, its flames murmuring and crackling softly as though it was in conversation, reminiscing with her in the night while golden light spilled over a thick knit blanket and the pages of a half read book. Her book would fall open easily once more, well worn and much loved. In her hand she cosseted a mug of something steamy, spiced, sweet, and just the right kind of comforting, sending up little clouds of warmth mingling with the scent of pine logs and the quiet promise that just for now, everything was exactly as it should be. The rain might rattle at the windows or the wind might sigh around the eaves, but inside Olive was exactly where she was meant to be, a solitary crafter in a world that spun just slow enough for her heart to keep up. In the winter months the ducks would spend more time in a little house Olive had made for them, and Olive would spend more time inside her own cabin too. Olive loved the winter as much as the other seasons. It was a quiet time for half light reflection, when she could look forward to rereading her notebook of gathered memories in peace. The first snow had fallen overnight, quiet and sure, when Olive pushed open her door that morning, the world beyond the glade was smoothed into soft whiteness, the trees powdered with icing sugar, the stream secreted under a glassy skin of ice, the orchard cradling clouds of snow in its bare lacework branches. The geese honked in sleepy indignation but quickly forgot their complaints when Olives scattered handfuls of grain into the snow, the golden kernels gleaming against the pale ground. Now evening had folded itself around the cabin and the fire crackled steadily in the grate, throwing warm light across the room. The wooden walls lined with shelves of books, baskets of dried herbs and jars of preserves, seemed to lean closer, embracing her with that gentle, time worn scent of pine. Outside, the wind combed the trees with ghostly fingers, but inside there was a soft, humming warmth. Olive curled into her favourite armchair once again, a deep old thing with faded tapestry roses on its arms, a knitted shawl over her shoulders, and a mug of spiced apple cider. Resting on the table beside her in her lap was her linen bound notebook. The pages rippled slightly from adventures in the rain and sun. One by one she read her scribbled notes, tracing each memory as if she could lift it off the page and hold it again. The violin man and fiddle, a daisy given to her by a little girl that she placed in her apron. The bluebell glades in spring, the fireflies glowing and fading in the night. She had noted recipes and sketched her seasonal adventures. A little map of her glade orchard and the market town, along with pen and ink depictions of the wildlife through the changing seasons, all collected now as quiet memories. As she turned the pages, the firelight flickered comfortingly, her heartbeat slow and content. Olive added another log to the fire, and as it roared in the hearth she wrote short notes to tie to the various jams and chutneys and sauces she'd prepared. She loved writing. People who bought her wares were often delighted to find these little notes attached to them which may have read something like this. Dear friend, if you are reading this, it means you have found something made from a day of sunlight, a handful of wild things, and a great deal of joy. Every jar I craft is a small piece of my home. It is a gift from the woods, from the rain and the bees and the slow turning seasons. I hope as you taste this offering, you remember that there are still, quiet, golden places in the world you belong and are part of the story, too. May your days be gentle and your nights full of pleasant dreams with warmth and wonder. Olive, the solitary crafter. She smiled to herself, a deep, quiet sense smile, the kind that comes not from any single thing but from the slow gathering of many small joys over time. Olive set aside her letters and closed her notebook, placing it carefully on the little table beside her, and leaned back into her chair. She watched the embers glow down into a deep, breathing gold. She was warm and whole and exactly where she was meant to be, the world turning quietly under its blanket of snow, dreaming right along with her. Olive climbed into her downy bed, closed her eyes and listened to the remembered songs of blackbirds, to the heartbeat of the woods, and thought of what else lived just beyond the fields. She was not alone, not truly. She was part of everything embroidered into the bluebells, the ripening plums, the rush of the stream, the flicker of the fireflies. She was a note in a song that only the wild things could hear, and that was enough. Always it was enough. In the gentle hush she whispered a thank you to the woods, to the market town, to the seasons, to the wild and the tame, to the known and the unknown, to the whole great tapestry of life she was woven into. The fire sighed the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed. Outside. And above the stars kept their patient, vigilant.