I have no idea where this story came from. This is not what I sat down to write today. Tonight is the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, which means the shortest night, which means more light and a warmer bedroom. So I was going to write a sensible episode about that, about keeping your room cool and dark. There was going to be a relaxing visualization about a summer garden, and that isn't what I wrote. What I wrote is a fairy tale. And I can't tell you where this sleep story even came from, because I genuinely don't know. Blame the solstice. There's supposed to be magic on nights like this, and apparently it got into my writing. And if fairy tales are not your thing, I completely understand. There are 177 other episodes of this podcast, and if you look, you'll find exactly what you need there tonight. But if you're staying, this story will help you sleep. The details are there to make your brain quieter, your body heavier, and your eyes harder to keep open. So if you've decided to stay, that's great. Just ensure you're somewhere safe to fall asleep. You want to be in your bed, your comfortable bed, and not anywhere you need to stay alert. And if any of these episodes have ever helped you find sleep, please consider rating or reviewing the show. This show is just me and a very old cat that is no help at all, and neither one of us is part of a large media empire. So we depend on listeners like you to help the show grow with things like ratings and reviews. And if you have ever left a rating or a review, thank you. And now, let's get you settled, take a moment to make yourself comfortable, punch your pillow a few times if it needs it, or flip it over to the cool side. Pull your blankets up, or push them down, or kick one leg out. Whatever your body is asking for tonight, do that. If you need to get up and open a window, go ahead. It's the solstice, and your room might be warmer than it usually is. I'll wait. And when you've found your position, just let your body accept where it is. Not perfect. Just good enough. Good enough is all we need tonight. Now I'd like you to start slowing your breathing down. Just take a full, easy breath in, but when you let it go, make it twice as long as it usually is. Nothing complicated. Just keep breathing that way. Slow breath in, and an even slower breath out. And while you're doing that, I'm going to talk to you for a moment. You did a lot today, I know you did, even if it doesn't feel like it. Even if you've been lying here right now, thinking about everything you didn't get done, everything you forgot, everything you should have handled differently, your brain is very good at that, at keeping a running tally of your failures, while completely ignoring everything you actually managed to get through. Maybe today was relentless. Maybe you spent it making decisions, and solving problems, and holding things together for other people. Nobody noticed, because you make it look easy. Maybe today was the opposite, slow and heavy, kind of shapeless, and you spent it trying to find a reason to get moving, and feeling guilty that you couldn't. Maybe you spent today worried about money, running numbers in your head, trying to make them come out differently. Maybe you spent it overwhelmed by something you can't even name, just feeling that everything is too much, and you're not keeping up. Everyone else seems to know how to do this, and you missed the instructions somehow. Whatever today was, it's over. You got through it. That always counts, even when it doesn't feel like enough. You did enough today. You do more than enough, every day, and the fact that nobody says that to you as often as they should, doesn't make it less true. So let your shoulders drop, let your hands lie open and still, keep breathing, slow and steady, and let today be finished. Tomorrow will handle itself the way it always does. It has never once needed you to stay awake, planning for it, and what comes next is just a story, a voice, and eventually, sleep. You couldn't sleep. Of course you couldn't. It's the longest day of the year, and it's not really night yet, is it? Nearly ten, and there's still light at the edges of your curtains. So you got out. You pulled on leggings and that soft, oversized sweatshirt you love. You slipped on your shoes, and you went out the door, because lying still wasn't working, and at least out here, there's air, and sky, and the feeling of doing something, other than failing at sleep. The street is quiet, a few houses still have lights on, the air is warm, but not as warm as it was during the day, and there's a breeze moving the leaves and the trees along your street. You walk, past the end of the road, past the last house, and onto the path that leads out toward open ground. You've walked here before, you know this path, but tonight, in the strange half-light of the solstice, everything looks different, tilted, like the ordinary world has shifted just slightly, and you're seeing it from an angle that wasn't there yesterday, and that's when you see the stones, they're standing in the grass just off the path. Six of them, arranged in a rough circle, about shoulder height. You stare at them. You've walked this path dozens of times, and there's never been anything here but grass, and dandelions, and an old fence post. You know what this is. You've read enough books, seen enough movies, you know exactly what happens when a person finds standing stones that weren't there before, on a night when the boundaries between things are supposed to be thin, and you know that sensible character would turn around, would go home, would forget about it, but you also know that those characters never get their own story. You step through the gap, and you fall, not far. It's like tripping over a step you didn't see, your hands going out, and then you're on your knees on soft ground, and everything is different. The air is cooler. It's a shaded, green coolness. It fills your lungs with the smell of moss, of damp bark, of earth that's been composting leaves for centuries. It's the smell of a forest that has been left alone for a very long time. You get to your feet and look around. These are not the trees from your neighborhood. These are enormous, oaks with trunks wider than cars, beaches so tall you can't see where the branches start, and here and there, a birch, its trunk almost glowing in the moonlight. They stretch in every direction, and their branches meet and merge overhead into a canopy so dense that the sky beyond it is just fragments. You know this forest because someone read you a story about it a long time ago. Someone sat at the edge of your bed, turning pages. This is the forest where Hansel and Gretel wandered, where the huntsman took Snow White, and where a girl in a red hood strayed from the path. You're standing in the forest of every fairy tale you were ever told, and you are standing where you are, let's be honest, totally delighted. Because you're not afraid, and you really should be. Being alone in a dark forest in the middle of the night, that's the opening scene of something that doesn't end well. But the air on your skin is so cool, so clean, and your sweater is soft and warm around you, and the trees above you are curving overhead like the ceiling of a cathedral, and something about this place feels the opposite of dangerous. A breeze moves through the canopy, and the leaves shift and whisper, and what you hear in that sound is not a warning. It's closer to, come in. We've been expecting you. You're safe here. A path leads forward through the trees. The path curves around the base of an oak so wide you could live inside it, and beyond it, in a clearing where the moonlight pours down, you see something. It's a sword in a stone. An actual sword, buried to the hilt in a block of gray rock that sits in the middle of the clearing as if it fell from the sky. The blade is buried deep, but the hilt is fully visible, and it's beautiful. A long grip wrapped in leather that has darkened and cracked with age. A cross guard of gold, and a pommel set with a single red stone that catches the moonlight and glows. The whole thing is draped in cobwebs, serious cobwebs, the kind that represent generations of spiders living their entire lives and raising families on this sword. Nobody is coming for this sword. Whatever story it belonged to has been over for a long time. You keep walking. The forest deepens. The oaks grow older, wider. The air is cooler with every step, and you can feel it now on the back of your neck, on your wrists, on your face. Air that has been shaded and cooled by a thousand years of leaf cover. White flowers are growing in clusters along the path, and their scent is faint and sweet. The path dips into a hollow, and there in the space between the roots of a fallen oak, half hidden by ferns and trailing ivy, you see a treasure. A wooden chest. Ancient. Its iron bands rusted orange, and its lid fallen to one side, and from inside it, gold coins have spilled across the forest floor in a slow, frozen river of yellow around the chest and tangled through the coins. Jewelry. A necklace of emeralds. Each stone the size of your thumbnail, and still bright. A rope of rubies. Dark red, almost black in this light, twisted through a chain of heavy gold links. A gold chalice lying on its side. So ornate. Its rim set with pearls that have gone slightly yellow with age. A crown. Delicate. Silver. Its metalwork twisted into branches and tiny leaves. It's half buried in the pile. All of it is just lying here. In the ferns. In the dark. Not guarded. Not hidden behind a riddle, or a dragon, or a locked door. Just left, the way you might leave a box of old things in the attic when you move. Moss is beginning to creep across the coins nearest the earth. A mouse has built a nest inside one of the chalices. A perfect little cup of shredded leaves and dry grass. The forest is taking it back. You look at it for a long moment. All that gold. All those jewels glinting in the moonlight. And a mouse sleeping in a golden cup. And you think, this is the most fairytale thing you have ever seen. And you leave it where it is. The bath climbs out over a gentle rise. And as it does, the tree is thin enough for the moonlight to flood through. And there, leaning against the pale trunk of a birch tree, is a mirror. It is set in a frame of dark wood that has been carved with leaves and vines. The glass is perfect. It's as clear as water. And it shouldn't be here. Standing against a tree in the middle of a forest. And yet, it looks completely at home. You step in front of it. And you see yourself. There are leaves in your hair. Small ones. Caught there when you tumble through the stones. They look a bit like a crown. And your cheeks are flushed from the walk. Pink and warm. And your eyes. Are your eyes always that bright? They look alive. They look rested. This person looks like someone who's been sleeping well for weeks. And you smile at your reflection because you can't help it. Because you're standing in a fairytale forest with leaves in your hair. And it's ridiculous. And wonderful. You notice the dimple. Has that always been there? Has it always been this charming? The magic of this forest is doing something to you. Or maybe it's just showing you. What was always there. But you were too tired to see it. And you keep walking. The path descends now. Gently. And the trees close in overhead again. And you cross a stream on flat stepping stones. Each one smooth. And dark. And placed exactly where your foot needs it. And on the far side, the path opens into a clearing. Moonlight pours in. And there, in the center, is a cottage. Stone walls. A slate roof with moss growing across. A chimney with a thin curl of smoke rising from it. Pink and white roses climbing the front wall. And their scent reaches you from across the clearing. And a blue door. Faded to almost gray. Standing slightly open. A gray cat is stretched across the doorstep. He takes up the entire entrance. He looks at you. And you have the strange urge to say something to it. And the cat looks at you the way cats look at people who are about to talk to a cat. With disdain. And a small amount of pity. And you think better of it. And the cat closes its eyes. Nothing here is afraid of you. Nothing here is afraid of anything. Whatever watches over this clearing decided a long time ago that nothing harmful would find its way through these trees. And every creature here knows it. You step over the cat. The inside of the cottage is one room. The ceiling is low. Made of dark wooden beams with the bark still on them. And from the beams hang bundles of dried herbs and flowers. The walls are the same stone as the outside. Rough. And thick. And whitewashed between the stones. A fireplace takes up most of the far wall. It's built from large flat stones. Blackened with age. And a small fire is burning in it. The light from it moves across the walls in slow, warm shapes that shift and settle. And then there is the bed. The frame is carved dark wood. Four posts rising from each corner. And from those posts a canopy of sheer curtains. The sheets are silk. Heavy, cool, smooth silk. And the blanket is something you could spend an hour looking at. Across its entire surface someone has embroidered flowers. Roses and forget-me-nots. And tiny sprigs of lavender. And the thread that forms the stems and leaves is gold. And on the two nearest pillows embroidered in the same gold thread as the blanket are your initials. You pull back the quilt. And you pull back the sheet. You sit at the edge of the bed and swing your legs up. You lie back. Your head sinks into the pillow and keeps sinking until it finds the perfect depth. You pull the quilt up. The hand-stitched fabric is so soft. And it smells like lavender. And wood smoke. And clean linen dried in the open air and sunshine. The fire is low now. Just embers mostly. Glowing orange and red. The light they throw is dim and warm. And moving in slow waves across the ceiling beams. Through the window. The forest stands. The oaks and the beaches. And the birches. Enormous and still. The moonlight moves through them slowly. And the shadows between them are deep and soft. Nothing moves out there. Nothing needs to. The forest is guarding you. Not with walls or spells or anything dramatic. Just by being what it is. A thousand years of trees growing closer together around this clearing. Their roots tangled beneath the earth. Their branches woven tight above it. Nothing unwanted finds its way through. Nothing unwelcome knows the path. You close your eyes. The pillow holds your head. The quilt holds your body. The mattress holds all of you. The thoughts that were circling an hour ago. The frustration. The restlessness. All of that belonged to a world on the other side of the standing stones. You're breathing. It's slowing. The fire pops once. Softly. And settles further into its embers. Tomorrow, you will wake up in your own bed. You'll open your eyes in your own room. In your own sheets. And the standing stones will be gone from the field. As if they were never there. And you will feel rested. Deeply. Completely rested. The person in the mirror is who you'll be tomorrow. Rested in a way that shows in your face. And in your voice. In the way you move through your day. You decided to listen to this story tonight. I told you it was a fairy tale. And you stayed. You didn't decide you were too old. Or too practical. Or too tired for this. You stayed because somewhere inside of you, there is still a person who believes in magic. Who catches their breath when they see something beautiful. Who talks to the cat when no one else is around. Who still dreams. And if the summer solstice teaches us anything, it's that there is magic everywhere. If you're willing to see it, this is the time of year when the natural world shows off. When it pulls out everything it has. Every flower. Every extra hour of light. Every sunset. And it offers it. To whoever is paying attention. And you deserve to notice these things this summer. Not every minute. Not perfectly. But sometimes. Between the responsibilities. And the appointments. And the chores. And the difficult conversations. You deserve a moment where you stop. And look at something beautiful. And let it matter. When you take a walk that goes nowhere. When you watch the light change. When you swim somewhere cold. Or stay up late with someone you love. Talking about nothing. When you read a book in the middle of the afternoon. Just because you wanted to. These things are not indulgences. They are not luxuries you haven't earned. They are what the long days are for. You are worth that. You are the main character of your own story. Not the supporting cast. Not the person who holds everything together. While everyone else has the adventures. There is never been a braver. More loyal. More deserving hero. Than the one lying in this bed right now. In a cottage. In a fairytale forest. With gold thread on the blanket. And their initials on the pillow. And a cat on the doorstep. Who has no intention of moving. But tonight, this chapter ends with sleep.