Surrender to the deepest healing sleep that the moodiest of thunderstorms inspire with tonight's rainy sleep story,
Tropical Storm at the Manor.
Settle into the warm flicker of candlelight drifting through rooms that have sheltered generations within sturdy Roman pillars and time-worn stone.
Step back to an earlier time as you explore the elegance of a grand estate while a tropical storm moves inland.
Drawing you home along country roads draped in Spanish moss.
From the wide verandas and upper walkways,
You take in panoramic views of rain-softened gardens,
Moss-draped oaks,
And distant skies.
As the first storm bands begin to arrive,
The manor's beloved Spaniel Corby keeps watch with his sweet disposition.
Inside,
Candle-lit rooms and quiet comfort await.
As you settle in for the night.
And the storm becomes a timeless lullaby.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle.
Your sleepy guide on this journey to the manor.
Allow my voice to meet you with a trust of a dear friend.
Knowing you can change the narrative whenever you listen to suit your mood.
As sleep arrives,
My voice may fade into the sound of the storm as the rain nourishes the world around you.
Tonight's story is inspired by a recent trip I took to a barrier island.
I fell asleep with rain and thunder sounds playing softly from the bed stand but at some point deep in the night An actual storm rolled in off the bay,
And the thunder outside grew louder than anything on my phone,
And I woke with a smile.
My mind drifted to thoughts of fantastical tropical storms,
And I imagined a manor with pillars as I drifted back to sleep.
Does exactly as it pleases,
That returns us to something very old and safe in ourselves.
I hope this journey conjures that feeling tonight.
But before we arrive at the manor.
Settle into the sanctuary of your space and mind as you celebrate making it through another day.
You've earned this peace by simply existing.
Let out a sigh.
Like a current moving away,
Any lingering clouds of thoughts or concerns.
Make a sound with the intention of receiving the gift of sleep.
As you inhale.
Sense a shift in the air.
The hint of jasmine,
The smell of rain,
And the thickness of humidity.
Lands like a ghostly blanket around you.
Expand and take up all the space you desire.
This is your sanctuary to revel in.
You belong here.
Maybe a yawn comes but most certainly a sigh does as you let it all out.
Let it all go.
Take one more conscious breath.
This one is all your own at whatever pace your body wants.
And as you exhale.
Draw inward.
As your face relaxes and goes quiet.
Your breath returns to its natural rhythm.
As I count us down from five.
Let each number carry a layer of the day away.
5.
Your scalp softens as though the air itself has grown warmer and heavier around you.
The last trace of tension at your forehead,
Dissolving like distant storm clouds,
Thinning at the edge of a vast sky.
Your jaw unclenches,
Your mouth parts slightly,
And you can almost sense the faint salt and earth in the humid air.
Just before the rain arrives.
More.
Your shoulders begin to drop.
And with them the upper back and spine release.
In a slow unspooling way.
Your arms grow heavier.
Your hands open,
Fingers resting as if they've finally fallen into the hush of a place that has been waiting for you.
Three,
Your chest softens and breath begins to move through you like the wind that sweeps through the veranda.
Carrying the faintest hint of magnolia,
Your ribs expand and settle.
You can almost hear the distant sound of palm leaves shifting to your upper,
Middle,
And lower back melt fully into support.
Your hips sinking with a grounding ease.
Your legs grow heavy and long.
Having carried you through another day.
One.
Your entire body arrives at rest,
Completely held now by the stillness of the room.
Soft linen beneath you.
And the sense of shelter gathering around you.
Like candlelight in a southern manner.
Outside the storm draws closer but within you there is only warmth.
The deep quiet of a sanctuary preparing for rain.
It's time for the story to begin.
You find yourself in another time.
A time gentler in some ways,
More complicated in others.
But a time that truly brings a sense of simplicity.
An era where modern amenities are still a novelty.
But not intrusive in any way.
Soulful song plays on the radio of your sky blue convertible.
As you travel beside Corby,
A youthful and spirited Spaniel.
With toffee brown eyes that sparkle in the sunlight.
Filters through incoming clouds.
His carnation pink tongue.
Is a sign of happiness.
Hanging out of his open mouth as he pants.
Every now and then.
You worry the poor pup may ingest a bug or two along the way.
But Corby doesn't mind.
In fact,
He looks forward to it.
The convertible moves through the late afternoon in solitude on the country road.
Leisurely winding along.
The long gentle curves.
The thick and warm air is almost sweet.
The heavy kind.
That only comes in the hours before a summer storm.
It makes the average local resident.
Is good at predicting the weather.
As any forecaster on the radio.
You can feel it on your arms.
You can taste it when you breathe.
Something floral and salt-edged.
Something that belongs to the earth,
The sea,
And the sky.
Equal parts.
You drive beneath the shadows.
Of a canopy of oak trees.
Their enormous arms twist and rise towards the heavens,
Carrying mystical boughs of Spanish moss from every branch.
The moss hangs in long silver gray curtains.
Swaying slowly in the summer wind.
With a movement that speaks to your soul with a song of calm.
Softens the hot Sun.
Tempering its rays into bands of sparkling white gold.
The soft shadows and glistening diffused light.
Make the entire drive feel like something from a dream.
Or a memory or maybe both.
And while this region is known for being languid.
Especially in the summer months.
The world can change in moments.
That's what the weather decides.
Clouds far to the southeast.
Have gathered themselves.
Tall dark columns.
Purple and slate.
Their underbellies illuminated from within.
By the occasional low flicker of light.
Distant thunder.
Rolls across the flat land.
Like a slow exhalation.
Corby loves the storms.
Unlike many pups,
He welcomes the thunder and rain.
And will drag his favorite fluffy blanket throughout the manor.
To find a perfect nook by a window.
To watch the rain slip down the mullioned windows.
Cooler wave of air.
Brushes against your face.
And you inhale deeply.
Overcome by a delightful anticipation.
You feel the particular pleasure.
Of reaching the manor just before the storm begins.
Knowing you have nothing to do.
Rest of the evening.
Few fat round drops of rain.
Land on your face and wrists.
But soon cease.
Just a subtle warning.
You have just enough time?
To welcome this nice reprise.
You turn on to the long curving driveway.
Enter through the ornate cast-iron gates.
The gravel crunches softly beneath the tires.
You slow and catch the first glimpse of the manor rising through the trees.
That drip in Spanish malls.
The drive is lined with crepe myrtles.
Their deep magenta.
Pale blush.
Cream blooms.
Slightly in the wind.
Petals releasing and scattering across the gravel like confetti.
Their trunks.
You catch glimpses of the gardens.
An iron bench.
Stone urn overflowing with trailing vines.
Marble stands showcasing vintage glass bowls and metallic sapphire.
Ruby and royal purple.
You watch as a few raindrops splash into the fountain.
Wide.
Four-tiered basin of pale limestone.
Where water cascades in slow overlapping curtains all afternoon.
Its babbles and murmurs.
Offer a sense of deep peace.
Welcome home song.
The garden is quiet.
Though often the perfect setting for afternoon tea and lemonade.
And maybe the occasional mint julep.
The manner is ornate.
Ostentatious in a way.
May have been seen as too much at certain points throughout history.
What's the briny air?
Occasional tempest have weathered its facade.
Creating a soft patina.
Gives it a storybook character.
With a hint of whimsy and mystique.
The Roman columns rise first.
Four of them.
Wade and pale.
And shades of ivory gray.
Taking on the cast of the storm clouds.
As the last evening light filters through.
The veranda wraps around the manor.
And a port-a-chair is supported by sturdy pillars.
The manor displays tall windows with deep shutters painted a lavender hue.
The wind flutters the waxy,
Deep green leaves of ivy.
Drapes down the east wing.
You feel your heart ease.
You feel something in your chest.
Open and release.
Filled with warmth and relief to be home.
You drive beneath the shelter of the Port de Cher.
Arriving just in time.
As the occasional fat drops of rain beyond the roofline become a sheet of silver rain.
The sound of the radio.
Coming in and out.
And the gravel beneath the tires.
Gives way to the tinks of a settling engine.
Into the pattern of rain.
And the roof overhead The rain falls all around the structure.
But you and the car remain perfectly dry.
Beneath its wide canopy.
It's almost like being a witness in the eye of the storm.
With walls of rain on three sides.
The dry steps to the veranda to your left.
You sit for a moment.
As Corby walks across the licorice red bench seat.
And presses his weight against you.
Simply listening.
You hear the rain on the stone.
Rain on gravel.
The soft sighs of a pup.
Patter on the broad magnolia leaves.
That lie in the front wall.
Each drop landing.
With its own small percussion.
The smell that rises is extraordinary.
Petrichor and jasmine.
Wet earth.
Into the green living sense.
The garden being replenished.
At the far edge of the veranda.
A pair of old lanterns has already been lit.
Their flames amber and steady behind the glass.
And troubled by the wind.
Clearly an effort of the maternal housekeeper.
Who always does her best.
To make everything feel safe.
Intended to.
The outdoor cushions from the garden chairs.
Have been stacked against the wall.
Their striped linen,
Dry and orderly.
You step out of the car.
And stand for a moment beneath the columns.
Feeling the cool breath of the storm.
Moving around you.
The steadiness of the stone at your back.
The warm light waiting.
Just inside the door.
The entrance hall is tall and cool and quiet.
Particular way.
Very old homes.
Quiet that is there.
The hush of rooms beyond rooms.
You take off your shoes.
Slide into house slippers.
Making your way across the white marble floors its surface worn smooth.
In the places where people have walked for generations.
Your footsteps are soft on it.
And the sound travels upward to the ceiling.
Which is high.
And coffer.
And antique chandelier.
Made of iron and crystals.
Offers a dim glow.
Grand oil paintings.
Soften the space with a feminine touch.
Summer gardens,
Medium pastels.
Some impressionistic.
While others are painted with a precise hand.
A young woman in a blue gown.
With a book in her lap.
Overlooking the garden.
Man in riding clothes,
The dog seated at his heel.
Elderly couple sitting side by side on the veranda.
Their expressions warm.
With a hint of mischief in their sparkling eyes.
A grand staircase curves upward to the right.
Banister of dark walnuts.
Smooth beneath your hand as you pass.
The treads creak faintly.
And the sound is comfortable.
Joined by the faint sound of the rain as it cleanses the world outside.
You move deeper into the manor.
Taking a wide hallway to the kitchen.
Lightning flashes.
It illuminates the wainscotting.
Adding a silvery white sheen for but a second.
The kitchen has been designed.
Capture the essence.
Of a French countryside cottage.
Cozy and charming.
On the counter.
Candles have been set out in a loose arrangement.
Pillar candles and small brass plates.
Few taller tapers and old silver holders.
Glass jar with a wick already lit.
Flame,
Small and steady.
Silver tin box of wooden matches.
Sits next to a few extra candles.
Still in their paper wrapping.
Someone has thought ahead.
A sill of a window just above the deep kitchen sink.
Radio crackles.
It's an old but beloved relic.
Big light.
Grounded at the edges.
With a fabric-covered speaker.
A dial that moves through static before finding the station.
Deep announcer's voice arrives through the crackle.
Confident and warm.
Explaining conditions are expected to persist overnight.
The tropical storm has made landfall.
Residents in the region.
Should expect heavy rainfall and sustained winds.
Through the early morning hours.
You stand in the kitchen and listen.
The forecast ends.
And the music begins.
Something romantic full of longing.
Perfect for the mood.
Steady rain falls outside the windows and French doors.
That open into a seating area.
Where you often take your breakfast.
You watch the rain run in thin rivulets down the glass.
Distorting the dark shape of the garden beyond.
The entire sky has deepened into purple grays and charcoal.
And it's easy to lose track of the time.
You pour yourself a glass of something satisfying.
Perhaps something from a crystal pitcher in the fridge.
Forms beads on the glass.
Maybe something warm and soothing from a kettle.
Corby discovers his dinner bowl has been filled.
And you listen as his tags clink against the metal bowl as he vacuums up his meal.
You turn off the radio with a satisfying click.
You make your way down the hall.
Drink in one hand.
A candle in the other.
The power goes out.
Corby is so close at your heels.
You can feel his cool nose touching your ankle every few steps.
The library smells of sweet old paper.
And wood smoke from a fireplace.
That was used months ago.
It's embers long cold.
But its scent still permeating the space.
Absorbed into the walls and the spines of books.
Floor to ceiling shelves.
Line the three walls while the fourth wall holds dozens of small panes of glass now streaked with rain.
Dusty rose pink club chairs.
Face one another near the window.
Other table between them.
A glass Tiffany lamp.
An antique vase of roses from the garden resting on it.
Outside the library window.
The rain keeps increasing.
Moves through the garden in waves now.
Kind of rain that arrives in rhythmic surges.
Louder and then softer.
And then louder again.
The shapes of the garden.
Stone urns.
Topiary.
Bench beneath the old oak.
Dissolve and reassemble with each shift in the downpour.
Like cards shuffled in agile hands.
Sinking into a deep chaise lounge.
You slowly sip your beverage.
Your eyes losing focus in the bleary world beyond the pain.
The rain asks nothing of you.
But offers so much.
Allowing the night to play out.
In a dreamy haze.
You watch the clouds as they move.
Their shapes shifting and dissolving.
Reforming in puffy layers.
And ethereal mists.
Every few breaths.
They light up from within.
And several seconds later.
A low rumble travels through the walls of the house.
And into the soles of your feet Corby takes off.
Escaping to the drawing room where he last left his blanket.
He races back.
And drags the fleece over to you.
Placing it near your legs You tell him it's not time yet.
As you rise.
Ready to do one last sweep of the manor.
You step out the library doors that lead to the veranda.
Stand between two of the great Roman columns.
Corby reluctantly follows.
Leaving his blanket on the doormat inside.
He then curiously comes along and sits at your feet.
The roof above you keeps the downpour at bay.
The wind carries it sideways.
In fine drifting mist.
That touches your cheeks.
Layers your eyes with a cool spray.
Garden below is transformed by the storm.
To something more fluid.
More dreamlike.
Hanging baskets along the veranda rail.
Moving long unhurried arcs while ferns trail and sway through the wet air.
Climbing roses at the far trellis.
Press themselves inward.
Release again.
As though remembering the shape of wind.
Columns frame you.
Seen barely in your peripheral vision but felt deeply.
Your protective presence is steady against all this movement.
Though they have always known how to stand.
While the world changes around them.
Storm after storm.
Season after season.
To take a moment to honor.
Quiet recognition of endurance.
Beauty returning again and again.
No matter what passes through it.
A small brown bird shelters in the corner of the eave.
Perfectly still.
Feathers smoothed close to its body.
Watching the world peacefully.
Feeling a wave of sleepiness Corby yawns first.
But you can't help but mimic the pup.
You pat your leg.
Encourage him to follow you indoors.
He grabs his blanket and excitedly leaps.
Trailing behind as you enter the east wing.
Passing by the row of guest rooms.
Each one is unique.
And offers a different color palette and vibes.
One room is the blue room.
Where the walls carry the quiet wash of a winter sky just before snowfall.
You pass the midnight room.
Deeper and more enveloping.
The tones lean into indigo and charcoal.
The feeling of being held beneath a sky with no horizon.
The velvet drapes around the bed and windows.
Muffle the sound of the storm.
The candlelight leads you down the hall.
To a room inspired by the gardens.
Floral wallpaper and woven rugs in pale greens.
Corby runs in this room in circles.
His blanket dragging across the rug.
White wicker chairs and a canopy bed adorned in sheer pink and peach chiffon offer a place of softness.
At the very end of the hall is the main suite.
Waiting for you and prepared for you with love.
The air carries a soft blend of lavender,
Vanilla,
And clean linen.
With a hint of rain just beyond the doors.
That lead to a private balcony.
Of all the bedrooms.
The storm can be heard most clearly.
This lofty haven.
It's designed to meet your preferred aesthetic.
Calming colors and lush fabrics.
There's a sitting area near the windows.
The heart of the room offers a king-sized bed.
With a most sumptuous bedding.
Once more in a color palette.
Simply makes you feel good.
You enter the ensuite.
Tucked beneath the gothic chandelier.
Is a deep,
Quaffed tongue.
You use the candle in your hand.
To light candles around it.
As Corby drags his blanket.
Settles next to the tongue.
You step beneath the shower.
And let it gather the day from your skin.
Loosening everything it finds.
The heat that lingered from the morning.
Its sticky residue dissolves.
Is replaced by a lush lather of soap.
Steam curls toward the chandelier as the candles flicker and shadows dance on the shower curtains.
Sound of the storm outside continues.
But it becomes hard to differentiate.
The showers cascade into the rain.
When you finally step out.
The air feels cooler against your skin.
Towel off with a plush towel large enough for two.
Wrapping yourself.
As it still retains the heat from the dryer.
You dress slowly in silk pajamas,
Move easily against the body and the room seems to respond in kind.
You brush your teeth.
As Corby patiently waits.
Soon back in the bedroom.
Corby follows behind as a flash of lightning illuminates the room.
He's been waiting for this moment.
Longing to snuggle as the storm rages outside.
You move towards the bed.
The linens are cool and smooth beneath your touch.
Gathered in a way that invites release rather than attention.
And just as you settle at the edge,
Corby arrives with his blanket.
Climbing up with familiar ease.
And settling at the foot of the bed.
He makes a nest with his blankie.
Circling three times.
Before he collapses into sleep.
With a song.
Final exhale.
And with a sigh of your own,
You follow his lead.
Surrendering to the stormy night at the manor.
That promises a chance.
For the perfect night of sleep finding comfort.
Finding peace.
Finding sleep,
It's time to dream away.
Goodnight.
