← Get Sleepy: Sleep meditation and stories
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If you've benefited from Get Sleepy, then the single best way you can support our work is with a Premium membership. And right now is the very best time to try out Premium because during the month of October, you can enjoy a 90 day free trial on any Premium membership in our network. You'll get ad free listening across the entire catalogue, access to all exclusive bonus episodes, and much more. Totally free for 90 days. So if you've been thinking of trying a Premium membership or wondering how you can support our work, now is the perfect time. Give it a go for a few months before you commit and see if the Premium experience helps you sleep even better. You can cancel any time. Don't wait though, because the 90 day free trial is only available during the month of October. So take advantage of this incredible deal now by going to slumberstudios.com premium. That's slumberstudios.com premium. Or if you're on Apple Podcasts, you can sign up directly in the app. Thank you so much for your support.
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If you enjoy Get Sleepy or any of the other shows we produce here at Slumber Studios, you'll love our app called White Noise Deep Sleep Sounds. With hundreds of sounds to choose from, and even the option of mixing them together to create your perfect soundscape, it can help you fall asleep fast, wake up less often, improve focus, reduce anxiety, relieve tinnitus, and calm babies. As a listener of Get Sleepy, we have an exclusive offer for you. Download the White Noise Deep Sleep Sounds app and get 30 days free access to all of the premium content. Just go to deepsleepsounds.com getsleepy that's deepsleepsounds.com getssleepy or follow the link in the episode Description.
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Welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy. My name's Thomas and I'm your host. Thanks so much for joining us for yet another bonus episode. This is the first of four extra episodes we'll be releasing each Friday throughout October. It was written by Jessica and I have the pleasure of reading it for you.
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We're going to be giving you a.
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Window into the world of fairy tales. Tales like Rapunzel, Little Red Riding Hood and Hansel and Gretel. These well loved classics were first published in a book called Children's and Household Tales by the Brothers Grimm. But the brothers Jacob and Wilhelm didn't actually write the stories themselves. Instead, they collected them from all over Germany, from cities and towns and from the forests and the mountains. They visited folk who were famed storytellers and wrote down the tales they heard. Soon I'll invite you to join the Brothers Grimm on one of their expeditions. But before I begin, I welcome you to take a moment for yourself. It's time to relax, unwind and prepare your body and mind for sleep. First, check that you're comfortable. Take a minute to make any adjustments you might need. Stretch out your arms and legs, loosen your neck and unclench your jaw. Feel any knots of stress or worry. Gently come undone. Then breathe in and invite a feeling of ease and calm into your body. Stay with that feeling for a moment or two while your breathing becomes deep and steady. And when you're ready, close your eyes. Now let's begin with the tale behind the fairy tales. The year is 1809 and the location is Germany the woods of Hesse, to be precise. It is October and the kind of weather that Germans refer to as Skaldener Herbst golden autumn. The afternoon is crisp but warm, and sun burnishes the leaves on the trees, turning them from yellow and orange to gold and bronze. Two men dressed in walking suits and matching wide, brimmed felt hats are making their way through the forest. They aren't in any particular hurry, for they are not expected at Dorothea Fiman's cottage for another hour. Both brothers are determined to enjoy their afternoon walk through the fore. The stroll makes for a pleasant contrast from their usual work at the University of Marburg, where both are librarians. The rustling of the forest leaves is, to their ears, brighter and more vivid than the whispering rustle of manuscript pages being turned over in the library. And the earthy smell of moss and fungi is a welcome change from the scents of ink, paper and wood polish. Every now and again, Jacob, the elder of the two, stops to gesture at a particularly fine toadstool with the tip of his wooden walking stick. Occasionally, Wilhelm, the younger by a year, leans on the handle of his stick and points up at a swift flitting from branch to branch. The brothers speak little while they walk, but they know each other very well, and each is aware of the excitement and anticipation the other feels. The brothers have always been passionate about art and literature. While studying literature at university, both were exposed to the German Romantics, a group of philosophers, artists and writers who celebrated art forms that had previously been overlooked, like folk painting and oral storytelling. Inspired by the Romantics, the Grimms realised that the folktales they had grown up hearing around the fireside were part of a rich literary tradition. So they set themselves the ambitious task of collecting and recording as many of these folktales as they could. It was their intention to eventually publish them. Until this point, there was no written record of German folk and fairy tales. Instead, they were memorised, passed from one generation to the next. They were often told to children by their nurses as they drifted off to sleep, or shared around a fire as night drew in. Sometimes the stories were told among women as they engaged in repetitive domestic tasks, like spinning flax into wool or shelling peas. The brothers had begun by searching out tales from among their circle of acquaintances. Then they cast their net wider, meeting renowned storytellers across the region. But the woman they are on their way to visit now, Dorothea Fienan, is a relatively new connection, and a particularly exciting one. Dorotea's father was a tavern keeper. As a young child, she spent her days and nights working at the tavern, listening to the stories, legends and fairy tales that the guests spun late into the night. In her early 20s, she married a tailor, Nikolaus Feeman, and together they had seven children. Each night, Dorothea would tell her children stories to send them to sleep and to support her family. She sold produce from her garden at the local markets, where she swapped stories with fellow stall holders. Now in her 60s, Dorothea holds a treasure trove of tales in her brain and is very well practiced in the telling of them. The brothers have paid her two visits before and transcribed tales like Hans My Hedgehog and Clever Elsie. And today she has promised to tell them one of her favourites, the Story of the Three Feathers. Through the trees, a church bell chimes 4 o'. Clock. The brothers follow the path formed by a Clear brook with mossy pebbles and pink bellied trout visible under its surface. The stream winds its way through the thinning forest and leads out to the village of Rengershausen. Here the high church tower is surrounded with a cluster of small shops that face onto a market square. Radiating outwards from the shops are houses, grander villas at the centre of the village, giving way to humbler cottages at its outskirts. Dorothea's cottage is so far out of the centre of the village it is almost swallowed back. Its shambling garden, where turnips and rapunzel grow in profusion, backs onto the tall dark pines of the wood. The brothers take a minute to straighten themselves. After their walk, Jakob dusts down his coat. Both take off their hats and hold them in their hands. Then Wilhelm strides forward and knocks once with his walking stick on the cottage's wooden door. Dorotea opens the door and ushers them inside. She is a small woman with a wrinkled face and bony hands, but her movements are still quick and her eyes still sharp. Jakob and Wilhelm take their seats in her modest parlour where a fire burns low in the grateful and neat piles of linen waiting to be mended are stacked upon the table. From the parlour the brothers can see into the kitchen, where stock bubbles in a large copper pot over the stove. A pan of freshly set red currant jam is cooling on the table beside a pastry wreath where sweet dough has been braided with marzipan and poppy seed paste. The smell of all this cooking wafts out through the house. Dorotea settles in her chair nearest the fireplace. Outside, the wind stiffens and a branch taps against the window. Through the glass, the afternoon sky is deepening into evening. Dorothea stokes the fire with a poker and coaxes it into a substantial flame. There is polite conversation for a few minutes. Dorothea asks for the news from Casa and inquires after the goings on at the university library. The brothers ask after Dorothea's health, but it isn't long before she settles back in her chair and draws a piece of mending into her lap. She likes to keep her hands busy while she tells her tales. As her needle flashes up and down, she begins the story of the Three Feathers. Once upon a time there was a king, and this king had three sons. The first two sons were intelligent, but the third was not thought to be so clever as his brothers. His name was Franz. The king grew old, and in his old age he became weak and frail. At last he felt he was nearing the end of his life. There was only one problem which of his three sons should inherit his kingdom? He called each of his sons to his bedside and told them, the one who brings me the finest carpet, he shall be king after my death. And to prevent any arguments, he told them to go to the front of the castle and each blow a feather into the air. As they fly, said the king, so shall you go. Dorotea drops her needle for a moment, flattens her palm, and blows an imaginary feather into an imagined breeze. Outside, the real wind is blowing hard, and the house creaks around him in the way that old wooden houses do when the wind picks up a squeaking door here, a rattling shutter there. But the parlour is warm and cozy, unlike the darkening night suffused with the glow of the fire. Dorothea picks up her needle and resumes her tale. One feather flew to the east, the other to the west, and the third feather flew straight ahead, but fell to the ground before it had gone very far. This feather, of course, belonged to Franz. His two brothers laughed at him, standing where his feather had fallen as they rode off in pursuit of their own feathers, Crestfallen, Franz sat down. But as he sat, he noticed a trap door next to his feather. He lifted it up, found a stairway, and climbed down it until he came to another door. He knocked. Someone inside called out, maiden, green and small, Quickly see who is outside. The door opened, and Franz saw a big toad sitting behind it, surrounded by little toads. The big toad asked Franz what he wanted. Franz replied that he wanted the finest carpet in all the world to take to his father. The big toad called to a small toad, maiden, green and small, bring me the large box. The toadlet brought the box for the big toad to open. Inside was a carpet so beautiful and finely woven it could never have been made by anyone in the world above. Franz thanked the toad and climbed back up above ground. The clever brothers, meanwhile, were sure Franz would find nothing to bring home. So neither of them wasted any time looking for a particularly fine carpet. Instead, they each bought a piece of coarse cloth from the first shepherd's wife they met on their travels and brought these back home to their father. Here Jakob interrupts. He has his logbook and pen, and he is transcribing everything, the woman says.
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But perhaps she could go a little slower.
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It is hard for his pen to keep pace, and he doesn't want to miss any details of the story. Did she say shepherd's wife? Dorothea nods and pauses her telling so that Jakob can catch up. For a time, the only sounds in the room are the crackling of the fire and the scratch of Jakob's pen on paper, Dorothea resumes her story, a little slower this time. So the two older brothers returned home with nothing more than coarse cloth. At the same time as they arrived, so did Franz, carrying his incredible carpet. The king was astonished and admitted that the kingdom should go to his youngest son. The other two brothers were enraged. Franz would make a terrible king, they said. They pleaded with their father to declare another contest, and the king relented. This time, said the king, the son who brought him the most beautiful ring would inherit the kingdom. Once again the brothers each blew a feather into the air, and once more each brother followed in the direction that their feather travelled. The elder brother's feather blew west. The middle brother's feather blew east. Franz's feather fell onto the ground beside.
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The trap door.
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For a second time. Franz climbed down the stairs until he reached the big toad. He told the toad he needed the most beautiful ring imaginable. The big toad called to a small toad, maiden, green and small, bring me the small box. Inside the box was a ring glistening with precious stones. It was so beautiful, no goldsmith on earth could have made it. The two older brothers made no effort at all. Instead, they each drove the nails out of an old wagon ring and brought this ring back to their father. When Franz arrived with his ring, the king admitted for a second time that his kingdom belonged to his youngest son. But once again, the elder brothers were unhappy. They pleaded with the king until at last he declared a third and final contest. Whoever brought home the most beautiful woman, the kingdom would be theirs. The three feathers blew into the air and each went in the same direction as before. Franz opened the trap door, went down the stairs and came to the big toad. I am supposed to take home the most beautiful woman, he told the toad. This time the toad gave him a hollowed out yellow turnip to which were harnessed six little mice. Franz was disappointed. He didn't know what he was meant to do with the turnip. But the toad told him to put one of the little toads inside. And Franz did. No sooner was the little toad inside the turnip when she turned into a beautiful young lady, the turnip into a coach, and the six mice into horses. Franz raced the horses straight to the king. His brothers arrived later, and for a third time neither had put any effort into their search. They had simply brought along the first peasant women they saw. At once the king declared that the kingdom should go to his youngest son. Dorotea puts her needle down with a wry smile. The Brothers know this smile well. The tale is coming to its end. But Dorothea's stories never finish quite where the brothers think they will. She continues weaving her tale. Once more the two eldest sons protested. They looked at the hoop that was hanging in the middle of the hall and they hit upon an idea. They persuaded the king that the kingdom should go to the brother whose woman could jump through the hoop. They were sure that Franz's dainty lady would not be able to manage it. But while neither of the first two brothers women could jump through the hoop, Franz's maiden leapt through as lightly as a deer. At last the brothers were defeated. Thus it was that Franz received the crown. And perhaps he was clever after all, because he ruled the kingdom wisely and well for a very long time. Dorotea lays down her needle and bows her head. She has reached the end of her story. And now there is a long silence. The brothers know well enough not to break it. Dorotea will start to talk again soon. For now there is just the low hiss of the fire and outside the drizzle of what might be rain or even the first light snow of the season. The brothers have talked between themselves about Dorothea's curious habit of falling silent after she has told a story. Perhaps Jakob once proposed she was simply exhausted. But maybe, suggested Wilhelm, there was more to it than that. For it isn't just Dorotea who is telling the story. All her tales have been passed down among families. They've been shared and shared, shaped around firesides and spinning circles. And they've been threaded with details from storytellers as near as the next village, as far as the next mountain range, and sometimes even further. The reason Dorotea's stories feel as smooth and familiar is because they had been told so many times, in so many ways by so many different tellers.
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As.
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She tells her stories, for Wilhelm thinks her humble cottage parlour fills with the half remembered outlines of all those other tellers, of all those dark autumn nights where people had gathered to hear tales of brothers and frogs, of witches and kings. Dorothea's silence could be her way of waiting for all the spirits and memories that her stories conjure to leave the room in their own time. And maybe this is true, because when she does speak, at last it feels like a spell is breaking. She thanks the brothers for their visit and apologises if she has muddled her words. The brothers assure her that she has not. They begin to stretch their legs and gather their paper and writing tools. They had best be on their way. But Dorotea protests. What's the rush? There is dinner waiting in the kitchen, and she stokes the fire back into blazing life. It is warm here by the hearth. The brothers are happy to accept her hospitality. They sink back into their comfortable chairs and admire the glow of the fire against the deepening dark of the forest outside. The end.