The Dream Weaver's Cottage,
A Dreamspace bedtime story,
Read by Ashley Lord.
As you nestle into your bed,
Getting really comfortable,
Taking a deeper breath in,
Letting it go,
Softening your jaw and all of the muscles of the face as you breathe,
Letting your belly relax,
Letting all the stresses of the day just melt away.
As you listen to my voice,
As you listen to this story,
Somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming,
At the edge of the world,
Just past the last thread of thought,
There stands a small cottage,
Not grand,
Not known,
But waiting quietly for you.
They call it the Dream Weaver's Cottage,
And tonight as you slip into the folds of rest,
You'll find your way there.
Not by map,
Not by searching,
Only by softening,
Only by letting go,
By closing your eyes as your mind grows quiet,
Letting the room around you fade.
In your imagination,
You are walking down a narrow winding path,
Woven with ivy and wild time,
The air is cool,
Kissed by the night.
You can feel the hush of the stars above,
Their silver light dusting the tops of the trees like frost.
With each step,
Your thoughts grow slower,
Your body lighter,
Until all that's left is your breath,
Gently guiding you forward,
Into sleep.
And then,
Through the trees,
You see it,
A warm glow,
A soft light pouring through crooked windows,
A chimney whispering curls of smoke into the midnight sky.
The cottage is made of stone and wood,
Twisted with vines that bloom under moonlight.
Its roof is mossy and round,
Its door slightly ajar,
As if it's been expecting you.
You step inside,
The scent of chamomile and honey fills the air,
Lanterns flicker gently along the walls.
The floors are made of ancient wood,
Creaking softly beneath your feet,
Singing a song of memory and welcoming you.
The dream weaver is here.
You don't see her yet,
But her presence is everywhere,
In the hum of the air,
In the warmth that wraps around your shoulders,
Like a shawl spun from starlight.
You take it in.
A fireplace crackles low,
Throwing golden light onto tapestries woven with images of dreams,
A whale swimming through the sky,
A field of glowing flowers,
A bunny in a teacup floating down a ribbon of river water.
Each one,
A dream,
Like something you've seen in sleep,
Or maybe before you were born.
At the center of the room,
There's a loom,
Large,
Worn,
Beautiful,
Strung with threads that shimmer silver,
Rose gold,
Midnight blue,
Lavender haze,
They move ever so slightly,
As if breathing.
This is where the dream weaver works.
She weaves not cloth,
But possibility,
Not patterns,
But peace.
She weaves peace.
You take a seat near the fire.
There's a cup waiting for you,
Steaming with something warm and sweet.
It tastes like moon milk,
Soft spices,
Honey,
Lavender,
A touch of vanilla.
It soothes you instantly.
The dream weaver enters now.
You feel her more than see her.
Tall,
Gentle,
Radiant.
She doesn't speak,
But you understand.
She walks to the loom,
And it begins to weave.
Each thread she pulls is a part of you,
A breath,
A moment,
A memory.
The quiet joy of holding someone's hand,
The laughter from childhood,
The wish she whispered into a pillow last winter.
She weaves them all together,
With care,
With reverence.
There's no judgment,
No rush,
Only love in her fingers,
Only stillness in this space.
And you,
You begin to soften even more,
To settle.
Gently resting,
Feel the rhythm of the loom.
It sways,
The gentle pull,
The pause,
The slide,
The softness.
It matches your frequency,
It tells your nervous system you are safe.
Let these words become a lullaby in your chest,
In your body,
In your peaceful being.
I am safe to receive.
I am safe to let go.
I am safe to dream.
As you sit by the fire,
You notice shelves filled with glowing jars.
Each one contains a dream waiting to be woven,
A velvety forest,
A floating library of light in the clouds,
A warm home of music,
A mirror that reflects your truest self.
The dream weaver nods towards them,
As if to say,
Choose when you're ready,
But for now,
You simply rest,
Eyes heavy,
Heart open,
Body resting,
Body breathing,
Soft bed.
She continues to weave,
Every thread a soft surrender,
Every knot a closing of a loop long left open,
Every pass on the loom a whisper,
You are already whole,
You are peaceful,
You are dreaming,
The fire begins to dim,
The threads grow brighter,
Glow softer,
And the dream weaver pauses,
She lays down her hands,
Smiles with her eyes,
And gently places the woven dream beside you,
A blanket of everything you've been,
Everything you've loved,
Everything you are ready to receive.
She wraps it around you,
It is warm,
It is weightless,
It is yours.
Now you lie down still in the cottage,
But already somewhere deeper,
Drifting into the dream she's made for you,
You feel yourself becoming mist,
Becoming moonlight,
Becoming sleep,
And just before you drift fully,
You hear her voice in the distance,
Not with words,
But with knowing,
Come back anytime,
The dreams are always waiting,
And so you float through the cottage door,
Into the stars,
Into your own dream,
Wrapped in the magic only sleep and love can bring.
Drifting,
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