A Harvest Festival In Slumbershire

Celebrate the harvest in the cozy village of Slumbershire in tonight's Autumn Equinox bedtime story.

This is the final story in season 1 of Sleep in Sorcery.

I'm taking a short break to work on season 2,

But I promise to be back in time for Halloween.

Sleep in Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep in Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation and one part dreamy adventure.

If you're still awake,

As the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan for meaningful rest.

In tonight's story,

We're going back to the sleepy halfling village of Slumbershire,

Where preparations are underway for a harvest festival at the autumnal equinox.

You assist in setting up,

Then enjoy the rites and rituals against a glorious sunset.

Around a fire,

A halfling is telling stories of his adventures and the legends of the land.

You join the circle,

Curious to learn more about the world beyond the village.

It is not our part to master all the tides of the world,

But to do what is in us for the sucker of those years wherein we are set,

Uprooting the evil in the fields that we know so that those who live after may have clean earth to till.

What weather they shall have is not ours to rule.

The return of the king,

J.

R.

R.

Tolkien.

The end of summer is a bittersweet time.

Farewell to flushed cheeks and drowsy mornings,

Lazy days,

Heat and slow work,

Books and boats and bright sunsets.

The air changes,

Grows alive and electric,

And the energy shifts among your fellows.

They rise earlier,

They work longer.

Like a horse ambling over sloping hills and through sleepy towns,

The season slowly accelerates to a trot and a gallop,

In a way at once leisurely and blindingly fast.

You always see it coming,

And yet it's here before you can catch your breath.

But on the same breath come misty mornings,

Foggy sunrise,

Warm bread in the oven,

And a comforting chill in the air.

Autumn arrives on silver wings and crisp leaves.

The harvest approaches.

It smells of spices and plump,

Ripe fruits.

It tastes of apples and figs.

It feels like warm socks toasting by the fireside.

In just a few hours,

All the halflings of Slumbershire will gather in the village center around the magnificent party tree,

Its leaves edging golden and burnt brown already.

And they'll ring in the harvest season with food and drink and dancing and raucous celebration.

For the first time,

You're old enough to help out with the preparations for the harvest festival,

And you're eager to make this a night to remember.

You heave and strain as you and a small group raise a billowing tent.

Another halfling stakes the strings into the ground as you hold it steady,

One down,

Many more to go.

It's hard work,

But you could hardly have asked for kinder weather.

Late afternoon falls on Slumbershire with cloudy skies and cool breezes.

Summer seems already a memory shrouded in fog.

Still,

You wipe beads of sweat from your brow and carry on with the preparations.

Another group of halflings string bunting and paper lanterns upon the branches of the party tree,

A mighty oak that curls upward into the sky,

Its roots beneath a tangled and powerful system.

In the summers,

You like to steal away to this spot,

Nestle yourself among the roots,

And read the chronicles of the adventurers in lands to the south and the east.

Big people with their big,

Grandiose escapades.

Atop a ladder stretching his arms to hang a lantern on an especially high branch,

You spot your dear friend,

Gwydion.

He manages to string the lantern,

Then descends the ladder with a self-satisfied look.

You call out to him and wave.

He returns your greeting with a gesture that seems to say,

Not too shabby,

Eh?

When all the tents are raised,

You're happy to move on to a much less strenuous task and an enviable one at that.

Gwydion joins you to arrange fruit,

Cheese,

And pastries on the tables in the libation's tent.

Any time you're sure no one is looking,

You toss a grape or an iced bun into your mouth.

Gwydion goes so far as to steal sips of ale from the barrels at hand.

Whoever let the two of you man the food tent must have known this would happen.

But despite your scroungings,

The tables still look abundant and pleasing when you're finished.

The afternoon is waning to an amber twilight,

And as you and Gwydion depart the tent,

You feel a rush of excitement for the evening in store.

As the light leaves and a spectacular sunset,

All crimson and blush,

Burns over the western foothills,

The paper lanterns in the party tree begin to sing among its leaves.

Fuzzy orange light,

Uncolorful bunting.

Slumbershire loves a party,

And the harvest festival is the year's most highly anticipated,

Most extravagant event.

There's a shiver of anticipation in the air.

At sundown,

The festivities commence.

The hour is nearly upon you.

You and Gwydion confer about the latest whispers you've heard about the village.

You speculate as to who will be in attendance tonight.

A redundant line of inquiry most years,

As this great spectacle draws every halfling from the village and the smaller settlements on the outskirts of Slumbershire.

The farming families,

Of course,

Provide much of the food and drink for the evening,

And even the folks who live near the water to the far west make the journey to celebrate.

But this year,

There's been gossip of an unexpected guest.

It's been a long time since he was seen in Slumbershire,

But he was spotted riding in with his cart yesterday eve.

The wizard,

Lovian.

He must be staying at the old underhill estate,

You suppose.

He has long had ties with the family,

And despite his reputation as a disturber of the peace,

The halflings of Slumbershire are set in their ways.

You like him.

He often brings exciting news from beyond your borders and tells wonderful stories,

And he brings fireworks.

Since you were very small,

You've loved the fireworks,

Bursting and spinning and flaming through the night sky like flametailed comets.

They carry in them something mysterious and bombastic,

Some secret mixture that you'll never understand,

A magic mix of powders that settle so quietly into lit,

Awakened,

Moved to transform and produce marvels.

In your heart,

You hope the rumors are true.

If Lovian has indeed returned for the harvest festival this year,

It will be an unforgettable night.

As the last glimmer of sunset paints golden streaks across the underbellies of ribbon clouds,

The valley of Slumbershire swells to a crescendo of celebration.

Music,

Bright and buoyant fiddle and flute accompanies laughter,

Singing and conversation.

Halflings have descended upon the valley from all directions,

From the farmlands and the river and the outskirts.

You and Gwydian hook arms and dance with exuberant joy,

Succumbing now and then to fits of laughter.

A procession snakes through the crowds,

Halflings wearing corn husk masks in the likeness of foxes,

Ponies,

Owls,

And stags.

Donning antlers fashioned of tree branches or crowns of wild sunflowers,

You break off from the dancing to catch your breath and holler with glee over the lavish costumes of the parade.

Blinking fireflies,

Both free and captured in decorative jars,

Light the scene with their flickering glow.

The harvest moon is bright and bronze.

And overhead,

The first shower of shimmering fireworks,

Golden and liquid-like against the black sky,

Still streaked with gray clouds.

Lothian is here,

Indeed.

Clad in his gray cloak,

He towers over the halflings by double or more,

A humorous sight to see,

Dancing among the small folk.

All around you,

Amid the dancing,

Friends are reuniting and embracing,

For the halflings from the outskirts rarely travel to town and visit with their cousins.

The night air is joyous,

Alive with the sounds of friendship and care.

Wrenching yourself from the dancing,

You fling into an open seat,

Cheeks aching from smiling,

Breath heavy from movement.

Gwydian joins you at a table.

He pulls an apple from his sleeve,

Shines it against his shirt,

And takes a crisp bite.

The dancing is winding down,

Generally.

The mayor,

Theo Underhill,

Is trying in vain to draw the partygoer's attention.

It's almost time for his opening remarks.

The stragglers,

Though,

Are dancing as enthusiastically as ever.

Among them is Matheluk Bramblefoot,

Dancing with marigold swift,

A big,

Infectious grin upon his face.

If memory serves,

He was once a rather reserved halfling,

But he returned last spring from adventures in the East,

Changed,

A good foot brighter and more capable than he was before,

But also more commanding somehow.

When the mayor retires,

Which most think will be soon,

Odds are on good old Math Bramblefoot for the job.

At last,

Theo enlists the wizard Lothian on his behalf to wrangle the attention of all the festive halflings in attendance.

His voice,

Big and booming over the party atmosphere,

Calls for quiet.

The mayor blushes and dons a sheepish grin,

Stumbling over his next few words.

He never was the loudest or most attention-seeking creature in Slumbershire,

But he's well-loved and you look fondly on him as he begins his remarks.

Tonight is a special night,

He says,

When we gather under the harvest moon to celebrate coming to the start of a new season.

Cheers and light applause.

It's marvelous to see you all here,

Together.

It reminds one of the sense of deep community,

Cheer and fellowship we all share.

The love we have for our cousins and friends.

Gwydian whispers something to you,

A casual jape about how he'd rather not see some of his cousins even but once a year.

And you smile to acknowledge it,

But there's something about Theo's words that stirs your heart.

He too returned from that long trip to the East,

Different.

He was always pleasant,

Always kind,

But he came back with a sense of sadness or sorrow you never saw in him before,

As though he'd left something precious back there on his adventure,

Something he could never get back.

And yet,

He came back with all the kindness and compassion of before.

He was generous and self-sacrificing.

He was voted into the mayor's seat without a sprinkling of dissent,

For his contributions to Slumbershire were undeniable.

And he served the community with loyalty and dedication.

He always had a kind word for you when you crossed paths.

It's a sort of goodness you might not have noticed a year ago or more,

But as you get older,

It seems to you the best kind of goodness.

Dedicated service to one's community and fellows.

Mayor Underhill's remarks go on,

Perhaps longer than necessary,

But the adoring crowd indulges him to wax wistful about the history of the Halflings.

You've all heard the story of Slumbershire so many times,

You can recite it by heart.

The legend goes that an age or so ago,

Halflings were not the stubborn,

Settled homebodies that they are today.

No,

They were comprised of wandering tribes who moved from camp to camp across dangerous countryside through all seasons of the year,

Out of sight to the big folk who thought they owned the land.

They kept great caravans that trundled over mountain passes and across roaring rivers.

They stuck together through it all,

And wherever they made camp was home for a time.

Those wanderers,

Your ancestors,

Knew the stars and the seasons as instinct.

They knew when the wind would shift and the leaves would fall and the caravan should move on.

But even then,

Scavengers and gatherers,

Though they were,

They held sacred this time what's now the harvest time.

The end of summer and the start of autumn and the very day on which the sun and moon stood in equal harmony.

And they paused their wandering,

Donned masks and crowns,

And they feasted.

With full carts and even fuller bellies,

They honored their loss.

And as the season passed in their glade,

They moved on.

But,

So the legend says,

The halflings grew weary of this constant movement.

As the tides changed in the land,

Some regions became desolate and impassable.

Others were too dangerous to set foot in.

So slowly the nomadic tradition began to die out.

Clans began to break from the caravan,

Preferring to grow roots in the pleasant enough West Country.

Soon there were no more carts rolling over the mountains or fording the rivers.

They followed a star,

That very star in fact.

And now,

Theo points to the brightest star in the firmament,

Just overhead,

Peeking through a streak of clouds,

The one that shines silver in the autumn,

And thus is called the Silver Star,

Or the Grey Man.

They followed the Grey Man here,

To this valley where the halflings settled at last and established the village of Slumbershire,

A place to rest.

Here they learned to cultivate their own food and raise families in one place,

Together.

It truly is a blessing,

The mayor continues,

To live on fertile land,

To plant crops and see them grow,

To witness every stage in the cycle,

From seeding and sowing,

To reaping and harvesting,

To have one's hand in the soil.

Never forget that,

Theo urges,

What a blessing it is to see your seeds sprout and bloom and grow.

That's why we're all here today,

Of course,

To ring in the harvest,

But also to toast each other and toast our ancestors,

Who put down their carts and founded their home here,

Those halflings whose legend we walk in the shadows of.

There is only legend,

From a time so distant,

No written history.

Such things only began to be recorded a generation or so ago,

And rarely about such unimportant things.

The chronicles you read from time to time are the stories of great people,

Powerful people,

Noble people,

Folks from great houses and royal bloodlines.

But you've heard tell that Theo Underhill,

With the assistance of Math Bramblefoot,

Is writing such a history of the halflings,

Piecing it together from old maps and journals,

While painstakingly archiving everything happening now.

You wonder if you and Gwydian and your family and friends feature in Theo's chronicles.

It's a funny thought,

You suppose,

That what you do now could ever belong in the halls of history.

And for the first time,

You have an uncanny sort of realization,

Something that ought to have been obvious,

You suppose,

That the legends and stories and songs of people long past are not some distant thing held under glass or behind an impassable curtain or written in some untranslatable language.

They're happening now.

And they're happening at every moment.

They're all one story,

Never-ending and vast,

With a cast of thousands and no beginning nor end.

The great tales never end.

And you are in the same story,

One of many characters who come in and out in their time.

You walk in legends upon the green earth.

Now,

Isn't that something?

Theo goes on.

The harvest is what brings us here today,

He says.

But let us not forget that we're also here to hold each other close,

To acknowledge what's changed since we were last all together and to honor the strength of our fellowship.

When at last the mayor concludes his winding speech,

The whole of the festival heartily applauds.

The music strikes up again and many return to their dancing and revelry.

You and Gwydian make for the libation's tent,

Your stomachs growling for pastries and sweet plums.

Feasting on armfuls of bread and fruit,

You mosey through the festivities.

You and Gwydian point out folks you haven't seen in some time.

The River Hoppers,

The Sackvilles,

And Olo and Olivia Banks,

To name a few.

The lanterns and bunting of the party tree sway in a gentle breeze.

As you round the tree,

You find none other than Theo Underhill,

Seated beside a small fire,

Surrounded by a dozen or more tiny children,

All watching him with eyes wide and reflecting the flicker of the flame.

Coming closer,

You realize he's telling a story,

Arms gesticulating and voice modulating for drama.

It's funny how at ease he seems with the little ones,

Given how timid and bashful he was before the whole party.

You linger a while to listen to the tale,

Despite Gwydian tugging at your arm.

He's telling the story of his adventure,

You whisper,

The tale you've only heard fragments of from others around town.

Gwydian scampers off when he sees you're not moving.

He's never been able to sit still for long.

You hang by the tree close enough to hear Theo's voice,

But careful not to intrude on the spell his story seems to have cast upon the young listeners.

There's a kind of cozy protection around the fire,

Like an enchantment,

Muffling the voices and songs of merriment,

Just steps away.

So,

There we were,

Theo Underhill says,

An air of mystery in his voice,

Having just left the realm of the elven queen,

Preparing to sail east.

He goes on to describe an ambush by bandits and the breaking of his company.

Theo and Matheluk went on by themselves,

Leaving behind their party,

An elf huntress,

A dwarven monk,

A savvy ranger,

And even the wizard Lothian.

No one could protect them on their perilous quest.

They must go alone.

But in the end,

Theo says,

He and Matheluk were saved by the parting gifts of the queen of the elves,

A magic sword fit for a halfling,

And a bottle of starlight that would never go out.

With those gifts,

They made their way through dark underground tunnels into the heart of a volcano,

Where they destroyed the enemy's relics once and for all.

And when it seemed they might never make the return journey home,

They uncorked the bottle of starlight to call upon Lothian,

Who sent his emissaries,

The great owls,

To rescue them from the erupting volcano.

Theo concludes his tale,

And the children clap and cheer.

He stands up,

Beaming,

And hurries the children back to the party,

With an off you go,

And an enjoy yourselves,

And a behave yourselves.

He watches them go,

With a lingering smile and a twinkle in his eye.

In the firelight,

He looks much younger,

More like the halfling he was before he set out on that fateful adventure.

Then he spies you with the slightest surprise and grins.

He calls your name and playfully ribs you for lurking in the shadows.

You're apologetic,

But it's no matter.

He understands the curiosity.

Theo is about to head back to the crowds.

Some of the children have waylaid poor Lothian,

Who's entertaining them now with little firework displays,

Tiny bursts of sparks that transform into birds and butterflies,

To shrieks of laughter.

But you ask Theo to wait just a moment.

There's something you want to ask him.

He stops and turns to you.

He's patient while you try to get to the point.

You hadn't known you were going to speak to the mayor tonight,

And you still don't quite know what you want to say.

Theo gestures for you to walk and talk,

And together you wind through dancing crowds and tents.

You've heard,

You explain,

That the mayor and Math Bramblefoot are engaged in a project to map the realm and to write the histories of the halflings,

That they are recording the legends and songs of old and writing the chronicles of their adventures in the lands outside Slumbershire.

Theo confirms this to be true.

He hopes that in the letters,

Journals,

Logbooks,

And sketches of generations past,

He can piece together a true history of the halflings,

One that's tangible and empirical.

But what would a young halfling such as yourself care to know about such tedious matters,

When there's fair weather and good friends and a festival to enjoy?

Histories are the domain of those whose adventures are behind them,

He says.

Whether those adventures be beyond the borders of home or within.

But that's just it,

You say.

All those things are wonderful,

But you find on a day with fine weather,

You'd rather open a book than run through a field.

Your friends don't always understand.

You're not sure you're an adventurer of any kind,

But you know you thirst for knowledge.

Theo's eyes are bright and kind.

Very well then.

Tomorrow you'll come up to the underhill residence.

He'll show you the progress of the project so far.

You picture heaps and mountains of books and scrolls of paper strewn across the estate.

You feel a swell of excitement.

And if the tedium of tracing and transcription doesn't scare you away in the first hour,

Well,

Mayor Underhill and Mr.

Bramblefoot could certainly use a scribe.

An apprentice,

If you will.

But for tonight you are instructed to have fun.

Eat and drink well.

And dance.

And even make some trouble.

After all,

You remind Theo of a cousin of his.

Now a respectable halfling with a family and a tavern to run,

But oh,

That halfling was a rascal in their youth.

With a parting smile,

Theo saunters off to rescue Lovian,

Who's surrounded by young children clamoring for more fireworks.

For a moment,

You simply stand in the center of the festivities,

Taking in the joy and energy through all your senses.

Time slows down for a short while,

And it's as if you can see your fellows in slow motion.

The brilliant smiles,

Extravagant dancing.

You can smell fresh bread and ale,

But also the last lingering sweetness of honeysuckle on the vine,

The earthy soil,

And tree roots.

This might be,

You think,

A perfect moment.

A truly perfect moment.

You feel complete joy,

Serenity,

And safety.

You hardly want the night to end,

But underneath it,

There's a shiver of excitement and intrigue.

The promise of your involvement in Theo and Matheluk's project.

What great things you're sure to learn under their mentorship.

You can't wait for tomorrow.

The spell of your perfect moment is broken by a whistling sound,

Almost like a tea kettle announcing its boil.

You follow the sound with your eyes,

Locating a small ember of burning light shooting upward into the sky.

Half a moment later,

When it reaches a height beyond the highest branches of the party tree,

Halfway to the stars you reckon,

It bursts with a crackle and showers the valley in green and gold.

The crowd falls silent.

The eyes of all the festival-goers turn upward and catch the reflection of the fiery spectacle,

Sparkling like jewels in the night's dim.

The sparks fall in streaming patterns,

Then spring to life in the shapes of dragonflies,

Buzzing around the glen before smoldering into smoke.

And soon,

The silence breaks again into cheers and applause and hollers and laughter,

Music and merriment under the harvest moon.

You can't help but laugh.

Fireworks have a way of making you feel small and young and childish,

Giddy with excitement and innocence.

An arm swings around your shoulders and you find Gwydian chortling and guffawing by your side.

His cheeks are streaked with soot and his hair stands on end as though he's just set off an explosion in his face.

The realization comes to you quickly and you join in the laughter.

Then you throw your arm around Gwydian's shoulders and off you go,

The thickest thieves,

To make some more mischief.

The night passes with boundless revelry under a now scarlet moon.

In small waves,

Families break off and return to their holes,

Some carrying sleeping children in their arms.

The music and dancing end and soon there are only a dozen or so halflings left in the hollow,

Seated at tables lazily conversing or picking at the last pieces of fruit and sweets in the tents.

You and Gwydian lie on your backs in the cool grass,

Arms folded behind your heads,

Gazing up at the stars.

Your body carries a satisfying exhaustion,

The feeling of slow deceleration from an exhilarating ride.

Crickets hum in a gentle chorus.

You can see the silver star,

The gray man,

Blinking bright in the now cloudless night sky.

There was a legend you once heard,

You can't remember from whom,

That it's called the gray man not only for its unique hue,

But because it first appeared on the night a man fell from the sky.

Ages ago,

When halflings wandered the earth and made camp in a new glade each season,

This man crash landed like a star fallen from the heavens in the midst of their caravan.

They took the stranger in,

Clothed and fed him,

And in return he donned a gray cloak and led the tribes to a verdant valley in the light of the silver star.

You wonder how much truth there is to such a story.

You'll have to ask Theo Underhill,

Though you suspect it's one of those holdovers from legend and myth that has little basis in reality.

A dandelion breeze rustles the leaves of the party tree.

You're not even sure what time of night it is.

You ask Gwydian about the firework he snatched,

Whether the wizard ever caught up with him.

Gwydian doesn't respond,

And a quiet snore informs you that he's fallen asleep.

You smile.

It's quiet,

Except for the crickets and the breeze and the leaves.

A very noisy kind of quiet,

You suppose.

You think about the story Theo was telling to the children.

He tried to imagine the wild and wonderful places he described,

The domain of the elven queen,

The mouth of a live volcano,

Rivers and caves and mountain passes.

You try to picture the enormous owls who came to the rescue of Theo Underhill and Math Bramblefoot.

What it was like to be carried through the great skies.

How different how much smaller home must have appeared upon their return.

It must be hard to come home after a long journey,

You think.

Oh,

But it must be a relief,

Too.

The pictures in your mind of Theo and Matheluk's grand adventures in distant lands are marvelous.

You imagine spitting lava and wild forests and trees that pull up their roots and walk like men.

What wonders must lie beyond the borders of home?

And yet,

You think,

None of the wonders of your imagination,

Brilliant and beautiful as they are,

Hold a candle to the peace and perfection of Slumbershire.

Surely there's a certain appeal in overgrown woods where nature is untamed and victorious,

But that comes with its own dangers.

And the prospect of lands to the east where nothing grows,

Where all is waste.

What a tragic thought.

But here,

In the valley,

Nestled between green hills and glorious pastures,

The silver star shines on the perfect balance.

Flowers climb trellises and trees reach into the firmament.

Crops grow in abundance and moss forms on the rocks of the river.

We plant seeds and we see them grow to fruition.

The land is cultivated,

Stewarded in harmony with the earth.

We give to each other.

In this moment,

That seems to you the best kind of goodness,

To give blessings to the earth and receive blessings in return.

Gwydian's breath slows down as he slumbers beside you in the tall grass,

Shifting in a warm breeze that feels like the last kiss of summer.

Some time later,

You drift off too,

Under the harvest moon.

Imagine yourself lying in soft grass under a big full moon and the panoply of stars.

The air is sweet with night blooming flowers.

The breeze is warm.

The temperature is so mild,

So comfortable that you don't need a blanket.

But if you prefer one,

Imagine you're covered with a blanket soft as fleece.

Listen to the rustling of leaves nearby and to the sounds of night birds and crickets.

Let your body soften.

Feel the firm,

Solid touch of the earth beneath you.

Trust that it will support you.

Now we'll rotate our consciousness through the parts of the body,

Bringing awareness and relaxation to every part of you.

Like we're shining a little flashlight or a little bottled starlight on each part in succession.

Beginning on the right side.

Right hand thumb.

Right index finger.

Middle finger.

Ring finger.

Pinkie.

The space between the fingers.

The palm.

The wrist.

The forearm.

The elbow.

The upper arm.

The shoulder.

The right side of the chest.

Right side of the waist.

Right hip.

Right thigh.

Right knee.

Right shin and calf.

Right ankle.

Right heel.

Soul of the right foot.

The right ball mound.

The right big toe.

Second toe.

Third toe.

Fourth toe.

Pinkie toe.

The space between the toes.

Now we'll move to the left side of the body.

Left hand thumb.

Index finger.

Middle finger.

Ring finger.

Pinkie.

The space between the fingers.

The palm.

The wrist.

The forearm.

The elbow.

The upper arm.

The shoulder.

The left side of the chest.

The left side of the waist.

Left hip.

Left thigh.

Left knee.

Left shin and calf.

Left ankle.

Left heel.

Soul of the left foot.

The left ball mound.

The left big toe.

Second toe.

Third toe.

Fourth toe.

Pinkie toe.

The space between the toes.

Feel both sides of the body.

Relax and soften.

Feel the muscles of the neck.

Where the neck meets the breastbone.

The base of the head.

The jaw.

The chin.

The mouth.

The tongue.

The throat.

Right cheek.

Left cheek.

The nose.

The right ear.

The left ear.

The right eye.

The left eye.

The right eyebrow.

Left eyebrow.

The midpoint between the eyebrows.

The midpoint between the eyebrows.

The forehead.

The temples.

The scalp.

The very top of the head.

Relax and soften.

Feel the whole body.

Safe and soft and supported by the earth.

Breathe.

Relax.

Feel yourself in balance and harmony with the turning of the earth and the changing seasons.

Welcome the coming months and the slow turn toward winter with grace and hope.

For it is not our part to master all the tides of the world but to do what is in us for the sucker of those years wherein we are sent so that those who live after us may have clean earth to till.

Sweet dreams.

God bless.

You