← Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
A Quiet Glow - A Bedtime Story for the Hush Between Seasons
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- [00:01]
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Hey, it's Eric. Before we begin tonight's episode, just a quick reminder. You're about to hear a few ads that help to support Listen to Sleep. If you'd rather drift off without them, you can join Listen to Sleep plus and get every episode ad free plus bonus stories and meditations. Just go to ListenToSleep.com and click on Support to learn more.
- [00:29]
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Why Choose a Sleep Number Smart Bed.
- [00:31]
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Can I make my sight softer?
- [00:33]
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Can I make my site firmer? Can we sleep cooler?
- [00:36]
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- [01:00]
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- [01:40]
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- [02:14]
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Hello, it's Eric here with another original bedtime story to help you let go of the day and drift into deep, peaceful sleep. As summer begins to wind down here on the mountain, everything just seems to slow down a little more. The grass is so dry, the days are warm but kind of soft at the edges, and the forest feels like it's exhaling after a long stretch of sunlight Evenings come earlier now and there's a hush in the air that inspired this week's story. It's a gentle tale about quiet belonging told through the eyes of a possum named Posey, who discovers that not all that glows is meant to be seen. Some things are simply meant to be felt. If you enjoy stories like this, you'll find hundreds more@listentosleep.com all for free. And while you're there, make sure you join my email list and I'll send you a few gifts to help you rest even more deeply. Like a sleepy audiobook, download a couple of peaceful recordings of the creeks near my cabin and a soothing guided meditation. It's also a great way for us to stay in touch because you can just hit reply to any of my emails if there's something on your mind. It's all@listentosleep.com and there's a link in the show Notes let's take a deep breath in and out. Just letting go of the day, feeling the weight of gravity pulling you deep down into the mattress and another deep breath in and out. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to be. This is your time. Quiet time. One more deep breath in with me and out. If you get tired while I'm reading to you, that's okay. Just let yourself drift off. A quiet glow in the oak woodlands that stretched across the dry hills. The light had begun to soften and the heat that once buzzed through the long afternoons now rested in patches here and there on sun warmed stones and the backs of slow moving lizards. Down in a hollow beneath an old blue oak posy, the possum blinked awake. It was early evening. She didn't stir right away. She just lay there, watching the way the light filtered through the hole in her roof where the bark had pulled back to let the sky peek through. Outside, the forest was beginning to change. The bird song was quieter, the breeze a little cooler. It was the time of year when things didn't rush. Even the squirrels, usually somewhat frantic at this time of day, seemed a bit more deliberate, as if they too could feel the season turning. Posy curled up tighter and thought about staying in for the night. She usually did. She wasn't much for gatherings or goings on, and she certainly wasn't one for being noticed. But tonight was different. It was the night of the turning. No one quite remembered when this tradition had begun. It wasn't marked by a moon or a calendar. It just happened when the wind changed and the evenings began to carry the scent of Both dried grass and cool stone. That's when the animals would begin to make their way toward the wide meadow at the forest's edge. They didn't do much. They just sat together in a big, quiet circle and in their own way, shared something from the year gone by. A small memory, a feeling, a moment they'd held close. Posey had never gone, not really. She'd watched from a distance once, hidden in the shadows beneath a coyote bush, but she'd never stepped into the circle. She didn't think she had anything to share. Her year had been slow and quiet. She hadn't done anything special. She'd mostly stayed near her hollow, kept to herself and listened to the world from the edges. Still, something about tonight tugged at her heart. She sat up, stretching her soft limbs and brushing the dust from her whiskers. The air smelled like dry leaves and a little bit like apples. Somewhere far off, she could hear the yip of a young fox and closer still, the rustle of a wood rat gathering ferns for her nest. Posy climbed out of the hollow and paused at the base of the oak. The forest opened in front of her. Oak and bay and madrone all rustling in the breeze like old friends whispering secrets. She didn't decide to go, not really. She just started walking. Her path wasn't the main one that led straight to the meadow. She followed a smaller trail that curved around the edge of the hillside, past a fallen log and a circle of stones where she used to play when she was very small. She paused there for a moment, pressing her paw into the soft dust. The print left behind was delicate and faint, like a memory, almost faded. She thought of her mother, who used to walk this trail with her, always humming in that way that felt like home. The shadows stretched long across the path, and the golden light filtered through the trees like honey. As she walked, she thought about what she might bring if she were to join the circle. But nothing came. No story, no moment. Just the rhythm of her steps and the quiet of the evening. She watched a butterfly flutter past her nose, drawn toward the last warmth of the day. She noticed the scratchy scent of chemise and the gentle hush of. Of grasshoppers settling in. That was enough, she thought. Maybe she didn't need to know what she would bring. Maybe it was okay just to go. Just to be there. And so she did. Through the hush of the trees, beneath the wide sky and into the soft arms of dusk. The trail Posy followed was narrow and soft, worn into the hillside by generations of paws and hooves and claws. It curved through tall grasses that brushed her sides and whispered around her ears as she passed. The light was slipping lower behind the trees, turning the air the color of apricots and old gold. This wasn't the path to the meadow where the others were going. It was quieter here, more hidden. Posy didn't mind. She liked the hush that gathered in places like this, where the world didn't need to say much. She stepped around a half buried stone she remembered from long ago, a smooth gray oval flecked with quartz, shaped almost like an egg. Her mother had called it the Resting Stone, and though it wasn't clear who had ever rested there, it was the kind of name that didn't need explaining. Far above her, a red tailed hawk circled in wide, slow loops, its wings catching the last light of day. Posy paused to watch it drift, listening to the faint creak of its feathers in the wind. A breath of breeze stirred the oak leaves overhead, and somewhere behind her the meadow grew smaller, quieter, and farther away. She didn't feel lost, not quite, but she also wasn't sure where she was going, and that was fine. The forest, she had learned, often gave you space to wander before it showed you anything. Clearly. A pair of quail startled ahead of her, bursting from a patch of coyote brush in a flurry of sound and wings. She waited for the silence to return, and when it did, it felt even deeper than before, like something holding its breath. The dusk was settling now, seeping into the folds of the land. Colors dimmed, shapes softened. A deer stepped into view between two bay trees, its ears tall and alert, its eyes dark and still. It looked at Posy for a long moment, then dipped its head and moved on, its hooves barely making a sound. Posy let herself just slow down. She had no reason to hurry. The forest was in no rush either. She passed under a crooked madrone with red bark curling away like old paper. Its branches arched over the trail like a quiet gate. Beneath it, the scent of dry leaves mixed with a trace of something sweeter, maybe wild fennel, maybe a memory. For a moment she thought about turning back. The path was growing dim, but then she remembered how the light had looked through the roof of her hollow and how her paws had moved without needing her to decide. So she kept going, past a patch of chaparral where the ground was warm and crumbly, past a line of stones that almost looked like a tiny wall, though no creature she knew would have built it, past a clearing filled with late summer grasses, swaying slowly like they were listening to music only they could hear. Here and there she caught signs of others. A scratch mark on bark from a bear's claws, the empty husk of a cicada clinging to a stem, A tuft of fur caught on a bramble. The forest was full of stories that told them. The light was almost gone now. The sky above her was deepening to an indigo blue. A bat dipped low, then disappeared again. Somewhere ahead, she could just make out the glimmer of water, silver and still, beneath the trees. She knew that place. It was the old creek. She hadn't been there in a long time, not since she was small enough to fit beneath the roots of the leaning alder that grew along its bank. But her feet moved more surely now, remembering. As she approached, the air cooled. The scent of stone and water rose to meet her, clean and familiar. She stepped down the gentle slope, through a curtain of willow leaves and came to the edge of the creek. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that isn't empty at all but full, like a bowl you had to hold carefully in both hands. She sat down on the smooth earth and let the stillness surround her. Somewhere far behind her, the meadow waited. But for now she was here, and that was enough. The creek ran slow this time of year, its edges lined with smooth stones and fallen leaves curled like sleeping moths. The water was low, but it moved with a gentle purpose, twisting slowly around rocks, catching slivers of fading light in its ripples, carrying small things from here to there without ever seeming to try. Posy sat at the edge, her paws tucked close. The scent of cool water, alder bark, and damp earth rose around her like a memory. She hadn't realized she'd been missing. She hadn't been there since her mother passed. They used to come often when she was little. Her mother would settle on the wide, flat stone near the bend and hum soft little songs that Posy never learned the words to. Some nights they'd stay until the stars came out, saying nothing at all, just listening. That stone was still there, half shaded by a leaning alder tree whose roots curled like fingers into the bank. Posy padded over to it and sat down slowly. The surface was cool beneath her. She ran a paw along its familiar shape and let out a long, quiet breath. It was strange how something could feel both so old and so alive. She looked out at the creek, watching the way it slipped over the pebbles and disappeared around the bend. A few yellowed leaves floated by their edges, glowing faintly in the twilight. A cricket began to sing from somewhere in the brush, its rhythm steady and unhurried. Her mother used to say that everything in the forest has its own kind of glow. Some shine in ways you can see, she had murmured once as they sat here together. And some shine in ways you feel. At the time, Posy hadn't understood, but she remembered the words the way you do when something rings true just enough to stay with you, even if it makes no sense at all. She lay back on the stone and looked up at the sky. The first stars were peeking through a few to the east where the sky was deepest. One twinkled gently, then faded behind a wisp of cloud. She stayed there for a long while. No thoughts, no plans, just the cool stone under her back and the quiet weight of her own breath. And then, slowly, she sat up. She wasn't sure why, but she felt the urge to gather something. Not for anyone else, and not because she thought it would matter, just because it felt like part of being here. By the edge of the creek she found a soft feather caught in a tangle of grass, pale gray with a white tip, light as hair. She tucked it gently into her pouch. A little farther upstream she spotted a piece of bark curled into a spiral. Its scent was sharp, like rain on stone, and it reminded her of the time they waited out a storm beneath the roots of an old fir, so she added that too. Near the stone she found an acorn cap, perfectly round with a tiny crack running down the middle. It had been split open, perhaps by time or weather or the beak of a jay, but something about its imperfection made it feel complete, and just as she was about to head back, she spotted a piece of shed snake skin caught in the roots near the creek's edge. It was dry and delicate but intact, a soft shimmer of silver gray. Carefully she placed the feather, the bark, and the acorn cap onto it, folded the edges in, and tucked the bundle gently into her pouch. It rested there like something remembered. Not flashy or grand, just quietly gathered. She held her treasures close, their textures and scents weaving quietly into her senses like a soft blanket. The stars were brighter now. The moon had not yet risen, and the forest had slipped into that hush between waking and dreaming when even the wind seems to tiptoe. She stood up slowly, gave the stone one last pat, and turned back toward the trail. The path looked different in the dark, but her paws remembered the way. She didn't feel braver, exactly, but she did feel full, as if being here had given her something, even if she didn't have the words to name it. And so, holding the small bundle close in her pouch. She walked back into the forest, toward whatever waited. Not with a plan, not with a story. Just a quiet glow in her chest that wasn't there before. By the time Posy made it back through the trees, the stars had fully arrived. They blinked in the wide sky like slow thoughts, scattered and soft. The wind had settled into a low murmur, just enough to rustle the tall grass. As she neared the edge of the forest, she paused beneath the shadow of a bay tree. Ahead, the meadow opened wide and golden and brushed with moonlight. And they were already there. Shapes moved quietly in the open field. A small cluster of rabbits near the old stump. A coyote sitting alone near the edge. Deer, raccoons, owls, squirrels, and skunks, creatures large and small, had found their places in the circle. No one called out. There were no greetings, but they had all come. This was the way of the turning. No announcements, no instructions. Just a shared knowing that the time had come to be still together. Posy stepped lightly out of the shadows, the bundle still tucked in her pouch. She moved slowly, not wanting to disturb the hush that had settled over the clearing. There was a rhythm to it, a breath to the silence that felt alive. She found a place near the edge of the circle and settled onto her haunches. The ground was cool beneath her. The moon had just begun to rise, and its pale light cut the curve of the meadow in silver. A gray fox walked to the center of the circle and placed a withered leaf beside a bit of fur. A bluebird fluttered down, dropped a single seed, and flew back to a branch above. A hedgehog rolled forward with a piece of bark shaped like a crescent moon and nudged it gently into the grass. Each offering was different. Some were small and practical. Food, feathers, seeds. Others were strange and quiet. A shell, a stone, a petal still carrying dew. But none were explained, and somehow that made them more. No one spoke. No one nodded. But the silence stretched to hold each moment like it mattered. As the circle moved slowly around, Posy felt her chest tightening. What was she doing here? Her bundle felt so simple. Bark, a feather, an acorn cap. Things she'd picked up without even thinking. Everyone else's offerings seemed to carry a weight that she didn't even understand. She thought of slipping away. It wouldn't be hard. She could back into the tall grass, disappear before her turn came. But she didn't. The circle kept moving. Near her, an old barn owl lowered its head and blinked slowly, as if saying, it's enough just to be here. Then it was her turn. Posy stood, her paws felt unsteady, but she walked toward the center. The earth there was packed flat, marked by years of paws and claws. In the middle, the other offerings rested in a loose cluster, leaf, shell, bark, seed, each one catching the moonlight in its own quiet way. She knelt slowly from her pouch. She placed the feather, light and pale as breath, then the spiral of bark and the cracked acorn cap, and then the snakeskin. Last of all. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her breath caught for a moment as she stood there, unsure what to feel. But the silence held her like it held the others. Not asking, not judging, just being. She turned and walked back to her place in the circle. The night air was cool now, brushing past her whiskers in a hush. The circle continued. One more, then another, then a long stretch of stillness and still. No one spoke. But the meadow felt fuller somehow, more whole, as if every quiet life had added something real to the night. And as Posy sat there in the grass, her heart beating softly beneath her fur, she began to feel a warmth she hadn't expected. Not pride, not even relief, just a simple, grounded presence. She was here and that was enough. The meadow didn't empty all at once. Some animals stayed seated, still and quiet, letting the hush of the night linger in their bones. Others rose slowly and drifted into the trees, their shapes blending into the darkness like shadows returning home. There was no end, no signal, just the slow rhythm of creatures knowing when it was time to leave. Posey remained where she was for a while. She could feel the earth beneath her, solid and cool, and the soft weight of her own breathing. The scent of the meadow surrounded her. Dry grass, tar weed, a trace of damp soil beneath the top layer of dust. Somewhere far off, a great horned owl called once low and deep. She looked out at the center of the circle. Her offering sat among the others, simple and small. Nothing had changed, not really. But something inside her felt different. Not brighter, not bigger, just steadier. It was a warmth that didn't ask for attention, like the warmth of sun soaked stones or the quiet hum of crickets in the tall grass. It didn't need to be seen. It just was. She stood, stretching gently, and turned toward the trail that would lead her back to her hollow. The path curved softly around the edge of the meadow, beneath the low arch of a live oak that rattled in the breeze. The stars above were thick and silver, scattered like seeds across the sky, and as she walked, she passed others headed home. An old badger moving slow and sure. A family of raccoons padding through the brush, a young buck standing perfectly still beneath a pine, his breath rising faintly in the moonlight. None of them spoke, but there was something in the air between them, something shared, a knowing, a kind of kinship that didn't need words. And by the time Posy reached the edge of the creek again, the wind had shifted. It blew down from the hills now, carrying the scent of bay leaves and lichen and the faintest trace of wood smoke. From far away, the water made its same soft sounds, lapping, trickling, curling around stones. The rock where she'd rested earlier was cooler now as she curled up and watched the sky through the branches. The same stars, the same breeze. But something had changed. In the coming days, she she returned to the creek often. Not to look for anything, just to be there. Sometimes she brought a seed or a petal, setting it gently beside the stone. Sometimes she brought nothing at all. She'd sit in silence, watching the water move, letting the earth be earth. One morning she found something new, a pine cone, small and neat, resting at the edge of the stone. It hadn't been there the day before. She sniffed it gently. It smelled like the high slope woods, where the furs grew thick and the wind moved faster. Someone had brought it and left it there quietly, and the next time she came, there was a strand of dry grass braided into a loop, laid beside a feather she'd left behind. Then a piece of bark shaped like a heart. Then a stone with a spiral worn into it by water. No one ever came while she was there, but the trail began to show more signs of use. The earth was pressed down in new places, the moss was brushed back. One day she found a tiny paw print, smaller than her own, pressed into a patch of soft mud near the bend. She never tried to find out who had come. She didn't need to. The glow she'd carried home from the meadow wasn't a fire. It wasn't meant to be seen from far away. It was like a seed tucked into the soil, hidden, quiet, growing anyway. And somehow, by simply letting it be, it spread. That winter, when the rains came and the trees shivered under silver mist, Posy stayed close to her hollow. She still walked to the creek sometimes, still sat by the stone, still watched the sky. The bundle she'd once carried had changed shape, its pieces scattered, shared, returned to the forest in their own ways. But the feeling remained. She was part of something now. Not because she tried to be, because she already was. And when the breeze passed over her in the night, brushing through the grasses and whispering in the branches overhead. She could hear it now, more clearly than ever before. A quiet belonging. A steady glow, unseen but deeply felt. Good night.