As you escape into the beautiful embrace of a sleep routine,
Let us travel through space and time to a rainy New England shore in the mid-20th century.
You're listening to Rainy Eve at the Seaside Bookshop.
Nestled along the rocky coastline,
The Atlantic Bookshop has drawn the most beloved creative minds for decades.
Their energy permeates the dimly lit aisles where you now find yourself.
Raindrops stream down the glass and the stormy surf crashes against the wharf.
In the honeyed glow of a fire,
You prepare to fall into a deep restorative sleep.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I am Michelle,
Your guide to sleepy adventures.
I meet you here on the edge of sleep to help you shut out the noise of the world.
You deserve to prioritize this rest.
At any point,
You may allow my voice to fade as you drift into the sanctuary of your mind.
Wiggle and get comfy,
Finding stillness when you are ready.
Imagine the air in your room transforming.
A salty mist fills the senses.
The distant sound of crashing waves begins to pulse like a slow heartbeat.
To settle into this haven,
We will take five deep,
Rhythmic breaths together.
Five.
Inhale the cool ocean air and as you exhale in a sigh,
Feel your scalp and face soften like mist settling over the dunes.
The muscles of your jaw soften like warm candle wax.
Four.
Inhale the scent of a rain-slick wharf and old books.
As you exhale in a sigh,
Your shoulders drop away from your ears,
Heavy and relaxed like smooth granite rocks falling on the sandy floor of the Atlantic.
Three.
Inhale deeply,
Feeling your chest expand and as you exhale,
That relaxation flows down your arms to your fingertips.
Your hands grow still but feel as light as boats rising and falling with the tide as they are moored in a quiet harbor.
Two.
Inhale the rhythm of the rising ocean that laps against the shore and as you exhale in a sigh,
Feel your hips and legs sink into whatever supports you.
They are grounded,
Heavy,
And truly safe to let go.
Enjoy one last round of conscious breathing and when you exhale in a sigh,
Let go of the day entirely.
As your toes soften from the crown of your head all the way down to the soles of your feet,
Your whole being is now a vessel for peace.
The scent of salt water and rain permeates the air.
Your chest rises and falls as naturally as the Atlantic on its calmest day.
You travel to the early 1960s,
A time when fishing villages thrived and a sense of community made even a stranger feel at home.
Your squeaky new banana yellow rain boots land on the rocky shore of a peninsula in New England.
Steps lead to the edge of a sea wharf where the Atlantic bookshop has stood since the Victorian era.
It is a beacon of creativity and has served as a parlor and retreat for the greatest literary minds.
You take a few moments to enjoy the misty air of the pebbled beach.
The sky is a deep otherworldly purple with storm clouds and their dark gray underbellies hinting at the incoming storm.
You see a sky-blue station wagon parked near the dunes.
A mother watching her young children dart away from the white cabs.
They wear scarlet plaid wool jackets and tan leather saddle shoes.
Their laughter is muffled by the wind.
The offseason has at last arrived.
The frantic energy of summer vacationers has faded,
Replaced by the pure amplified soundtrack of nature.
You walk around a granite wall carved by the sea and stretch your limbs.
The wind takes on a sharp,
Cool edge.
You start your ascent up a winding stone staircase carved into the rock.
The rain begins to patter softly on your rain slicker.
A rhythmic,
Percussive against the railing where weathered black paint flakes away and the drops create a bell-like ting.
At the top of the stairs,
Sunflowers bow their heavy heads to the wind.
A few dozen steps ahead is the entrance to the bookshop.
Its windows glow with a warm,
Golden invitation.
The light reflecting off the cobblestones.
On these sleepy weekdays,
The shop closes at 5.
You have been entrusted with the keys while the shopkeeper,
Alfie,
Travels to Boston.
The brass bell rings as you step inside.
The air wraps around you in warm,
Dry tendrils,
Smelling of old paper,
Leather,
And fresh cinnamon sticks.
Alfie,
In his navy slicker,
Hands you a heavy ring of keys.
He whispers that on nights like this,
The characters in these books tend to weave their way into one's dreams.
You watch him disappear into the blue-gray shadows of the street lamps,
Leaving you in a total blissful silence before the symphony of the rain and sea.
The shop is a labyrinth of towering mahogany shelves dating back to the 1880s.
You run your fingers along the polished wood,
Feeling the intricate carved scrolls that mimic the waves.
The bare spaces on the wall are adorned with posters of the most beloved literary classics,
Some signed by the authors themselves.
You explore the narrow passages,
Your footsteps muffled by the weight of history.
At the end of a row of classics,
You find a small table with the latest bestsellers of the era.
You select a volume that calls to you,
Its weight comforting in your hand.
The warm,
Dry air causes you to yawn again.
And outside,
The rain has intensified,
Drumming a steady hypnotic beat upon the dozens of antique window panes.
You move to the back parlor,
A space where the air is thick with inspiration.
Cobalt blue and ruby red hurricane lamps cast a mesmerizing display of jewel tones and shadows across a brown rug.
You settle into an overstuffed club chair by a bay window.
Across the water,
A lighthouse cuts through the incoming fog with a slow rotating beam of white gold light.
You open the book,
Running your fingers across the smooth paper,
But the words begin to blur.
The crackle of the fireplace and the song of the rain do the very best to remind you that you are safe.
Your eyes grow heavy.
Suddenly,
It's so easy to let down your guard and with this comes a drowsiness.
The fog rolls in,
Gripping the coastline of the peninsula in a silver blanket.
You close the book and rise slowly,
Your body feeling heavy and loose.
You feel the subtle rocking of the warp and the vibrations from the rain as it patters on the bookshop.
Ready to retire early,
You find a secret door to the winding stairs that lead to the apartment above.
One by one,
You climb the dimly lit steps.
Once inside the apartment,
You walk into the main room where a gray tabby cat named Homer is stretched out on a velvet pillow.
He lets out a wide pink mouthed yawn.
You cannot help but follow suit.
The apartment is lofty and pine paneled,
Glowing in the amber light of a wood stove.
You add a few pieces of wood to the fire and then move to the kitchen to feed Homer,
The sound of his purring following behind.
Waves of appreciation flow through your body at the chance to have this unique stay at the Atlantic Bookshop and its cozy apartment above.
You move your way through the apartment,
Preparing yourself for sleep,
A shower or a bath.
Some time journaling by the wood stove until the tiredness becomes so much and a satiated Homer rubs against your legs with an invitation to go to sleep.
You make your way into the guest bedroom.
It has a nautical theme and celebrates the great literary masterpieces as well.
In overflowing bookshelves and paintings that depict some of the most iconic scenes from stories at sea.
You pull back the heavy quilt to find the sheets are cool and crisp.
You settle beneath the heavy patchwork quilt,
Sinking into the mattress as the springs give a soft,
Familiar squeak.
Homer curls at the foot of the bed,
A warm purring weight against your feet.
As your eyes close,
The boundaries between the shop and your dreams begin to dissolve.
The rain and the ocean remind you how easy it is to surrender and to drift.
The scent of salt and of burning wood remain as you welcome the deep,
Eternal peace of the sea to find its way into your dreams.
Giving in to the beauty of this cozy,
Rainy night.
Finding serenity,
Finding enchantment,
Finding peace.
It's time to dream away.
