We've been to a lot of places together in these episodes, like Rome, Vienna, Costa Rica, and when I'm planning a new setting for a show, I have the whole world to choose from. Glamorous cities, exotic destinations, but this week I passed on all of those for a little island that's very close to my heart. Prince Edward Island, Canada's smallest province, tucked into the Gulf of St. Lawrence on the east coast. It's just 140 miles long and at its widest point, only 40 miles across. You're never more than 10 miles from the ocean. I lived there for over a decade. It'd be hard to find a place with a sleepier, more calming, quieter energy. Tonight, I'm going to try to show it to you. We're going to visit during old home week, when everyone who's left the island comes back for a few days in August to remember where they're from. And tonight, this island is going to lull you into the deepest, most restorative sleep. But first, please make sure you're somewhere safe and comfortable for sleep. This episode is designed to help you drift off, so you shouldn't be driving or doing anything that needs your focus. And if these episodes are helping you sleep, please consider rating or following the show. I'm just one person making this podcast. And when you rate or follow, it helps other people find the show. And thank you for everyone who has followed. Honestly, I think you're the best group of listeners. You send me the nicest messages and the best ideas for new shows. Now, let's make sure you're properly settled. Are you comfortable enough? Do you have what you need within reach? Water on the nightstand? Pillows arranged just right? Take your time adjusting anything that needs adjusting. There's no rush.And then take a slow, deep breath with me. Hold it there for a moment, and then let it go slowly, releasing it like a quiet sigh. And each time you exhale, feel all your tension flowing out with it. The small frustrations of today, the conversation still hanging in the air, any concerns about what tomorrow might bring. Release all of it now. With each exhale, everything will be there when you need it later. Take another slow breath. And as you release it, feel calm, settling into your body, into your shoulders, your jaw, your hands. Keep breathing like this, deeply and slowly.Good. You're ready now. The kitchen party is ending.Kate stands near the doorway, a mug of tea cooling between her palms. The fiddle has slowed. No more reels now.No more boot heels hammering the wide pine boards. Just a waltz. The bow moving across the strings, with the kind of ease that only comes after decades of playing.The kitchen smells of butter and yeast. Fresh biscuits still sit on the counter, covered with a faded tea towel. Kate's feet are bare.The sandals disappeared hours ago, kicked under someone's chair during the dancing. An elderly woman sleeps on a worn recliner, her chin tucked to her chest, her hands folded over her lap. She's wearing a floral dress. The fabric soft from decades of washing. Earlier, she'd gotten to her feet when the music turned fast. Her grandson had steadied her elbow, and she'd step danced three full measures, her feet remembering what her body had nearly forgotten.Everyone had clapped. She'd sat back down, flushed and triumphant. Now, she breathes deeply, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the waltz.Across the room, a woman sways with a sleeping child on her shoulder. The little girl is maybe three, wearing a yellow dress. Her mouth hangs open slightly, one hand clutching her mother's shirt.The mother's eyes are closed too, not sleeping, but resting, in that way mothers do when holding sleeping children. The fiddler's fingers move without thought, finding notes he's played 10,000 times. His hair falls across his eyes.Kate watches his wrist, the slight flex of it, the way the music seems to come from someplace deeper than his hands. She takes another sip of tea. It's gone lukewarm, but she drinks it anyway.The last of the guests are leaving, our doors closing softly in the driveway. The screen door opens and closes, each time letting in a breath of cool night air that smells of cut hay and salt water. Someone is washing dishes at the sink, water running, a clink of plates, a murmured conversation too low to make out the words.Kate feels the weight of this day in her shoulders, in her feet. She drove out to Cavendish Beach this morning, walked the sand for an hour with her eyes down. She found four pieces of sea glass.They're in her pocket now, smooth against her hip. She'd stood at the water's edge and let the waves come over her feet. The red cliffs rose to her right, carved and layered.The beach had been nearly empty, just her and a few gulls working the tide line. She'd eaten lunch in town, fish and chips at a picnic table, feel warm from the fryer, thick cut chips with malt vinegar. Then the long drive out here, windows down, following the red dirt roads that cut through potato fields.The roads are the same rust color as the cliffs, the same rust color as the soil that stains everything it touches. The car fills with dust when you drive, fine red powder that settles on the dashboard, on your arms, in your hair. The party had been full when she arrived, the kitchen packed with people, the porch spilling over with teenagers, the front yard flamed by children running through the dusk.The music had been fast then, the dancing had made the whole house shake, but that was hours ago. Now the fiddler plays the last note, lets it hang in the air, lets it fade to nothing. He loosens his bow, tucks the fiddle under his arm.The elderly woman wakes with a small start, looks around as if surprised to find herself still in her chair, still at the party. The woman with the sleeping child stands carefully, shifting her weight. Her husband appears with their jackets.They move toward the door, whispering good night. Kate sets her mug down. She should go too.The drive back to Charlottetown will take 20 minutes, maybe more. The fiddler opens his case, settles the instrument inside, but the kind of care you give is something you love. His grandmother, the woman in the recliner, is awake now, watching him.She says something Kate can't hear, and he smiles and nods. She hugs the fiddler goodbye in the doorway. He tells her to come back tomorrow.There's a regatta on Sunday. Everyone will be there. She says maybe.She says she'll try. Outside, the night is full of stars. The Milky Way cuts across the sky, so bright it casts faint shadows.Kate stands in the driveway for a moment, looking up. In Toronto, she never sees stars. Not like this.She gets in her car, darts the engine. The headlights illuminate the farmhouse, the white clapboard siding, the dark windows upstairs. As she pulls away, she sees someone moving in the kitchen.Just a shadow, turning off the last light. The red dirt road unfolds in her headlights, narrow, winding between fields. The crops rustle on either side. Potato plants with their small white flowers. Grain, ready for harvest. She keeps her windows rolled down.The air pours in, warm, smelling of soil and growing things, and salt from the harbor three miles north. Somewhere in the darkness, she can hear the ocean. Just the low, constant rush of it, like breathing.She passes a farmhouse, dark except for a porch light. A dog barks. She passes a church, white with a red door.Its small cemetery visible in the moonlight. The gravestones lean slightly, settled by time and frost eve. The road meets a paved highway.She turns toward Charlottetown. Pavement is smooth after the dirt, almost too smooth, and she has to adjust her speed. She passes through the next town without seeing another car.A cafe and bakery. A gas station with two bumps, all closed, all dark. The ocean smell fades as she drives inland. Now, it's just trees and pavement and the occasional whiff of skunk. She thinks about the music, the way it had filled the kitchen, the way it had made the old woman get up and dance, the way it had carried something forward, something passed down, something that would be passed down again. She thinks about the sleeping child in the yellow dress, the way her mother had swayed, even after the music stopped.She thinks about the biscuits and the tea, and the way the kitchen had smelled like every other kitchen party she'd ever been to. Every Sunday dinner at her grandmother's house, every wedding reception in a church basement, every gathering that mattered. Charlottetown appears slowly, first the outskirts, then neighborhoods, and then downtown with its old brick buildings and narrow streets. She turns into her parents' street, big trees overhead, maples and oaks, their branches meeting above the road. The houses here are old, with deep front porches and gingerbread trim. Porch lights burn yellow, windows are dark.She parks in front of the house, turns off the engine, the car ticks. As it cools, the front door is unlocked. It always is. Her parents are asleep upstairs. The house is dark, except for the kitchen light they've left on for her. Kate climbs the stairs.Each step creaks in the same place it's creaked since she was six years old. Her bedroom door stands open. The room is exactly as she left it this morning, exactly as she's left it for 10 years.The same white dresser, the same bookshelf, the same bed. The mattress receives her with the sameness of 10,000 other nights. The sheets are cool.The pillow, soft. The quilt her grandmother made saddles over her. It's white, exactly right.Outside, if she listens carefully, she can hear the ocean, the water moving against the shore. The same sound that's been here forever. She's leaving Tuesday. Early ferry, long drive back to the city. She comes back every year for old home week. These few days in August, when everyone who left comes home.When the island fills with people who scattered across the country, across the world, but who return to remember who they are. She carries this place with her when she leaves. The red roads and the salt air and the fiddle music.The understanding that family matters more than career. A community is built slowly by people who show up for each other. That some things are worth keeping, worth protecting, worth returning to. The island shaped her, and she'll carry it forward. To whatever life she builds. To whatever person she becomes. Her breathing slows. Her body sinks deeper into the mattress. The harbor breathes. The leaves whisper. The old house settles around her with small creaks and sighs, the sounds of wood expanding and contracting, of a structure that's stood here for generations and will stand for generations more. And Kate, finally, lets herself sleep. On Prince Edward Island the beaches stretch empty under the moon. Miles of sand, cool now, waiting for tomorrow's sun. The waves continue their work, rolling in, pulling back, shaping the shore grain by grain. The fishing boats rock gently in their harbors. The farmhouses sit quiet in their fields. The churches rise white against the dark trees. Feel how tired you are now. How heavy your limbs have become. How your body has surrendered completely to the comfort of your bed. Your breathing is so slow, so deep, each exhale releasing you further into rest. When life gets complex and difficult, you can return to your core values. The ones formed in the place you call home.  Maybe home for you is a place like Kate's island. Somewhere you can return to, somewhere that shaped you, somewhere that will always welcome you back. Maybe home isn't a place at all. Maybe it's a person. The one who sees you completely and loves you anyway. Maybe home is a family of friends. The people you chose, who chose you back. Whatever home means to you, it grounds you. It reminds you what matters in the end. Your body is so relaxed now. Notice the feeling of your mattress beneath you, supporting every part of you. Notice the weight of your covers. Notice how your muscles have released their hold on everything you've been carrying. When you wake in the morning, you'll feel refreshed. As if you yourself waded in the island ocean. As if you sat at that kitchen table and ate biscuits with butter and listened to the music. The mind believes the story you tell it. So tell yourself a story now about sleep. About being at the edge of sleep, that threshold between waking and dreaming where everything becomes soft and undefined. About sinking deeper with each breath, each heartbeat, each moment that passes. I’m Suzanne and this is your ticket to snoozeville. Sleep now. Sleep deeply. Sleep well.