Brambles In The Garden: A Sleep Story

Hello and welcome to another sleep story with me.

I'm Francesca but you can call me Fran if you like and I'm so grateful to have you here with me.

I know falling asleep can feel a bit tricky at times so my hope is that this cozy story helps relax your mind and fingers crossed helps you drift off.

This story is inspired by my own back garden.

It's called Brambles in the Garden and that's because this year I've noticed that there are so many gardens that seem to be overgrowing with brambles.

They're really tricky to get rid of once they've established themselves.

They seem to be so hard to actually get rid of for good but we can look at this in a good and a bad way.

While they can be pesky and hard to remove they do offer food for the birds and shelter for little creatures.

While I'm recording this the rain is pouring outside and it feels a perfect time to tell this story.

As you'll hear the story takes place in late autumn and it has just rained.

So without further ado let's dive into a short meditation.

It's very quick.

Just make sure you have enough to drink and get cozy somewhere whether that's your bed or a comfy chair even a spot on the floor.

And let's begin and please know there is no pressure to fall asleep.

Just listen to the story and let your mind wander.

This is the Brambles in the Garden.

Let's start by taking a deep breath in.

Hold it for a moment and let it out.

And again in,

Hold,

And out.

Now take your breathing back to normal and let your mind wander to a little garden in autumn.

The sky is grey with cloud.

There's the smell of damp earth and fallen leaves and wood smoke from somebody's chimney carried by the chilly breeze.

You've got some pruning to do.

You stand at the back door looking out at your garden.

The lawn is still green but covered in brown leaves from the cherry tree that started giving up its leaves a few weeks ago.

The air is cool on your face as you step outside and you can hear water dripping from the gutter after the rain earlier.

You've got a pair of secateurs in one hand and thick gloves tucked under your arm.

The job at hand is trimming back the brambles.

They've grown too far into the flower beds and across the lawn.

It seems like everyone in your street is experiencing this.

Only a couple of days ago you noticed the lady on the corner's rosebush getting overtaken by the thick vines.

The blackberries are finished now.

You picked the last ones a week or two ago.

Some sweet,

Some sharp.

You remember plucking them and eating them straight off the vine with the purple juice staining your fingers.

Now all that's left are just the stems.

Long arching canes with thorns that catch on everything.

You pull the gloves on.

The leather is stiff but it molds to your hands after a moment.

You know better than to do this without gloves.

Some of the bigger thorns even manage to break through the thick leather sometimes.

That first cut is satisfying.

You press the secateurs against a thick stem and hear the crunch as it parts.

The cane falls to the ground.

The cut end smells faintly green,

Though the air still smells mostly of damp leaves and earth.

You work your way along the patch,

Cutting piece by piece.

The brambles cling to each other,

Thorns hooked together,

So each one has to be pulled free very carefully.

The sound is snapping,

Tearing,

Rustling.

Sometimes a cane comes loose suddenly and the dry leaves brush your arms.

The stems are heavier than they look.

When you lift them they're thick with moisture from all the rain.

You toss them onto a pile at the side,

Keeping them clear of the path.

Your neighbour,

Janet,

Appears at the fence.

She's in her 60s,

Always out in her garden.

Tackling the brambles are you?

She calls over.

Yeah,

Finally getting round to it,

You say,

Straightening up.

I should do mine,

She says,

Looking at her own tangle along the back wall.

Though I keep telling myself they're good for the birds.

They are,

You agree.

I saw a blackbird in there yesterday.

Every time you mention blackbirds,

You think back to a few years ago,

When your cherry tree started sprouting out of where the thick hedge grows.

You mentioned it to someone,

Who said it was probably nesting blackbirds that had dropped a cherry stone,

And then of course the rest was history.

Still,

They do take over,

Don't they?

She watches you work for a moment,

Then says,

I've got the kettle on if you want a cup after.

I might take you up on that,

You say.

She goes back inside,

And you return to the brambles.

As you work,

You notice details.

A few dried blackberries still cling to the higher stems,

Those ones that you can't quite reach,

And they're shriveled and dark.

At the base,

There's a nest of dry leaves where something small has been through,

Maybe a hedgehog.

You're careful not to disturb it too much,

Just in case.

The brambles are a nuisance,

But they're not all bad.

In summer,

The flowers were covered in bees.

You'd see butterflies landing on them,

Opening and closing their wings slowly.

Later,

The berries fed the blackbirds and thrushes that came in from the hedge.

Even now,

The brambles shelter the wrens and robins.

But left alone,

They take over the whole garden.

So you keep cutting,

Pulling,

Stacking.

There's a rhythm to it.

Your breath makes small clouds in the air.

Your body warms up with effort.

Every so often,

You pause and listen.

Somewhere down the lane,

A dog barks.

A wood pigeon leaves the cherry tree with a clatter of wings.

Otherwise,

It's just the wind in the hedge.

Your partner opens the back door and leans out.

How's it going?

Nearly there,

You say.

You want a hand?

I'm all right,

Nearly done now.

They nod.

Don't forget we've got those bulbs to plant.

I know,

I was thinking I'd put them here once this is cleared.

Daffodils?

Yeah.

They go back inside and de-finish the last few stems.

When you're done,

There's a clear patch where the brambles were.

The soil looks raw and disturbed,

But it'll settle.

The pile of cut stems looks almost like a wall.

Thorns tangled together,

Waiting to go to the compost heap.

You peel off your gloves.

Your hands are a bit sore.

There are red scratches on your wrists where thorns got past the leather.

You can smell damp soil on your clothes and a faint sweetness from the cut stems.

You remember your grandmother doing this same job when you were younger.

She'd spend a whole afternoons out in her own unusual circular-shaped garden that you loved so much.

She was methodical,

Working through the borders one by one.

Her hands,

Veined and spotted with age,

Would grip the secateurs firmly.

Stubborn things,

She'd mutter,

But she never got rid of them completely.

They'll be back next year,

She'd say with a slight smile.

Always are.

She was right.

They will be back.

And when they are,

They'll bring flowers and berries again.

And work.

Back inside,

You set the gloves and secateurs by the door.

Through the window,

You look at the garden once more.

It looks tidier,

Though you know the brambles will return.

They always do.

There's something balanced about that.

The work and the reward.

The nuisance and the fruit.

All in the same plant.

You think about going next door for that cup of tea.

But first,

You wash your hands at the kitchen sink.

The water runs brown at first,

Then clear.

Your hands are cold from being outside.

The warm water feels good.

You dry your hands and look at the clock.

Nearly four.

The light will start going soon.

You pull on a clean jumper and head out the front door.

Walking the few steps to Janet's gate.

The path is wet and there are leaves stuck to it.

You can smell more wood smoke now,

Probably from a few gardens down.

Janet answers before you finish knocking.

Come in,

Come in,

Tea's ready.

Her kitchen is warm.

There's condensation on the windows and the radio is on low.

Some programme about gardening.

She pours from a pot that's been sat under a cozy.

The tea dark and strong.

Milk,

Please.

She hands you the mug and you wrap both hands around it.

The heat seeps into your fingers,

Which are still cold from being outside.

Sit down,

She says,

Gesturing to the table.

You sit.

The chair is old and wooden and creaks slightly.

Janet sits across from you with her own mug.

There's a plate of biscuits between you.

Digestives,

Plain ones.

Get it all done then,

She asks.

Yeah,

Took longer than I thought.

It always does.

She dunks a biscuit in her tea.

I'll have to do mine before the frost comes,

Though I keep putting it off.

They're not going anywhere,

You say.

She laughs at that.

No,

They're certainly not.

You sit in comfortable quiet for a moment.

The radio murmurs in the background.

Outside the window,

You can see her garden,

Which is tidier than yours but still has that same tangle of brambles at the back.

Janet talks a bit about her son who's supposed to visit next week and about the frost that's forecast for later in the week.

You half listen,

Half watch the light starting to fade outside.

The garden is going grey.

A blackbird lands on her fence,

Looks around and flies off.

The mug is warm in your hands.

Your body feels tired now,

The good kind of tired from being outside and doing something physical.

Your shoulders are a bit stiff.

Your fingers are warming up slowly.

After a while,

You finish the tea and stand up.

Thanks for that.

Any time,

Said Janet,

You know where I am.

You walk back to your house.

The garden looks different in the fading light.

The pile of brambles is just a dark shape now.

The cleared patch of soil has disappeared into shadow.

Inside,

It's warm.

You close the door behind you and stand for a moment in the quiet.

The day feels complete somehow.

The work done,

The tea drunk,

The light going.

You think about the bulbs you'll plant tomorrow or the day after.

Daffodils.

They'll come up in spring,

Yellow and bright in the space where the brambles were.

But that's for tomorrow.

For now,

You're just warm and tired and ready to settle in for the evening.

The garden is done.

The brambles are cut back and outside,

The light is nearly gone.

Sweet dreams.