B (3:19)

Now let's get ready to sleep. I'll read you a story. It's a place to rest your mind, like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river. Your mind will follow along with the moving current of my voice and our story and before you know, will ease you into a deep sleep. I'll read the story twice and I'll go a little slower on the second read. If you wake in the night, take yourself back into the story, thinking back through any bit you can remember. This interrupts your brain's tendency to cycle through thought and will put you right back into sleep mode. It's brain training and it might take a bit of practice, so be patient if you are new to this. Our story tonight is called the Solarium and it's a story about a sunny break in a cold month. It's also about sweet smelling citrus, a warm bright place to read a book, and taking the time to charge your battery all the way up.

A (5:00)

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B (7:06)

Now it's time to Switch off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. Adjust your pillows and comforter until you feel completely at ease. You have done enough for today. It is enough, I promise. And all that remains now is a good, long rest. So let's take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh out of the mouth. Again. Breathe in and let it go. Good. The solarium. This was the part of the winter when the snow just stayed, when a few inches piled onto the few inches below them, and so on. When the top layer was gently warmed by the noontime sun and froze over again at dusk into a crust that crackled in a satisfying way when a boot stepped through it, when the drifts grew taller and taller alongside the path in the park and the pond was covered with a thick layer of sturdy ice all the way to its center. I'd come to look forward to this part of the winter, the coldest, quietest part, as a time to draw a line around myself, to unabashedly curtail anything that seemed extraneous or even unpleasant. Deep winter was a time of needs, must, and my needs in these weeks and months were small and simple. Good, hearty food, full nights of sleep, walks in the cold air, Books. So many books. And sunshine. It was the sunshine that had been lacking lately. We'd had a week or more of thick, low clouds, and with the days still being rather short, I was feeling the shortfall of brightness inside me. I looked for other ways to feel sunny. I juiced a pitcher full of citrus fruits, navel oranges, mandarins, yuzu's, and tart lemons and drank it from a fancy glass I served frozen drinks in. During the summer I had a solo dance party in my kitchen and sang along to Stevie Wonder as I bopped around on the wood floor. I'd booked an hour in the sauna at the spa downtown and sat alone in the steamy heat with my eyes closed and daydreamed about far off places with long stretches of sand beside the ocean and turquoise water to paddle in. It had all helped, but still I found myself feeling like I couldn't quite get my battery to charge all the way up. Then last night, as I was drifting between dreams, I heard the wind blowing hard and fast around my house, and when I woke up today, I found that while we had four or five fresh inches of snow to add to our growing piles, those winds had eventually blown the clouds away and the sun was making a bright climb up out of the line of the horizon. After days of not Seeing it, I was giddy as I watched from my window. The sunrise was bright orange against all of the snow and dark tree branches. It reflected off my window panes and I imagined someone on the street watching the sunrise mirrored there, doubling the effect. That was what I needed, I thought, a double dose of sunshine. And that's when I remembered the solarium. It was part of the big house down those dirt roads on the south side of town. Nobody lived there anymore, but it was open to the public for tours and lectures and had acres of walking paths that I'd made good use of in the summertime. In fact, I usually just kept to the paths when I visited and had almost forgotten about the house itself. Till one day as I was arriving, I found a tour that was just about to begin in the gardens beside the tall oak front doors. Did I want to join? Asked a man with a lanyard around his neck and a stack of pamphlets in his hand. Why not? I'd followed the group through the gardens, past the koi pond, and into the great house. I'd listened to the story of the portraits and stained glass windows and was very tempted to try pulling on the books in the library in case the fireplace might swing around and reveal a hidden passage on the top floor. I'd been mesmerized by a room full of maps, some preserved under glass and cabinets and some carefully kept in giant books that had to be laid flat on a table and opened by two people to show the pages. We'd finished the tour. Back on the ground floor beside the huge kitchen where copper pans were still hanging from hooks in the ceiling, was a passage that led to a place called a solarium. I'd never heard of one before, but was immediately charmed by it. A room made of glass, a large one that our tour guide told us had been completely rebuilt a few years before. It had been a hefty project to turn the space, which had become a cold place of broken panes and stashed garden tools, into a beautiful and inviting conservatory. They'd laid in an underfloor heating system that would keep it warm in the winter, and planted not just tropical and desert plants, though there were plenty of those, but whole fruit trees that would winter over happily in the warm air, palms and orange trees and olive trees and lots of sweet smelling flowers. There had been benches to rest on and even a small table where folks were welcome to eat a packed lunch. As we were ushered back out into the grounds, the guide had told us that the solarium was particularly nice in winter, so that was where I would charge my battery today. I remembered the table and packed a bag with some of those mandarins and a sleeve of crackers and a packet of salted cashews, then drove out to the big house. Not many people were on the roads, which were still a bit snowy. I liked the idea of us all tucked in at home like squirrels and rabbits in their burrow, and guessed that as eager as I was to get out and feel the sun on my face, I'd be happy to get back home in a few hours and return to my cozy nesting. I was worried as my car trundled down the dirt road that the house might not be open today. But the tall gates were pushed back and I saw a few cars and even a brave Fat Tire bike in the lot. The sunlight was magnificent, brighter than it had been in weeks, and now that it was bouncing off all all of that snow, it made me close my eyes as I stepped out of the car and just feel it, warm and uplifting on my face. That was how it felt. Uplifting. Like a pat on the back, a small, encouraging gesture to keep faith through the long nights. I kept to the shoveled paths and knocked the little bit of snow off my boots at the front door. Behind a desk in the entryway, wrapped in a long fuzzy sweater, was a woman I'd seen before guiding tours and walking the labyrinth on the far side of the house. She smiled at me as I entered and rested her finger on a spot in her book. I held up my packed snack and asked, is the solarium open? It is, she said as she gestured down the hall, and it's the perfect day for it. I brought my own book, thinking I might read all afternoon in the sunlight, but once I was in that space, all I wanted to do was feel the warmth on my face. So I found a spot on a bench and slowly peeled my Mandarin and ate the sections as my battery charged. This one would last me a good long while. The solarium. This was the part of the winter when the snow just stayed, when a few inches piled onto the few inches below them, and so on. When the top layer was gently warmed by the noontime sun and froze over again at dusk into a crust that crackled in a satisfying way when a boot stepped through it. When the drifts grew taller and taller alongside the path in the park and the pond was covered with a thick layer of sturdy ice all the way to its center, I'd come to look forward to this part of the winter, the coldest, quietest part as a time to draw a line around myself, to unabashedly curtail anything that seemed extraneous or even unpleasant. Deep winter was a time of need's must, and my needs in these weeks and months were small and simple. Good hearty food, full nights of sleep, walks in the cold air, Books. So many books. And sunshine. It was the sunshine that had been lacking lately. We'd had a week or more of thick, low clouds, and with the days still being rather short, I was feeling the shortfall of brightness inside me. I looked for other ways to feel sunny. I juiced a pitcher full of citrus fruits, navel oranges, mandarins, yuzu's, and tart lemons, and drank it from a fancy glass I served frozen drinks in. During the summer I had a solo dance party in my kitchen and sang along to Stevie Wonder as I bopped around on the wood floor. I'd booked an hour in the sauna at the spa downtown and sat alone in the steamy heat with my eyes closed and daydreamed about far off places with long stretches of sand beside the ocean and turquoise water to paddle in. It had all helped, but still I found myself feeling like I couldn't get my battery to charge all the way up. Then last night as I was drifting between dreams, I heard the wind blowing hard and fast around my house, and when I woke up today I found that while we had four or five fresh inches of snow to add to our growing piles, those winds had also eventually blown the clouds away and the sun was making a bright climb up out of the line of the horizon. After days of not seeing it, I was giddy as I watched from my window. The sunrise was bright orange against all of the snow and dark tree branches. It reflected off my window panes and I imagined someone on the street watching the sunrise mirrored there, doubling the effect. That was what I needed, I thought, a double dose sunshine. And that's when I remembered the solarium. It was part of the big house down those dirt roads on the south side of town. Nobody lived there anymore, but it was open to the public for tours and lectures and had acres of walking paths that I'd made good use of in the summertime. In fact, I usually just kept to the paths when I visited and had almost forgotten about the house itself, till one day as I was arriving, I found a tour that was just about to begin in the gardens beside the tall oak front doors. Did I want to join? Asked a man with a lanyard around his neck and a stack of pamphlets in his hand. Why not? I'd followed the group through the gardens, past the koi pond, and into the great house. I had listened to the stories of the portraits and stained glass windows and was very tempted to try pulling on the books in the library in case the fireplace might swing around and reveal a hidden passage. On the top floor. I'd been mesmerized by a room full of maps, some preserved under glass in cabinets and some carefully kept in giant books that had to be laid flat on a table and opened by two people to show the pages. We'd finished the tour Back on the ground floor, behind the huge kitchen, where copper pans were still hanging from hooks in the ceiling, was a passage that led to a place called a solarium. I'd never heard of one before, but was immediately charmed by it. A room made of glass, a large one that our tour guide told us had been completely rebuilt a few years before. It had been a hefty project to turn the space with which had become a cold place of broken panes and stashed garden tools, into a beautiful and inviting conservatory. They'd laid in an underfloor heating system that would keep it warm in the winter and planted not just tropical and desert plants, though there were plenty of those, but whole fruit trees that would winter over happily in the warm air. Palms and orange trees and olive trees and lots of sweet smelling flowers. There had been benches to rest on and even a small table where folks were welcome to eat a packed lunch. As we were ushered back out into the grounds, the guide had told us that the solarium was particularly nice in winter, So that was where I would charge my battery today. I remembered the table and packed a bag with some of those mandarins and a sleeve of crackers and a packet of salted cashews, then drove out to the big house. Not many people were on the roads, which were still a bit snowy. I liked the idea of us all tucked in at home like squirrels and rabbits in their burrows, and guessed that as eager as I was to get out and feel the sun on my face, I'd be happy to get back home in a few hours and return to my cozy nesting. I was worried as my car trundled down the dirt road that the house might not be open today. But the tall gates were pushed back and I saw a few cars and even a brave Fat Tire bike in the lot. The sunlight was magnificent, brighter than it had been in weeks, and now that it was bouncing off all of that snow, it made me close my eyes as I stepped out of the car and just feel it, warm and uplifting on my face. That was how it felt. Uplifting. Like a pat on the back, a small, encouraging gesture to keep faith through the long nights. I kept to the shoveled paths and knocked the little bit of snow off my boots at the front door. Behind a desk in the entryway, wrapped in a long fuzzy sweater, was a woman I'd seen before guiding tours and walking the labyrinth on the far side of the she smiled at me as I entered and rested her finger on a spot in her book. I held up my packed snack and asked, is the solarium open? It is, she said as she gestured down the hall, and it's the perfect day for it. I'd brought my own book, thinking that I might read all afternoon in the sunlight, but once I was in that space, all I wanted to do was was feel the warmth on my face. So I found a spot on a bench and slowly peeled my Mandarin and ate the sections as my battery charged. This one would last me a good long while. Sweet dreams.