Olive’s Cottage at the Edge of the Woods

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or follow the link in the episode description. Welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy. I'm your host Thomas.

Thank you so much for tuning in. We have a very special story tonight,

“as it is both written and narrated by Chloe.”

Thank you Chloe for sharing your amazing talents, and being a part of the Get Sleepy team. Shortly, in Chloe's story, we'll join a woman named Olive, as she practices her crafts in a cozy cabin at the edge of the woods.

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For more information, just head to Get Sleepy.com/support. And I'll pop the link in the show notes, too. Thank you so much, everyone. Now, before we begin our sleepy tale, let's prepare our minds and bodies for rest.

In a world that moves so quickly, it's easy to figure out what's going on. Not as an escape, but as a quiet return. So consider this an invitation to rest in your own company, without demands and without any rules to play.

So consider this an invitation to rest in your own company, without demands and without any rules to play. Just you, your breath and the soft space around you. Here, solitude becomes sanctuary. Allow your body to settle in pure comfort,

releasing the weight of the day. gently close your eyes and take a so deep breath in through your nose.

Again, breathing in and back out.

“Let the breath come and let the breath go.”

Breathe on a calm shore. Notice how relaxed and cozy you feel here. Hound and supported by the surface beneath you.

With each breath, imagine a little more space opening inside you.

Space to be, to breathe, to simply exist. Now picture yourself walking slowly through a quiet woodland. leaves Russell gently above. Bird sing from somewhere unseen,

“and the light filters through in golden dapples.”

The air smells of moss and sun-worned earth.

Up ahead nestled in a glade, you see a small wooden cabin, weathered, warm and inviting. A cottage garden bloom, solar round it, full of wild herbs and buzzing bees. You pause wondering who lives there. And then a calm realization.

Perhaps no one does. Or perhaps it's waiting for you.

“In this stellar and peaceful place, you feel the truth of it.”

How beautiful it is to be alone, not lonely, not lacking. But whole and quietly content. This is where our story begins. In a quiet corner of the world, where Bramble had you stitched a patchwork of farmland, to the edge of a vast whispering wood, a woman lived alone and crafted very beautiful things.

At the very edge of the wood, where the trees loosened their hold on one another and the sky and sunlight spilled freely onto the earth, there stood a small wooden cabin in a clearing, where the by time and softened by moss. This place was home to olive, the solitary crafter. Her wooden cabin sat comfortably in a broad open glade, a little pocket of sunlight,

where the trees stood back respectfully, allowing wild grasses and butter cups to dance in summer, and white wooden enemies to appear like stars in springtime. Each year, as winter side away, and the tender fingers of spring pride open the sleeping earth, the blue bell's rain to supreme, unfurling their electric lilac blue carpet across the wood and floor,

The air was pungent with green sweetness.

“The zing of fresh beginnings, and a tantalizing trace of earthy wild garlic”

that brushed the woods with its peppery aroma. All ever dored these mornings best when the world was new and heavy with due drops. The songs of black birds laced the crispness of the dawn, their fluting liquid melodies trickling from the tree tops,

weaving a golden thread of life through the morning mist.

Ventures trailed, robins chirped with plump-pressed determination,

“and the wood pigeons cudd their lazy, lullabys, from hidden leafy purchase.”

From the tiny, creaking stoop of our cabin, all of which sit with a chipped bone-china cup of lemon-barm tea. Her two Indian run-a-ducks, spustling and clocking at her feet, like excitable children. All ever lived alone, say for the two inquisitive ducks who roamed freely alongside her. A soft brown one she named cinnamon, and a gleaming white one called Francis. All I've loved to see them in the morning light,

splashing in the little stream that ran beneath an orchard that skirted the glade.

“The ducks were a curious pair, all upright, gangly expressive honks, doubling in puddles and chasing dandelion fluff.”

Their long necks, bobbing in their curious models brightening, even the dullest of days. No other company was needed, all it's hard was full. Sometimes from across the fields, a farmer or ramblin might catch a glimpse of all over the edge of the orchard that bordered her glade. She was a wholesome vision, engently billowing patched skirts, and a faded straw hat, kiggling as she hosed the ducks with her garden sprinkler, enjoying their delight as they darted in and out of the sparkling arcs of water.

Their honking laughed arraising with hers, into the clear sky overhead. The orchard stretched out lazily there, thick with apple and plum trees. In spring, the branches were laden with clouds of white and pink blossoms, and their fragrance strong and sweet, drifted on the breeze through olives open windows. These were the times when the days lengthened, bringing the inside and the outside seamlessly together,

feeling almost endless, until the first frosts arrived.

Olive's days were woven at her own base. On our ed, taking pleasure in simple things. She gathered wildflowers in the warm devoured sunlight that found her, and she made treasures of yellow archangel, tiny star-like stitch-wort, and spires of fox glove, pressing them later on, between creamy parchment leaves of thick books, until they became pictures she'd returned to with fond memories.

She crafted many delicate blooms into wreaths and bouquets, fresh and vibrant ones to be displayed in salt sooner, and dried arrangements in more muted tones to be enjoyed later. Each one attribute to the fleeting beauty that the woods gave so freely, and olive received was gratitude. The blue bellwoods gave to their mushrooms after rainy days, plump and mysterious beneath the shelter of ancient oaks,

Truffles lay waiting, like hidden treasure, which the ducks helped dig up to if she was lucky.

“The aromatic gems prized in the nearby town for the culinary delight they brought to those fortunate enough to save of them.”

In some a time, olive gathered sweet woodland strawberries, blushing beneath the ferns, and in autumn, when the grumble thickets groaned with blackberries, and the orchid trees bowed under the weight of damsons and mirabel plums,

olive's basket was never empty.

There was always something together. Tender green shoots in spring, and rose hips sweetened by autumn's burst frosts. Olive foraged with care, her fingers deaf and gentle.

“She gathered her harvest in baskets woven from the rushes that grew along the stream,”

where its clear tumbling shallows bloat more quietly into a river, deep and brown.

The river flowed more gently here, its waters glinting under the gentle light that filtered through the overhanging trees.

The orchid behind her home was a kingdom of enchanted. In spring, when the apple and plum trees exploded into frosty clouds of blushing creamy white, the air was heavy with a fragrance so rich, it made the world feel slower. Dreamyers somehow.

“The mirabel plums blushed golden among the leaves, bright and new, in the duty morning light.”

The damsons wore coats of dusky velvet, and the Victoria plums grew as rosy and proud as can be,

in the barmy late summer sun, their translucent fullness promising all sorts of tasty offerings, from pies and tarts, to sticky glistening preserves that would be enjoyed later on as the days drew in, fills with golden autumn light. Inside olives cabin, the scent of jam simmering in great bubbling pots, wound itself enticingly around the home.

Glistening jars of every size and shape neatly lined her shelves, each brimming with the riches of the seasons, gleaming black pre-preserves, and a huge apple butter, and jams as dark as the autumn nights. Olive stirred in chantment into her recipes in a sun-wise direction, enchanting this one with good fortune, and that one with love. This one with protection, and that one with vibrancy.

A small gust of magical will, and a sprinkling of care. Olive topped each finished jar with a meat round of cotton tied with twine. As she definitely wound the twine around each one, she would find in magic and intention with her expert fingers, finishing with a neat bow. She would tuck a little note into the twine, that she hoped would bring a smile to her customers when they opened it.

Then, she would step back to admire it, pleased with her work. In the golden quietude of an afternoon, where honeyed sunlight glowed across her worn wooden table, Olive sat, and inspired in chantris, cloaked in quiet reflection.

Her well-kept clean nails, and long elegant fingers danced across fabric and thread,

clay or paper, whatever medium had the lock to fall beneath their touch. Her beautiful hands were instruments of creation, often adorned with little flecks of paint, or a soft dusting of flower.

“She shaped things the way dreams take form, organically, gently, with a secret smile playing at the corner of her lips.”

A curl of ribbon here, an intricate stitch there, as she sighed contentedly.

Olive's crafting was like watching magic happen slowly. Each piece, a story unfolding through a rather beautiful choreography of hands that remembered what it meant to love the world and all its beauty, to make something new from it.

Olive had a place for everything.

“The walls on one side of her cabin were lined with bespoke, repurposed antique cabinetry,”

with butter yellow painted shaker doors, and aged brass handles. The cabinetry housed compartments for all types of fabric, twine and ribbon, a library of texture and colour to choose from, for each and every one of her plans and sometimes more spontaneous projects. Each compartment held wooden, duff-tailed joint head boxes, and drawers that could be smoothly pulled out,

“to reveal their immaculately ordered contents.”

She even had a place where she stored and displayed, barraged, or acquired items for assemblage art that was yet to be created. Olive had an eye for collecting interesting and beautiful objects, and an imagination for their future potential of what could be. She had a knack for putting things together, and displaying them in an artful and pleasing way, a nimble hands turning this way in that as she worked her magic. Rose of embroidery silks gains painted and neat rainbow of colour in every hue imaginable.

Crafting tools hung glinting at their stations, kissed with the morning light each day, ready for the work to begin. Beautiful paintbrushes stood in sequential size and shape, upright and prepared to be selected for use. Watercolour pans were next to the brushes, and oil colour tubes, a bit messier through use, lay scattered in organized chaos in their own compartment too. Every type and texture of paper lay waiting in wide printer straws, each blank canvas that invited olive's artful attention. Near the open kitchen window where olive washed her utensils, her cottage garden sprawled, a riotous tangle of holly hocks, nostations, sweet bees and rosemary presided over by softly-droning bees, and the gossip of gold finches.

The day, the light that flooded olive's home was warm and full of dancing modes, and as evening fell, the cabins white washed walls were painted with the soft flicker of a friendly lantern. The specially during those quiet evenings, with the cool breath of spring at her windows, that olive truly knew herself.

Pulling her blue-ging and curtains closed, olive would curl into the soft embrace of her wide, worn over stuffed armchair.

“Rain in April, padded to two against the roof, but inside, her world was a cocoon of golden warmth, and the only other sound was the comforting crackle of the fire that danced with pictures.”

A favorite book, bound in green leather with gold leaf lettering, was often close at hand. She would open its weighty cover with reverence, losing herself in tales of faraway lands, where the stars sang, and the trees whispered secrets to wandering travellers passing through, in search of their art's desires.

Sometimes, the fireflies would call her.

“She would notice them flickering like stars caught low to the earth, dancing beyond the orchard, where the meadow opened up, a gentle rolling sea of grasses and wildflowers kissed with moon memes.”

And there, a moan path meandered into the growing, velvety darkness, acquired invitation to those who might walk it at twilight. Rapping the soft knitted blanket around her shoulders and taking up her lantern, olive would follow the lights, accompanied by the sound of the crickets and the frogs singing their twilight song. They led her to the little stream beyond which murmured an ancient lullaby.

“It whispered over mossy stepping stones that she would pick her way across, the cool water rushing over her boots, when the rainfall had lately been heavier.”

Beyond the meadow, in the moan shadows, they waited a place between waking and dreaming. The fireflies danced the jig to a tune only they and olive could hear, painting their soft pulsing glow into the air. Decadence of the rising and falling of their light was reassuring and olive felt pure peace. And sometimes, foxes cried their melancholy songs in the distance, a sound both wild and mournful, their voices curling and echoing through the hedge line ditches and far off woods beyond. Olive would lay her blanket down in the middle of it all, placing her lantern at her side, the grass whispering beside her.

Lying back, she would gaze up into the gathering darkness and watch as the first stars pricked holes in the indigo sky.

Olive loved to lay nestled on her soft wool and blanket. It's familiar threads warming her as the harsh of night unfolded over her. The sky shimmered above, a vast breathtaking storybook. The constellations turned slowly overhead, Casio Pierre, Orion with his steadfast belt. The silver scatter of the pladies, the gentle curve of Leo, the sweeping wings of sickness, and the glittering crown of coronavirus, all watched over her like old friends. Had its shone green and red above, as if glowing just for her, while the crescent moon smiled gently, a silver cradle hung in the velvet dark.

If she stayed long enough, shooting stars would arc across the heavens, trailing faint flashes of rainbows that melted into the deep, dreamy blue.

She had never needed much company, not really. Alone, but never lonely. Olive let the night fold itself around her, a cloak made just for her, from firefly light, and the deep blue hush of the softly dreaming woods.

“Her mind, bright and busy, did not move through life in straight lines, but in spirals flashes of imagination, and brilliant, kaleidoscopic arcs.”

She remembered stories not only in words, but in smells, textures, colors and shapes, forming pictures that spit like minors through the memories she'd collected.

She dreamt in directions that most wouldn't even think to look in. In this world she had created, half real, half wonder. She was entirely, blissfully, herself.

“And when the days grew long and golden with summer, Olive would begin her preparations for the busy market in the small town nearby.”

The morning of the market was always the same, a Jewish start, blackbirds tuning up their instruments, and beginning the slow symphony of daybreak.

Olive rose early, packing her baskets with thoughtfully gathered treasures, until they overflowed, with jars of jewel-toned jam and green dried herbs, and fresh green wooden pesto made from wild garlic, and jack by the hedge. Her morning routine began gently with a cup of tea, brood on her old auger, and a breakfast, consisting of a rich, yoked duck egg, cooked delicately in her very own tarragon and wild garlic butter, and enjoyed with a piece of warmly toasted sourdough.

“Now she surveyed the fruits of her labours, all lovingly collected and assembled, ready to make the journey.”

There were bundles of brightly colored wreaths, bunches of flowers cultivated in her cottage garden, and blooms that smelled of the sun-baked fields beyond the orchard, all neatly tied with twine.

She gently folded her latest, finished quilt, and placed it into the cart. There was a special wooden chest, to hold small containers of precious ointments and preparations made with night blooming jasmine, honey suckle, and daisies. Small treasures and trinkets and pieces of olive's artwork had their own special place too, wrapped in soft wool to protect them on the short journey. Olive wore her linen dress, embroidered with forget-me-notes, and tied her long hair back with a ribbon. After loading her hand cart, being careful not to joss all the precious jars, she would set out along the winding path that skirted the woods and led to the town.

The small market town nearby woke each Saturday with a flutter of striped canvas tents and the sweet scent of roasting chestnuts. The market square positively sang with life, merchants shouting greetings, children darting between stalls, the sharp, happy tang of fresh bread and fruit.

Olive's stall, simple and sweet, was a little island of calm amongst the bustle.

“It was dressed with white calico and wildflowers in jam jars. Her goods spoke for themselves.”

No loud call was needed, only at gentle, welcoming smile. Even watching her set up her stall was hypnotic. Her delicate hands definitely laid out her wares with finesse, the curve of her wrist as she carefully placed each item in chanting.

The items were arranged in pleasing little groups, with effortless artistry and yet, all the while, the display maintained a harmonious balance.

Market goes drifted towards her, drawn by the appeal of her culinary delights.

“The strawberry, blackberry and plum preserves, glistening like jewels.”

By the delicate artistry of the pressed flower frames, tiny nature paintings and exquisite embroidery, and by the simple honest magic she spun into every jar. Every breath, every pie.

She loved to meet the people who are attracted to her stall.

They felt the warm promise of the woods displayed in Olive's offerings, and appreciated the time and effort she put into creating each item. She enjoyed meeting so many characters and having interesting conversations.

“She loved easily and listened to people's stories.”

Strangers paused, drawn in by the quiet beauty of her wares. An old man, a busker, friendly and weather-worn, struck up a tune nearby on his fiddle. Olive loved hearing him play, and gifted him a posy of dried lavender for his top hat. A woman who enjoyed gardening spent time examining the plum jam, eventually purchasing multiple jars as gifts for her friends. Olive, observing the woman's gardener's hands, allowed her to try some of the daisy ointment.

The woman loved the fragrance, and the way the soft beeswax preparation melted easily in her skin. She decided to buy two for herself, and two more for her husband. In between more sales, Olive jotted notes in her linen-bound notebook, catching thoughts like butterflies, tucking them away for winter when she'd reread them. People were fascinated by this crafter who lived for the most part of solitary life. They would ask her how she lived all alone at the edge of the woods, and she would smile.

Her eyes crinkling at the corners. She would explain in soft tones about the blue bells and the fireflies that dance, the tame ducks. The wild geese that flew with the moonlight on their wings, and the way the orchid whispered under the same silvery full moon. The moon shadows, the morning dew, the fox is song, the owl's gentle hoot, and the coolness of the babbling brook on a hot summer's day. And they would sigh a little wistfully for a life most had forgotten now to imagine.

Olive lived a life that many angni-dremed off. She slept well, content, and fulfilled from her days in the fresh air.

artfully pressing wild flowers, sewing intricate embroideries and patchwork quilt designs,

“depicting the nature around about her and her way of living.”

Baking apple pies, gathering plums and black grease for jam, neatly arranging jars and preparations in rows on wooden shelves. Everything had its own place in the little cabin, and calmness prevailed.

Her hands were always busy, her mind always calm, and every moment was peaceful.

At the end of a market day, when the sun slipped low, and the world was dipped in warm use of lilac and gold, Olive would trundle her cart home, her heart fell. The ducks would greet Olive with excited honks, chasing each other around the garden and absurd comic circles.

“She would laugh, gather up her skirts, and join them for a moment, dancing barefoot in the cool grass.”

As the late Amber afternoon began to lean into evening, Olive would notice the coolness creeping in and close her window, pulling her curtains against the dusk. The cabin glowed with lantern light, the scent of wood smoke and warm apples curling through the air. Outside the geese murmured in their straw bed, the fireflies began their slow golden dance,

and the first stars blinked patiently in the velvet dark.

Later, Olive would settle back into her chair.

“The night was drawing in, but the walls of the cabin were warm and close,”

and she enjoyed the comfort of the fire, pairing in the half. Its flames murmuring and crackling softly, as though it was in conversation, reminiscing with her in the night. While golden light spilled over a thick knit blanket, and the pages of a half red book. Her book would fall open easily once more, well worn, and much loved. In her hand, she cosited a mug of something steamy, spiced, sweet, and just the right kind of comforting.

Sending up little clouds of warmth, mingling with the scent of pine locks, and the quiet promise that, just for now, everything was exactly, as it should be. The rain might rattle at the windows, or the wind might sigh around the eaves, but inside. Olive was exactly where she was meant to be. A solitary crafter in a world that spun just slow enough for her heart to keep up. In the winter months, the ducks would spend more time in a little house Olive had made for them,

and Olive would spend more time inside her own cabin too. Olive loved the winter as much as the other seasons. It was a quiet time for half light reflection, when she could look forward to rereading her notebook of gathered memories in peace.

The first snow had fallen overnight, quiet, and sure.

When Olive pushed open her door that morning, the world beyond the glade was smoothed into soft whiteness. The trees pouted with icing sugar, the stream secreted under a glassy skin of ice. The orchard cradling clouds of snow in its bare, lace-work branches. The geese honkt and sleepy indignation, but quickly forgot their complaints,

The golden kernels gleaming against the pale ground.

“Now, evening had folded itself around the cabin, and the fire crackled steadily in the grate,”

throwing warm light across the room. The wooden walls lined with shelves of books, baskets of dried herbs and jars of preserved,

seemed to lean closer, embracing her, with her gentle, time-worn scent of pine.

Outside, the wind combed the trees with ghostly fingers, but inside, there was a soft humming warmth.

“Olive curled into her favorite armchair once again, a deep-old thing with faded tapestry roses on its arms,”

a knitted shawl over her shoulders, and a mug of spiced apple cider resting on the table beside her.

In her lap, was her linen-bound note book, the pages rippled slightly from adventures in the rain and sun.

One by one, she read her scribbled notes, tracing each memory as if she could lift it off the page and hold it again. The violin man and fiddle, a daisy given to her by a little girl that she placed in her apron. The blue bell glates in spring, the fireflies glowing and fading in the night. She had noted recipes and sketched her seasonal adventures, a little map of her glate, orchard, and the market town, along with pen and ink depictions of the wildlife through the changing seasons, or collected now as quiet memories.

As she turned the pages, the firelight flickered comfortably, her heartbeat, slow, and content. Olive added another log to the fire, and as it roared in the half, she wrote short notes to tie to the various jams and chutneys and sources she'd prepared. She loved writing. People who bought her wears were often delighted to find these little notes attached to them, which may have read something like this. Dear friend, if you are reading this, it means you have found something made from a day of sunlight, a handful of wild things, and a great deal of joy.

Every jar I craft is a small piece of my home. It is a gift from the woods, from the rain, and the bees, and the slow turning seasons.

“I hope, as you taste this offering, you remember that there are still quiet golden places in the world.”

You belong, and are part of the story, too. May your days be gentle, and your nights fall of pleasant dreams. With warmth and wonder, olive, the solitary crafter. She smiled herself, a deep quiet smile. The kind that comes not from any single thing, but from the slow gathering of many small joys over time. Olive set aside her letters, and closed her notebook, placing it carefully on the little table beside her, and leaned back into her chair. She watched the embers glow down into a deep, breathing gold. She was warm and whole, and exactly where she was meant to be.

Olive climbed into her downy bed, closed her eyes, and listened to the remembered songs of blackbirds, to the heartbeat of the woods,

“and thought of what else lived just beyond the fields. She was not alone, not truly.”

She was part of everything, embroidered into the blue bells, the ripening plums, the rush of the stream, the flicker of the fireflies. She was a note in a song that only the wild things could hear, and that was enough.

Always, it was enough. In the gentle hush, she whispered a thank you to the woods, to the market down, to the seasons, to the wild and the tame, to the known and the unknown.

“To the whole great tapestry of life, she was woven into.”

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and above, the stars kept their patient vigil.

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

“The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.”

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

“The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.”

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

“The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.”

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

“The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.”

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.

The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark. The fire side, the geese murmured softly in their little straw bed outside, and they were all in the dark.