Invite a little magic into your bedtime routine with tonight's sleep story,
The Pajama Ball at the Castle.
Leave your current reality behind as you arrive at an alluring castle nestled beneath jagged,
Snow-capped mountains where the gardens are in their fullest,
Most extravagant spring bloom.
You have been invited to an extraordinary gathering,
A legendary gala where the dress coat is your finest sleepwear and the evening's only agenda is wonder and rest.
As you wander beneath the cherry blossoms and through magnolia groves in a night of uncanny warmth,
You'll discover the castle's ancient lore.
Sip dreamy botanical tonics and drift amongst the sweetest of companions adorned in blossom wreaths.
When the time comes,
You will settle into an oversized floating lotus and glide along the moonlit moat as pink petals fall like warm snow around you and the mountain peaks shimmer in the still dark reflections.
So find a place to get cozy and relax as you drift along the soft edges between wakefulness and slumber.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle,
Your sleepy guide on this journey.
I hope as you listen,
You think of my voice as the voice of a long-time trusted friend,
Reminding you that you deserve to take it easy at the end of the day.
Personally,
I love nothing more than a festive gathering,
So when a request for a spring castle ball came in,
I found myself imagining it through a softer,
More comforting lens.
As I've gotten older,
My days of heels and corsets feels far less appealing than venturing into the night in silk pajamas.
I suppose this story was born from the idea that the most magnificent celebration imaginable asks nothing of you that you aren't already longing to give.
Before we step through the castle gates,
Let's settle in and allow the essence of spring to find you.
Open your mouth and sigh,
Releasing whatever still lingers from the hours behind you.
Let everything drift like petals into the air around you,
Carried off on the spring breeze.
5.
Feel the crown of your head soften,
As though a single cherry blossom has drifted down from a great height and come to rest there.
Weightless,
Cool,
Impossibly gentle.
That softness travels now,
Petal by petal,
Down the back of your skull to long your neck,
Each vertebra releasing one by one,
Finding support in a soft place to land.
Your back muscles melt in this invitation of softness.
4.
Draw in a slow breath of spring mountain air,
Scents of a recently thawed stream,
And something floral and green,
Something that has been sleeping all winter and is only now beginning to open.
5.
Your shoulders drop as you exhale in a sigh,
An easing so complete it almost surprises you.
3.
Inhale again and feel the softness of spring itself settling into your chest.
4.
A magnolia blossoms in its own time,
Unhurried and answering a natural rhythm.
Lean into your graceful drift right now,
Without expectations.
5.
As your arms grow warm and still,
Your hands uncurl,
The space between your fingers widens as your palms turn open,
Ready to receive.
2.
As you inhale and sigh once more,
Sense the deep security of the castle's stone walls sheltering you,
And in this safety,
Your lower back sinks,
Your hips soften,
And the earth accepts the full weight of you.
1.
As your breath returns to a natural tempo,
Though deeper than before,
Welcome a calming wave of energy from the ground of your head to the soles of your feet.
And your open palms.
It soothes you,
Softening your body so your imagination may take over as you fully immerse yourself in the world of the midnight bloom pajama ball.
2.
Amethyst Castle has stood at the foot of jagged mountains,
Nestled in the verdant,
Rolling lowlands for longer than its oldest records can account for.
3.
Its pale stone walls seem to rise from the earth,
As no matter the light of day,
Sunset,
Or nightfall,
They always take on a shade of purple.
Lavender mornings give way to lilac afternoons and violet evenings.
The cherry orchards that circle its grounds were planted by the castle's first keepers,
Who believed that beauty was a form of welcome.
The magnolia trees that line the inner courtyard have been blooming every spring without interruption for 200 years.
Amethyst Castle has always carried a certain feminine softness,
One that seems to settle gentle over its ancient stone foundation.
4.
And for nearly as long as the magnolias have bloomed,
It has hosted an annual pajama ball.
The gathering began,
As the best traditions do,
With a simple and generous idea from Princess Eugenia.
She was a plucky young visionary,
Often left alone in the castle with its staff for long stretches of time.
In an effort to soothe her loneliness,
She began hosting gatherings,
And noticed guests often arriving from long journeys.
Some on horseback through mountain passes,
Some by river along slow,
Winding routes,
Some on foot through forest paths.
And that what each of them needed most upon arriving was not grandeur,
But rest.
It was certainly a more modest time,
And not all the villagers were so keen about the pajama ball,
But it was such a charming and innocent affair that it continued despite the gossip.
Held in the gardens,
Rather than the ornate and austere ballroom,
Guests would arrive in their traveling nightclothes,
While the castle's keepers passed cups of warm,
Spiced milk between the blossoming trees.
There was no music that first night,
Only the wind moving through cherry blossoms.
It was,
By all accounts,
The most peaceful gathering the castle had ever known,
And it has returned every spring since.
The castle has 100 rooms and suites,
And tonight,
Every one of them is occupied.
Fellow dreamers have traveled from every corner of the world to be here,
And in suites along the eastern and western wings,
They are resting.
Napping has always been part of the itinerary,
Even before the term disco nap was ever coined.
At the midnight hour,
The castle doors open into the gardens and the procession begins.
There's something about awakening in the night that seems to deepen the dreamlike quality of the affair.
You rest first,
And then you celebrate,
And the celebrating is itself a form of rest.
The honeysuckle suite on the third floor of the eastern wing is yours,
And you know it the moment you step inside.
The way that a place so far away from home feels familiar and safe.
The ceilings arch high overhead,
Their plasterwork carved with boughs of tiny honeysuckle blossoms captured in eternal bloom.
The room smells of freshly cut logs for the fire,
Beeswax candles,
And of course,
Honeysuckle.
Beyond the mullioned windows,
The snow-capped mountains rise against the starry indigo sky,
Framing the land like a protective gate.
Below,
Cherry blossoms encircle the castle grounds in tufts of white and the palest,
Most tender pink.
On the low table between the armchairs by the window,
A tray has been left by the castle's keepers.
A tall ceramic cup with steam rising in slow spirals,
And a small card in copper script that reads,
Lavender and Turmeric,
With a whisper of honey and cardamom.
Having risen from a nap,
You settle into the armchair nearest the fire,
And the cup when you wrap both your hands around it.
It's the precise temperature of comfort,
Warming your palms,
Your chest,
And somewhere deeper still as you take the first slow sip.
Freshly laundered pajamas drape over a puffy silk hanger that dangles from an antique armoire painted with honeysuckle vines.
They are the finest silk,
Cool and liquid against your fingertips when you lift the sleeve,
The kind of fabric that mirrors the silky softness of a running stream.
The color suits you,
Bringing a sense of ease and comfort,
While also gently complimenting your features.
Out of habit,
You bring the fabric to your nose,
Catching a hint of lavender from the satchels of dried petals it was stored with.
Many of tonight's pajamas are rendered in shades of mountain rivers breaking free of winter ice.
The creams and deep pinks of blushing magnolias and the softest coral.
Each one is made with the care of something truly loved.
The pajamas have not always been silk,
And the history of what guests have worn to this ball is told in paintings and photographs that hang in the castle's main hall.
In the earliest years,
Guests arrived wrapped in hand-loomed wool,
Heavy,
Warm,
And dyed in the deep colors of the surrounding forest.
The castle's seamstresses stitched protective runes along the hems,
Small spiraling symbols meant to invite good dreams and turn away restless ones.
These garments were treated with great seriousness.
The armor of the night,
The wool heavy enough to feel like an embrace,
Held the sleeper through the night.
Then came the Victorian era,
Which softened everything.
Velvet and lace replaced wool,
Appearing at every cuff and collar.
Smoking jackets arrived in deep plum and midnight navy.
Their lapels embroidered with climbing ivy.
While women's robes trailed long and luminous,
Sleeves cuffed in ivory.
Even children wore miniature versions,
Solemn and a little wonderful,
Buttons fastened all the way to the chin.
But then at last came silk,
And silk has remained.
Because some discoveries are so perfectly suited to their purpose,
That nothing that follows will improve upon them.
The castle's clocks begin their midnight song.
Low,
Dulcet tones rising through the stone like a monastic song.
From the corridor beyond the door comes the first soft patter of footsteps,
As the procession begins.
The grand staircase spirals down through the castle's center in white marble,
Lit from below by hundreds of silk lanterns strung between carved stone banisters.
In gold,
Cream,
And pale pink,
Swaying softly in the warm air,
Rising from the gardens,
The other guests descend in their silks,
A slow,
Quiet river of dreamers.
Unhurried,
Murmuring in gentle tones,
As though they've arrived somewhere they've long been waiting for.
The procession moves through the grand hall,
Past oil paintings,
The formal Victorian balls,
And the playful flapper gatherings of the roaring twenties.
And then,
Just before they open French doors,
Three baby goats appear.
Small,
Cream-colored,
Each wearing a wreath of woven cherry blossoms,
As though they are the hosts of the gathering.
Their soft bleats weave through the crowd as they meander across the marble,
Pausing to press velvet noses into outstretched hands and investigate the hems of trailing robes.
A little girl in powder pink crouches to meet one,
And the baby goat studies her with great seriousness,
Before resting its forehead gently against her knee and closing its eyes,
As if deciding she is safe.
The goats drift through the procession,
Like small,
Cheerful chaperones,
Guiding everyone out into the night.
And as you step outside,
The air shifts,
Defying the snow-capped peaks,
And meeting you instead with the softness of a May afternoon,
Or a sun-warmed window seat,
Or a kitchen where bread has just finished baking.
The cherry blossoms are at their peak,
Their branches arch overhead,
And a soft rustling cathedral.
Blossoms so dense,
They soften the sounds of the night.
Petals drift constantly on the air,
Landing on shoulders,
Faces,
Silk sleeves,
And even the goats,
Who do not seem to notice at all.
A keeper passes with a tray of sparkling botanical tonic.
A pale rose with suspended edible flowers.
You take a glass flute.
The drink tastes of elderflower and rose,
A whisper of orange.
The bubbles landing on your tongue like tiny celebrations.
And for a moment,
You simply stand there,
Letting the night hold you as you take in the beauty of the season.
Music drifts from the gazebo,
A familiar modern tune,
Slowed and softened into something elegant.
The low cello is soon answered by Bramble,
The castle sheepdog whose bark is more playful than piercing.
He moves through the garden like a slow,
Lumbering white cloud,
Gently herding guests and goats alike.
Bramble has always been this way,
Steady,
Grounding.
He finds those who need comfort and simply stands beside them,
Leaning his weight in until their breathing changes.
He greets each guest in turn,
Accepting their hands with quiet patience.
His tail sweeping slowly behind him.
When he reaches you,
He presses his nose into your palm and looks up with calm,
Amber eyes.
He rests your hand against the warm silk of his ears.
And for a moment,
Everything moves around you.
In a soft,
Easy rhythm,
Two lambs follow at a slight distance.
Their steps tentative,
Each one a small act of trust.
A woman in a rose gold robe kneels to greet them and they explore her hands with soft tongues while she laughs.
Her friend dressed in aquamarine joining in beside her.
They take turns,
Holding the gentle weight of these newly born lambs.
Further through the orchard,
Garden stations unfold.
Guests paint night-blooming flowers or capture them on film.
At the pressing tables,
Heavy parchment and wood presses wait.
You choose a magnolia,
Lay it down and close the press.
Wood meeting wood in a quiet,
Lasting sound.
It will be waiting tomorrow,
Flattened and preserved,
A small memento of the night.
At the copper fire pit,
Lavender and sandalwood feed a slow,
Steady flame,
Sending trails of smoke through the orchard.
You warm your hands there,
Breathing in as a keeper offers a small cup of evening tonic.
Rose,
Ashwagandha,
And honey,
With a single violet floating on top.
You drink it slowly,
Feeling warmth spread through you.
Across the fire pit,
Guests speak in low voices about a dream one of them had,
Leaning in with quiet attention.
Nearby,
One of the goats sits very still between them,
Its wreath slightly askew,
Gently falling asleep to their tales.
You move on to the blossom swings,
Great silk rope swings,
Hung from the oldest,
Strongest oak branches that are wrapped in twinkling fairy lights.
Their seeds are wide and cushioned in lush mauve velvet.
You settle into a swing and softly propel yourself forward into the orchard,
Where lanterns glow between the branches.
As you rise higher,
The shimmer of the moat becomes visible at the garden's far edge.
You move slowly,
Going forward and back,
The fragrant breeze kissing your cheeks,
Massaging your scalp.
Blossoms fall,
The mountains stand reverent,
Lavender smoke drifts through the trees,
And somewhere in the direction of the moat,
A different song begins,
Like a conversation between a harp and the spring wind.
It calls you eventually,
That music,
And the way the moat catches the moonlight,
A long silver rose gleam through the tufts of blossoming petals.
You drift toward it,
And when the trees open onto the water's edge,
You pause for a moment,
Simply to take in this timeless scene.
The moat encircles the castle in a wide,
Still ribbon,
Transformed to night.
Stone lanterns along both banks cast soft pink light onto the surface of the water.
Tiny blossoms that have been falling all evening now rest in constellations of pale pink and cream.
Floral garland canoes are tethered along the near bank.
Lily pad rafts drift nearby,
Their cushions deep green and lined with a plush fabric.
On one of them,
A pair of guests reclines side by side,
Their faces turned toward the mountains and lit by the ethereal moonlight.
A half dozen lotus-shaped vessels wait quietly along the bank.
A keeper offers a steady arm,
And you step into a vessel of your choice,
To join the others languidly drifting on the water.
Bramble settles at the moat's edge,
And the guests drift gently out into the night.
The vessel glides,
The moat seems to know its own course,
Carrying you in a slow,
Wide arc along the castle walls.
Above you,
The battlements rise ancient and moss-draped,
Their torches reflected in the water below.
And as you float,
The petals fall like warm snow onto the surface of the moat,
Onto your silk pajamas,
And into your open hands,
Ready to receive them.
The vessel completes its slow,
Gracious circle,
And the keeper brings you back in to a docking point at the base of an ivy-clad tower.
Wisteria hangs thick over the entrance,
Forming a perfumed curtain,
The blossoms releasing their scent as you part them and step through into the castle's quiet interior.
The hallways at this hour are deep golden and hushed,
The torches burned low,
The long taper candles approaching the brass of the candelabras.
One by one,
The guests return to their suites.
The peace of spring is settling into your bones with each step as you ascend the stairs to your floor,
Feeling as though you are floating across the marble.
Your suite is as you left it,
Except warmer now and transformed in the small ways that matter most.
The bath has been drawn,
It steams softly in a tiled room.
Rose petals scatter its surface,
As well as a long handful of dried lavender.
Two beeswax candles burn on the wide stone edge of the tub.
You settle into the healing waters,
The memories of mere moments ago are beginning to feel like a recent dream as you surrender to the silence of this space.
The bath offers permission to be finished with the effort of thinking,
Permission to be warm and held and beautifully,
Completely still.
As sleepiness arrives,
Soft and delicate at first,
Then heady and heavy you rise and towel off and change back into your pajamas.
You slowly move toward the bed,
Where the duvet has been turned back to reveal the cool,
Crisp interior of the linens.
White as magnolia,
You slide between them gradually and gratefully.
Your whole body extends into the enormous and welcoming space.
You peer out the windows at night once more,
Then press a button and the thick velvet drapes are closed.
You place the silk eye mask on your tired eyes.
The last sound is the gentle wind moving through the cherry blossoms in the garden below your window.
The softest possible hush as the world outside encourages you to drift to sleep.
And you are still floating,
So light,
So fulfilled,
So carefree,
Until you arrive at the soft,
Ethereal edges of slumber.
Finding serenity.
Finding bliss.
Finding comfort.
It's time to dream away.
