Fall asleep fast with this bewitching autumn bedtime story for grown-ups.
You are listening to The September Inn,
A dreamy escape to a wind-swept New England coast.
At the most brilliant,
Golden time of year,
Imagine a sprawling three-story storybook inn perched high above the Atlantic.
Surrounded by forests turning amber,
Copper,
Crimson and gold.
Where gardens spill over with pumpkins,
Gourds,
And late-season dahlias.
Inside,
Candlelight glows against old wood.
Fire crackles beneath high ceilings and the scent of wood smoke and apple spice lingers in the air.
Find autumn in everything from the changing leaves and shifting light to the coolness gathering along the coast.
Fall is a beautiful and necessary reminder.
Change can be something to welcome.
Something that carries its own kind of magic.
So come away for a while.
Let the season change around you.
Let yourself change with it as you fall asleep.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle and as you listen.
.
.
I hope you'll think of my voice as a compassionate friend.
Here to remind you of your own imaginative powers.
This is your journey,
So change whatever detail suits you or simply lean into my words as you celebrate making it through another day.
And sleep may come whenever it comes.
Let go of the weight of the world and the weight of your day.
Settle into the sanctuary of your room and mind.
Notice a sudden change in the air.
The sharp dry coolness of autumn circulates around you.
Release a long sigh as you exhale.
Casting off anything that would dare take away from the enchantment of your bedtime routine.
Draw the cool night air through your nose.
Deep into your belly.
And open your mouth in the kind of yawn that says,
I don't have a single care right now.
And then sigh.
Finding the right breath that works for you now as I count us down.
Bye.
Bring your awareness to the top of your head.
Your brows,
Your eyes,
And your jaw.
Imagine cool coastal air moving across your face.
Carrying the scent of autumn leaves.
For your neck,
Your shoulders,
Your arms,
Your hands.
Feel them unspool.
Imagine brushing your palms through rosemary and sage.
Past pumpkins ripening on the vine.
Your hands grow heavy and still.
Three,
Now relax your chest,
Your ribs,
Your belly.
Breathe in apple spice,
Pumpkin,
And a thread of wood smoke.
Feel the warmth settle deep within you.
Too.
Relax your hips,
Your legs,
Your feet.
Imagine cool earth beneath you.
As autumn invites a slowing down.
When.
Your whole body finds comfort.
Support it Say.
Feel yourself sinking into the warmth beneath you while cool coastal air rolls in and you journey to New England.
The September Inn wasn't always an inn,
Though it's whimsy and charm.
We're always destined to be shared.
And how lucky one is to come visit this storied town on the ideal fall day.
Autumn arrives early here,
With the hillsides turning into a jewel-toned canopy as cool nights begin to whisper through the trees.
As early as August.
It's not all that unusual to even experience a first frost in summer,
But it's the perfect weather for getting cozy.
And sleeping.
The driver,
Hal,
Knows this road better than any map does.
A local who has driven these winding coastal roads for over 40 years.
Stone walls tumble along the shoulder with farm stands stacked with squash.
The hillsides are a mosaic of gold and rust and a fiery red so bright.
It looks lit from behind.
The weather is cool and blustery.
The sky a soft moving elephant gray.
The clouds bring the perfect contrast to the rich landscape around you.
The Atlantic takes on the sky's moody gray,
Stretching out beneath the cliffs,
Throwing itself against the glistening black rocks with lacy white caps.
Go as far as the eye can see.
The ocean breeze cuts through the autumn trees.
And every leaf turns at once.
Thousand small flashes of copper.
Like pennies in a fountain.
And then sunlight cracks the cloud cover.
Spills across the water in a beam of orange gold.
As the car winds around a long narrow driveway.
And brings you to the September Inn.
Three stories high.
Perched above the sea on an emerald hill.
The inn is old and sprawling.
With so many intricate details.
You could lie on the lawn all afternoon.
Never catch them all.
Verandas wrap its lower floors.
Deep in shadow.
Juliet balconies hang from the second story with lattices like ivory lace.
Tall windows catch the moving sky.
And double its beauty in their reflections.
The widow's walk crowns the whole house built for watching the sea.
For hopeful dreamers beneath the stars.
Gardens cascade down the slope around it in tiers and terraces.
The clapboard is the color of old cream The shutters are painted a periwinkle gray.
And the chimneys are brick and crooked and numerous.
Only one releases a spiraling ribbon of smoke in the gray sky.
Have you asked a child or an adult?
Close their eyes to imagine a magical New England home along the coast.
This just might be the house they see.
You step out onto the gravel driveway as the driver hands you your bags.
And feel it crunch beneath your comfortable shoes.
The cool salty breeze comes off the water.
And kisses your lips.
Leaving a taste of salt.
You pause for a moment.
Taking it all in.
As your driver says goodbye,
It returns down the long drive.
You are not the first person to fall in love with this house from exactly this spot.
The Owner September can be heard singing along to dancing in the moonlight.
She kneels in the dirt between two enormous pumpkins.
The garden alongside the patio.
A plump,
Long-haired white cat named Twyleth sunbathes in the grass.
While her miniature dachshund Esperanza observes her every move from the edge of the garden gate.
Dressed in faded blue denim overalls rolled at the ankle.
With one suspender left to dangle.
She has a youthfulness.
Makes her age hard to place.
Her ensemble includes old gardening boots.
And a cardigan the color of a bowl of cherries.
Pushed up over her elbows.
Her hair is long and wild,
Streaks and bands of silver through black.
Surrendering to the wind.
Her hands are dark with soil to the wrist.
She doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.
She stands when she sees you.
She is all spark.
Bright-eyed with a bohemian ease in the way she wears her rings,
Her scarves,
Her life.
Silver bangles on one wrist,
Turquoise beads at her throat.
And when she pulls the cardigan aside to wipe her hands,
You see the shirt beneath it.
A witch on a broomstick.
Soaring across a field of stars.
Beneath the graphic are three words.
They forgot one.
She catches you reading it.
And her whole face opens into a grin.
As she rinses her hands beneath an old water pump and dries them on her denim,
She approaches her cool hands reaching out to take yours.
Welcoming you like someone she's been expecting for a very long time.
She wants to show you the grounds before you see a single room.
Invites you to leave your bags on a bench.
The gardens are past abundance.
And well into access.
Pumpkins and gourds and squash everywhere.
Pale blue ones,
Warty green ones.
Deep orange ones the size of wash tubs.
Cornucopias are tucked along the low stone walls,
Spilling into the grass with ornamental corn and sugar pumpkins.
The herb beds are thick with rosemary and sage.
She pinches a leaf as you pass and holds it up for you to smell.
Dahlia's the size of dinner plates.
And burgundy mums fill ceramic pots.
Late roses,
A little tired but still going.
Vines climb up everything they can reach and tall autumn grasses undulate at the edge of the cliff.
She circles round back to the garden.
Helping with your bags.
As you approach the sweeping wraparound porch.
White wicker benches face the ocean.
Heaped with plaid throw pillows,
Invert sienna,
Mustard,
And pumpkin orange stripes.
Born in this month and named after it.
September tends to the decor this time of year.
With more passion than any other.
She leads you up the white and gray stairs to the front door.
That features the most elegant stained glass windows.
With a blue,
Purple,
And green.
Replica of the sea and sky.
A wave of warm,
Dry air greets you as you enter.
Carrying the scent of cinnamon sticks and cedar.
It almost feels as though the air is wrapping around you.
Fingers embracing you in a hug.
The old wood floors slope and creak beneath you.
The ceilings climb high.
A winding staircase turns up through the center of the house.
Elegant rugs stretch across the wooden floor.
In faded reds and indigos.
Hurricane lamps sit on side tables.
Colorful and vibrant.
Everywhere there are treasures that could hold more stories than the night could hold.
Moroccan textiles and lanterns.
Bring rich blues and jewel tones.
Italian ceramics,
Cracked and glorious,
Nestling corners.
You encounter brass vessels gone soft with tarnish.
Old maps in dark frames.
Their coastline slightly askew and hand-drawn.
And bowls of shells and sea glass.
As well as travel journals.
Stacked beside market curiosities so small,
You have to lean in to see them all.
The inn feels like a peace from every part of the world.
Was selected and lovingly carried here.
One object at a time.
And sat down under a single roof.
September leads you up the stairs to your suite.
Taking you down a long hallway.
The skylights overhead.
The hall is adorned with boughs of changing leaves.
The windowsills feature jar candles like molasses streams.
And Granny Smith Pie.
Autumnal wreath hangs on the ivory door to your room.
She hands you the keys.
And opens the door into the warm space.
There's a four poster bed.
Covered in an ivory duvet.
Fluffy as a cloud and an autumn leaf blanket.
Folded neatly at the end.
Beyond the seasonal decor and accents.
Your attention comes to a copy of a handwritten letter behind glass.
Nestled in an ornate gold frame on the bedside stand.
The page is in every room.
A piece of the mystery.
Of how September inherited this in.
Decades ago.
The page came from a journal.
Belong to a woman named Myrna.
She was the original owner of this home.
Describes a dream Myrna had.
Sometimes recurring.
About a young woman carrying a backpack.
Standing beside the sea.
Carrying her entire life on her shoulders.
Wind-blown hair with an infectious laugh.
Sipping a cappuccino.
And then the dream transformed the way dreams do.
And this young woman was suddenly in Myrna's seaside home.
Tending to the garden.
Greeting others who arrived with heavy backpacks on their shoulders.
That they could finally set down.
There is a line near the bottom.
In careful,
Looping ink.
About how this dream has calmed Myrna time and again.
That one day it just may make sense.
And one day it did.
For Myrna had dreamt of September long before they ever met.
September smiles as you read the page.
Explaining it was framed.
As a small reminder for all guests.
Dreams occasionally arrive with information.
Our waking lives.
Haven't caught up to yet.
And she always hopes guests will dream well at her inn.
Before Myrna and September crossed paths in their waking lives.
September had spent five years traveling with nothing but a backpack.
Foreign cities and villages.
From continent to continent.
She wasn't exactly running from anything.
But without travel.
She had little to run to.
And so she found herself camping in the Sahara.
Hiking Machu Picchu at sunrise.
Learning how to serve in Sri Lanka.
And all the while.
She trekked through train stations.
Before dawn and after sunset.
Taking in languages she couldn't speak.
She had a recurring dream of her own.
There was a house by the sea.
Three stories with winding stairs and cozy nooks.
Mullioned windows.
Where the early Sun poured in after rising over the ocean.
She was always at peace in this home.
It's always busy with her hands.
Making things grow and sparkle.
Making things beautiful.
And then approaching her sixth year of travel.
She met Myrna.
A woman nearly 55 years older than she.
Traveling solo as well.
Unforgettable sunset on the Amalfi Coast.
Sipping cappuccino.
Along a terrace dripping in fuchsia bougainvillea.
Their meeting brought an instant feeling of recognition.
Immediate.
Mutual.
Magical.
They talked well into the blue hour.
Enjoying a long,
Leisurely meal.
That Italy is known for.
And when it was time to part.
Promise to keep in touch.
By writing letters.
Until one day a letter arrives.
Finding September settled in a small village on the southern tip of Chile.
Myrna wanted her to take over her house by the sea.
She wasn't quite sure what to do with a house.
And traveled for a few more months.
Making her way north.
Questions swirling in her mind.
To one night.
She had that recurring dream about the house.
Knew at once that she was ready to set some roots.
She felt a catch in her throat.
She stood in the very spot.
You stood upon first arriving at the September Inn.
Now.
Even though she thought she might settle down for a bit.
She didn't want to stop traveling.
And would always find a way to explore.
But instead of carrying the world in a backpack.
She would bring the world home.
And welcome others.
For the same hospitality and kindness.
Found her in the most hidden corners of the smallest villages.
Every guest arrived with a story.
Enjoying another journey.
Bringing another unexpected connection.
September in.
Became her way of keeping the life she loved.
Finally at last.
Having somewhere to call home.
September smiles.
Before leaving you to settle.
Reminding you you're invited to dinner later this evening.
You place your bags on the trunk at the end of the bed.
The suite is a round turret room.
It's the corner of the third floor.
With windows curving all the way around.
A private balcony opens off it.
Beyond the ivory railing.
You take in the brooding Atlantic.
Bluffs and cliffs and the vibrant autumn forest.
Stained glass lamps.
Rest on the nightstands.
Moroccan lanterns hang before the windows.
With rattan baskets overflowing with ferns and spider plants.
Maps,
Postcards,
Pinned in a row.
Flowers and small travel treasures.
Arranged on the mantle.
You feel delightfully at home.
It all comes out with a contented sigh after unpacking and freshening up.
You enjoy the cool drink left on the silver tray by the fireplace.
And then you go down and out onto the cliffs.
Ready to explore the winding trails.
The wind up here is a character of its own.
Always displaying a different mood.
On this September day.
It is cool and briny.
And constant.
As it pushes against your back.
You can't help but find amusement in its strength.
Brings you back.
To your physical presence.
Makes everything dancing through your mind.
Feel small with its touch.
To the majesty of the wild and gray green waves.
That break against the rocks.
You feel truly awestruck.
Sea spray reaches you at the top.
The sky is layered lavender gray and silver.
And then for a moment,
Brilliance.
Sunlight flooding the whole coast.
Before the cloud closes again.
Everything here.
Is in constant motion.
Doing its own thing.
On its way to becoming something else.
As you enter a wooded path.
Change in the leaves is the most apparent.
Beneath its orange gold.
Fiery red canopy.
The wind falls away to total stillness.
Fallen toffee-hued leaves.
Crunch beneath your feet.
Giving way to the soft damp earth below.
Its peak leaf peeping season.
Gold overhead master.
Burnt sienna and copper rust and crimson.
And still here and there.
A patch of stubborn green.
That is only just beginning to fade.
Light filters down through all of it.
Turns amber.
Pooling in gold on the ground.
Damp earth is layered with moss and a thick shuffling carpet of fallen leaves.
And every step you take.
Releases that smell.
Sweet and earthy.
And amidst the comfort of the forest.
You still hear the ocean churning.
Coming and going.
Against the rocks.
There's beauty.
In watching the leaves fall around you.
Dancing on the sea air.
They haven't a clue what comes next.
They don't know what direction the wind is taking them.
Or what transformation is in store next.
But they sail.
Captivating and playful.
Light and without a care.
And you feel their spirit in you.
The same blissful surrender.
As you come to an opening.
High above the sea.
And sit on a rock.
Scattered with red maple leaves.
And you wonder for a moment.
What it might be like.
So effortlessly let go of a season.
Enter a new chapter.
Like the autumn leaves.
Like September.
The air becomes cooler.
As the sun dips low along the horizon.
Tucked beyond the trees.
You rise and stretch.
Smelling the fragrant air.
And making your way back.
To the warm comforts at the inn.
Candles are lit in every window.
The Gaslit Lanterns.
Along the front veranda and back deck.
Have been fired up.
The flames fluttering in defiance against the breeze.
The whole inn glows.
The coastline's own lantern.
Set out on the edge of the continent.
And behind it.
The sky is on fire.
Coral,
Rose,
Molten orange.
As the thick clouds of afternoon.
Have transformed into delicate wisps.
The sky almost competes with the saturated hues of the leaves.
The Atlantic below brightens and reflects their warmth.
The sun is now magenta,
Metallic ore.
Sinking down behind the black silhouettes.
Of the autumn trees.
Inside the inn.
A long rustic dining table.
Runs the whole length of the room.
Tall taper candles lie in the center.
And perfectly mismatched holders.
Collected from street markets and shops around the world.
Lanterns sit on the sideboard.
Surrounded by small pumpkins.
Autumn leaf decor.
Laid along the cloth.
Vibrant leaves.
Squash and gourds tucked between them.
Cornucopia spilling over at either end.
Warm bread torn open and steaming.
Roasted vegetables with rosemary from the garden.
Mulled cider,
And heavy glass mugs.
Cinnamon and clove rising off the surface.
You sit with September and the other guests.
Who have come from everywhere.
A woman traveling alone from Lisbon.
A retired couple from Osaka.
And a young recent graduate.
Who drove 11 hours from Quebec City.
The talk comes easily.
Stories exchanged and bonds formed.
You watch September at the head of her table.
Taking it all in.
Realize.
You are sitting inside her dream.
That was born from another dream.
She went out into the world.
For many years.
Now the world comes to her.
Esperanza is asleep,
Belly up.
And a folded plaid blanket.
Pause twitching.
Twylath is curled nearby with her fluffy tail concealing her nose.
One ear tracking the room.
Even in sleep.
The wind presses against the windows.
Finds the old frames.
It makes them softly rattle.
But no draft is felt in the inn.
Or firelight and candlelight.
Fill the space with a honeyed glow.
And the air was warm.
One by one.
The other guests say goodnight.
And ascend to their rooms.
You stay behind to help September tidy up.
Despite her insistence.
But she has it all under control.
But shadowing her tasks.
Gives you a sense of purpose.
Deeper understanding of her story.
It's life at the end.
You say goodnight.
Twilight rubs against your legs with her plump purring body.
And Esperanza.
Cries out for a belly run.
Delightfully full,
Content.
And sleepy.
You drift up the stairs to return to your suite.
To draw a bath.
Fire is lit in the heart.
Do you light candles around the clawfoot tub?
It fills with steamy water.
You soon settle within.
Watch the stars fill the navy blue sky as the moon rises over the Atlantic.
The apple spice soap.
Releases into the hot water.
And the steam lifts and fills the room.
Cinnamon and orchard.
But not me.
You sink deeper into the tub.
And the warmth goes all the way through you.
To the cold that was in your shoulders from the cliffs.
You've brought up a mug of mulled cider that rests on a small wooden side table and finishes and here.
In the steamy heat.
Letting the story begin.
There's nothing to do but relax.
And soon you pull yourself out of the perfect water.
Towel off and change into flannel plaid pajamas,
Snapping out the candles.
He returned to the bed in the round room.
Fire burning down into embers.
Vibrant as a sunset.
As you snuggle beneath the covers.
In this home away from home.
You think of Myrna in September.
To invite your own dreams.
Tell you a story tonight.
Give you insight.
To the grave beautiful possibilities that await you.
And the heady waves of sleep roll in.
As the Atlantic crashes against the shoreline.
As the autumn leaves flicker and sail in the moonlight.
And all feels right.
And all feels well.
You at last surrender.
Finding serenity.
Finding home.
Finding bliss.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
