← Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
Listen To Sleep - Quiet Bedtime Stories & Meditations
Sofie of the Alps: Two Worlds, One Heart — An Autumn Tale of Weaving Solitude and Connection
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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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At Walgreens we know flu season can feel a little chaotic, so we're going to give you our flu info in a meditation.
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Keeping you calm, just like a certified Walgreens pharmacist will do if you're a little needle nervous. So walk in or schedule an appointment and Walgreens will handle the rest.
- [01:37]
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That's the human kind of help.
- [01:39]
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Walgreens vaccines, subject to availability, state, age and health related restrictions may apply.
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Hey friends, it's Eric. Welcome back. The first rains of autumn have arrived here on the mountain, damping down the dust of summer and carrying the scent of bay, laurel and pine through the cool air. The days are growing shorter and the nights are getting chilly enough now for a quilt. This time of year always feels to me like the mountain is turning a page, settling into a slower, quieter rhythm. Last year around this time, I shared the story of Sophie, a young girl growing up in the Swiss Alps with her mountain grandpa. And so many of you wrote to say how much you loved it. Some of you even asked if Sophie's story might continue, and I thought that was a pretty great idea. So tonight, by popular request, we return to the high peaks to spend some more time with Sophie, her grandfather, and some new friends she'll meet along the way. In the quiet of the Alps, a young girl discovers the gifts of two grandmothers. Their lessons mingle like threads where mountain stillness and village warmth come together into something simple and whole. And if you're looking for more stories and meditations to help you sleep, you can search and listen to more than 400 episodes of the podcast@listentosleep.com and they are all free. 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 more deeply. Like a sleepy audiobook, download a couple of very peaceful recordings of the creeks near my cabin and a soothing guided meditation. It's a great way for us to stay in touch too, 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, letting go of the day, feeling the weight of gravity pulling you deep down into the mattress. 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 Sophie of the Alps Two worlds, one heart High in the Swiss Alps, where the last days of summer still lingered. High in the Swiss Alps, where the last days of summer still lingered and the nights had begun to carry the cool whispers of autumn. Sophie lived with her Mountain grandpa and their wooden cabin above the valley. She was nine years old now, quick footed as a goat and bright eyed with curiosity. Her days filled with the rhythms of mountain life. It was late summer when the meadows gleamed with tall golden grasses, and here and there the last flowers still lifted their colors against the fading season. Blue gentians peered up from rocky crevices, purple asters nodded among the grass, and clusters of white edelweiss clung bravely to the higher slopes. Bees worked busily over the blossoms, reluctant to admit the season was waning and the air smelled of sun warmed herbs. That morning, while Mountain Grandpa mended the cabin roof, Sophie set out with her basket to gather yarrow and thyme. Cloudfoot, her faithful goat, trotted ahead, pausing to nibble at patches of clover. He bounded higher than usual, past the ridge Sophie usually kept within sight. She followed, her braids bouncing, until the world suddenly opened up before her. Spread out beyond the ridge lay a wide meadow she had never seen. The grasses shimmered gold, bending in the breeze as though the mountain itself were breathing. A few late bell flowers glimmered violet among the stalks and Butterflies drifted lazily in the high light. Sophie felt as if she had stepped into another world, hidden just beyond the path she thought she knew. Far below in the green pastures nearer the village, Sophie spotted her friend Johan moving among the goats. His whistle carried faintly on the wind, a tune the animals dutifully followed. Sophie waved, though he was too far to see her, and she felt a gladness knowing that even beyond the ridge, friends were never far away. Then she noticed a thin wisp of smoke curled above the trees at the far edge of the meadow. Curious, Sophie pushed through the grasses, Cloudfoot skipping along at her side until she came to a small chalet tucked among the firs. Its shutters were a faded green, and from its eaves hung skeins of wool dyed in all the colors of the mountain sunlit yellow, walnut brown, deep indigo, each one swaying gently in the mountain air. Beside a steaming pot, an old woman stood stirring with a large wooden spoon. Her hair, silver and thick, was braided and wrapped in a scarf. Her apron was stained with herbs and dye, and her hands moved with the steady rhythm of someone long practiced at her craft. Cloudfoot bleated cheerfully and trotted straight to a basket of clover at her feet. The woman looked up, her eyes sharp but not unkind. Well now, she said, A bold little goat and the child who follows him. Sophie clutched her basket but smiled. I'm Sophie. I live with my grandfather on the other side of the ridge. The woman gave a small nod, as though this explained everything. I am Annalisa. This is my work. She dipped her spoon again, and the water glowed with golden color. Sophie's eyes widened. She glanced at the wool hanging above them. You're making colors from the mountain, she whispered. The mountain makes them, annalisa replied. I am only the one who receives them. Marigolds, walnut husks, elderberries. Each has its own shade to share. Sophie lingered, sitting quietly in the grass while Annalisa worked. The air carried the tang of dye and pine smoke, and the steady motion of hand and spoon. Steam and color felt like another kind of language, one she didn't yet know but longed to learn. She had studied healing herbs with her grandfather, but here was a new way the mountain spoke, holding its summer light in threads to carry through the dark months. When the shadows stretched long across the meadow, Sophie rose reluctantly. Annalisa met her gaze and gave a faint smile. Though she said no more, Sophie felt the invitation in that small gesture as clearly as if the old woman had spoken. With her basket of herbs and Cloudfoot trotting happily at her side. Sophie crossed the golden meadow back toward the ridge, her mind alive with the thought of colors hidden in flowers, bark, and berries, colors she had never thought to look for until now. The next morning dawned bright and clear, the first light spilling over the peaks and turning the valley below a hazy blue. Sophie had barely finished her chores before her thoughts drifted back to the hidden meadow. Cloudfoot seemed to sense it, too, tugging eagerly toward the ridge when she let him out of the pen. Mountain Grandpa only smiled when she asked if she might wander. He had long ago learned that the mountain called to Sophie just as it called to him. By mid morning, she was standing once again at the edge of Annalisa's clearing. The old woman was outside, lifting skeins of freshly dyed wool from a line strung between fir trees. Each strand shimmered in the sun, russet from walnut husks, deep purple from elderberries, golden from marigolds gathered before the frosts. Sophie stepped closer, her eyes wide. Annalisa glanced at her but said nothing, simply held out a basket. If you wish to watch, you may also help. The meadow still has what I need. Sophie nodded eagerly and followed her into the grasses. They walked in silence, Annalisa moving with the unhurried pace of one who knew every stem and and stone. She bent now and again, cutting flowers or gathering husks, each motion deliberate. Sophie copied her, careful to take only a little from each plant, remembering her grandfather's rule. Never strip the mountain bare. When they returned, Annalisa showed her how to crush the husks with a stone, how to soak the petals in warm water until the color bled through. Steam curled into the air, carrying the sharp scent of walnut and the sweetness of marigold. Sophie leaned over the pot, fascinated as the liquid deepened into rich, glowing hues. Color is patient, annalisa said at last, her voice quiet, almost as if speaking to herself. It does not come all at once. You must wait, stir, and wait again. Rush it and you will have nothing but a stain. Give it time and the mountain will give you its heart. Sophie let the words settle inside her. She thought of her own eagerness, how quickly she wanted to see the change. But she stayed still, watching the colors darken slowly, thread by thread, until the wool lowered into the pot began to drink it up. The day passed in this rhythm, gathering, preparing, waiting, and watching. Sophie learned how elderberries, small and unremarkable, could give a thread a deep shade of twilight. She learned that a single marigold, though bright in the field, was not enough for a die many Blooms together made the gold strong enough to last. She saw how walnut husks stained her fingertips brown and laughed when Annalisa told her it would not wash off for days. Cloudfoot lay in the grass nearby, chewing contentedly, the rise and fall of his sides matching the quiet breath of the mountain afternoon. Sophie felt a strange contentment, too, different from the playfulness of days with Johan, different from the steady learning with her grandfather. This was slower, quieter, and yet it filled her with the same kind of wonder that she felt when the stars came out at night. As the sun sank lower, Sophie helped Annalisa hang the skeins across the eaves to dry. The threads caught the last light, glowing like captured pieces of the day. She ran her hand lightly over one strand, marveling at its softness. Annalisa studied her for a moment, then said, it is good you come. Not many are willing to sit long enough to see what the mountain has hidden. Sophie looked down, a bit shy under Annalisa's steady gaze. I like learning what the mountain wants to show me, she said softly. The old woman gave the faintest nod, which Sophie had already come to understand was her way of sharing her approval. When evening shadows stretched across the meadow, Sophie gathered her basket. Her arms were tired, her fingers stained, but her heart felt full. As she turned to leave, Annalisa pressed a small skein into her hands, no bigger than a ribbon dyed deep purple from elderberries. Keep this, she said simply. A thread to remind you that time brings depth. Sophie took it carefully, as though it were something rare and precious. Then she tucked it into her basket and and began the walk back over the ridge. As the last glow of sunset lit the peaks, she thought of how each thread held the light of summer, waiting to warm the long winter nights. When she reached to the cabin, Mountain Grandpa was stacking the last of the firewood. Sophie slipped past him quietly, keeping her new treasure close, and he asked nothing. He had lived long enough on the mountain to know that sometimes the heart carried home lessons best left unquestioned. That night Sophie lay in her bed of fragrant hay, the skein beside her pillow. She traced its softness with her fingertips until her eyes grew heavy, the colors of the mountain lingering in her dreams. By the time the first leaves began to turn at the edges, word reached the cabin that the harvest fair would soon be held in the village. It was the one time each year when the valley came alive with music, bread ovens, and the laughter of neighbors gathering before winter set in. Johan came up the mountain one afternoon, his cheeks flushed with excitement and urged Sophie to join him at the fair. Come down, Sophie, he said, tugging at her sleeve. There will be dancing and honey cakes and games for the children. You mustn't miss it. Mountain Grandpa raised his brows at her eagerness to join Johan at the fair, but did not say no. He had always believed that she should learn the mountain secrets, yet he knew the valley held lessons, too. So on the morning of the fair they set off together, Sophie skipping beside Johan while Grandpa followed behind at his steady pace. As they descended, the air grew warmer, filled with the smell of wood smoke and baking bread. Colorful banners fluttered across the square, and stalls brimmed with apples, cheeses, and jars of honey. Sophie's eyes sparkled as she took it all in, the chatter, the music of the fiddles, the clatter of hooves as carts rolled past. After so many days of quiet meadows, the noise felt like a rushing river she was suddenly carried into. At the edge of the square stood a house with wide windows thrown open. A plump, cheerful woman leaned out, calling children inside with the promise of warm spiced bread. This was Frau Lenz, a widow known for her colorful stories as much as her delicious baking. Sophie hesitated at the doorway, but Johann tugged her hand, and soon they were seated at a long wooden table among a crowd of laughing children. Frau Lenz placed before them slices of bread dusted with sugar and cinnamon, the smell rich and comforting. Then she began to tell a tale of the mountains, a story of a shepherd lost in the snow and guided home by the glow of a lantern carried by a kindly spirit. Her voice was warm and steady, her eyes twinkling as she spoke, and even the rowdiest children grew still and listened closely. Sophie ate slowly, savoring each bite, but it was the story that fed her most. The way Frau Lenz spoke, the hearth seemed to stretch wider, holding everyone in its circle of light. For a moment Sophie forgot she was far from her meadow and her goats. She felt wrapped in the kind of warmth only a village gathering could bring. When the tale ended, the children begged for another. Frau Lenz laughed, her cheeks rosy from the fire, and obliged. Sophie watched her hands as they moved, kneading bread, patting children on the shoulders, stirring the air with her stories. It struck her that this, too, was a kind of weaving, threads of memory and care drawn together into something new and wholesome. Later, when Sophie stepped back outside, she saw Mountain Grandpa standing near the door. He had not joined the children, but his eyes were softer than usual as he watched Frau Lenz through the window. When she came out with a tray of bread for the musicians. He greeted her quietly. Their words were few, but Sophie noticed the way his face eased, as if the lines of solitude smoothed just a little in her presence. The afternoon stretched into evening. Johan dragged Sophie to try the games, and they laughed over apples bobbing in barrels, over goats decorated with ribbons, over dancing fiddlers that played until the stars came out. Yet even amid the bustle, Sophie found her thoughts. Returning to the hearth, she carried the shape of Frau Lenz's stories with her, the warmth of the bread, the way the whole village seemed to gather around her like like a flock around its shepherd. As the moon rose, they began the climb back up the mountain. Sophie's basket was filled with gifts of fruit and bread, but her heart carried more. She thought of Annalisa's quiet chalet with its threads of color, and now of Frau Lenz's busy hearth with its threads of story and laughter. They felt like two different fires, one glowing in solitude, the other blazing with community. Walking beside her grandfather, Sophie wondered if perhaps the mountain and the valley were not so far apart after all. The weeks after the harvest fair slipped by in a golden haze. Days were still warm, but mornings brought frost on the grass, and the larches on the slopes began to turn from green to gold. Sophie's basket grew heavy with mushrooms and berries, and her evenings filled with new memories. Some of Annalisa's quiet pot, others by the echo of Frau Lenz's stories in her mind. At first the rhythm pleased her. On some days she crossed the ridge to help Annalisa. Together they gathered late marigolds and crushed walnut husks, steam rising in fragrant clouds as colors seeped into wool. Another days she went back down to the village, where laughter rang in her ears and the smell of spiced breads lingered in her imag, and she found herself dreaming of both places as she fell asleep in her bed of hay. But slowly a restlessness began to stir. She would sit by Annalisa's dye pot, watching the slow transformation of thread, and long for the warmth of many voices around a hearth. Then, when she visited Frau Lenz's crowd of neighbors, her heart tugged for the solitude of the meadow. It seemed she could never be fully content in either place. One afternoon she voiced this worry to Cloudfoot as they walked along the path. When I am with Annalisa, I miss Frau Lenz. When I am with Frau Lenz, I miss Annalisa. Why can't I feel at home in Both. The goat, of course, only flicked his ears and went on nibbling. But Sophie's heart felt heavy. That evening, Mountain Grandpa found her sitting by the fire with her basket untouched. He set aside his knife and wood shavings and watched her quietly. Sophie was used to his silences. She had learned that he often spoke most through them. At last she sighed. Grandfather, how can I choose between two things that I love? The mountain is quiet. The village is warm. I feel pulled and both directions. He stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks up the chimney. Child, he said after a while, the mountain holds snow and meadows both. The valley holds stream and field. One does not cancel the other. Balance is what keeps the world alive. Sophie thought of the dye pots at Annalisa's, how colors deepened only with patience, how threads could hold two shades at once if dipped carefully. She thought of Frau Lenz's stories, in which sorrow and joy often lived side by side. Perhaps her grandfather was right. It was not about choosing, but about carrying both. The next morning she tried again at Annalisa's. She let the silence wrap around her, noticing the faint hiss of steam and the flutter of birds in the meadow. She did not push away the thought of laughter in the valley. She let it rest beside the stillness. Later, as she recalled Frau Lenz's tales, she pictured them woven into the skeins of wool drying in the sun. Instead of tugging against each other, the two lives began to twine in her mind. One day, while hanging skeins to dry, she asked Annelisa if she ever went down to the village. The old woman shook her head, her hands steady on the line. My heart is here, she said simply, but the village has its place too. We cannot all weave the same. Sophie nodded, thinking of Frau Lenz's busy table, then of the quiet dye pots. Perhaps her thread was meant to carry both colors. When she returned home, Mountain Grandpa was splitting logs for winter. He looked up as she approached, a question in his eyes. Sophie smiled, the knot in her chest a little looser. I think I understand now, she said. He only grunted softly, but the lines at the corners of his mouth eased, and she knew he was pleased. That night, as the fire crackled, Sophie laid Annelisa's purple skein beside a small wooden carving her grandfather had made two different gifts side by side, each carrying its own kind of light. She drifted to sleep with the thought that her heart, too, could hold more than one fire without being torn apart. Autumn deepened quickly in the high Alps. The larches turned bright Gold standing like torches along the slopes, and the mornings grew sharp with frost. Sophie gathered chestnuts with Johan one day and dyed wool with Annalisa the next. And all the while, she felt something new taking shape in her heart. She no longer thought of these two women as opposite poles tugging her apart. Instead, their lessons began to weave together as threads, crossing in a single cloth. One crisp morning, Annalisa showed her how to twist dyed strands into a cord strong enough to hold a basket handle. The wool was rough in Sophie's small fingers, but slowly she managed to braid it. Purple with yellow, brown with gold, the colors winding into something sturdier than any single thread alone. When she held it up, sunlight caught on the fibers and Sophie smiled. That afternoon, she tucked the cord into her basket and and followed Johan down to the village. Frau Lenz was hosting a gathering by her hearth, as she often did when the nights grew long. The air was thick with the smell of apples baking, and the room filled with children's chatter. As the children leaned close, Frau Lenz began. In her soft, steady voice, she spoke of a river that longed to rest like the stones it hurried past, and of a stone that wished to wander like the river. For a time, each felt incomplete, until they realized they already lived within one another, the water shaping the stone, the stone guiding the water's way. The children listened wide eyed, and Sophie felt the story settle into her heart like a quiet truth. Sophie's hand went to the cord in her basket. When the story ended, she shyly approached Frau Lenz and placed it on the table. It's from the mountain, she whispered. The colors are from flowers and husks and berries. Annalisa taught me. Frau Lenz ran her fingers over the braid, her eyes bright with surprise. A fine gift, she said warmly, and a reminder that stories and colors belong together just as people do. She set it in the center of the table, where the lamplight caught it and the children leaned close to admire the shining strands. From the doorway, Sophie noticed her grandfather watching, his hands folded on his stick. Frau Lenz caught his eye and gave him a smile. He returned it, just a small one, but it softened his weathered face in a way Sophie rarely saw. She tucked the image away, wondering what stories might yet grow between them. The evening passed with laughter and bread, songs and candlelight. When Sophie stepped outside into the cool night air, she looked up at the stars bright over the valley and felt no conflict in her chest. The hearth fire below and the quiet meadows above both belonged to her and she to them. Back at the cabin, she laid her head on her hay stuffed pillow. On the shelf above her bed sat Annelisa's purple skein, beside a basket of apples gifted by Frau Lenz. Two worlds, one heart, woven together like the cord in her basket. As sleep drew her gently into its embrace, Sophie dreamed not of choosing one place or the other, but of walking freely between them, carrying both fires within her wherever she went. Good night.