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Good evening and welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy.
Thanks so much for joining us.
My name is Thomas and I'm your host.
But tonight you'll be hearing the voice of Chloe reading our tale.
It's a unique and dreamy story written by Frankie.
We'll be spending some time with a magical and powerful woman who has been found in many forms across the British Isles.
She is the Morrigan, Modron, and Morgan Le Fay.
She is three women in one and a shapeshifter.
Tonight she's making a potion of fertility and protection for the benefit of the islands in her care.
Before we hear that, though.
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One of the favorite perks for our premium members is that every week we release a brand new bonus episode exclusive to the premium feed.
Tomorrow night, TK will be back to read to us.
Our story takes place on a peaceful farm where you'll spend the day attending to the animals and baking a special treat.
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It would mean the world to have your support.
So my friends, it's time to settle in and prepare for our story.
So let's move through that process together for the next couple of minutes.
Arrange your body with care and purpose.
Listen to what it needs, perhaps more support at the neck, at the knees or hips.
Check in with each part, adjusting and shifting as you'd like.
Craft your comfort like a sculptor, smoothing out all your edges.
Rest comes not only from the body, but also from the mind.
Allow each persistent thought, worry or care to drift away.
If needed, they'll return another day when you're more able to address them.
Now, imagine yourself sitting by a pool of deep water.
As each new thought drifts to the surface, observe it and then allow it to sink back down to the depths.
Where we are going tonight, you will not need these thoughts.
So let each of them sink down, out of mind.
Already, you can feel the healing magic of Morgan Le Fay.
Allow the calming force to wash over you and bring you closer and closer to deep rest.
And now, let's join her in a timeless place where she makes her magic.
This is where our story begins.
Names are funny things, the woman thinks to herself.
She has had so very many over the years.
How many years has it been?
She has lost count now.
Age is of no importance, but names have power.
She has three names and is sometimes known as the three-in-one, the one who is three.
She is found all over the world, but in these little free isles on the edge of the Atlantic she is remembered best.
Firstly, she was the Morrigan.
She likes that her name begins with the...
She is the only one, and should be named as such.
In Ireland.
They respected and revered her first and best as the shapeshifting goddess of protection victory courage, animals and fate.
The Morrigan reflects on this part of her identity as she stands in front of her mirror.
She considers her human reflection and feels the familiar desire to change into her favorite form.
But a raven's beak and little black feet are no better for picking herbs and stirring a potion than her long-fingered hands.
So, for now, she must remain as she is.
The Morrigan moves away from the mirror and crosses her large, elegant bedroom.
It is a circular room with high windows and a higher ceiling.
The space is decorated in shades of blue, with velvet curtains at the windows and around the four-poster bed.
The furniture is carved dark wood inlaid with glimmering abalone and mother-of-pearl.
The Morrigan crosses to one of the windows and looks out over her castle of dark stone.
The windows are all stained glass, casting rainbow light throughout the hallways and rooms.
The dark stone of the walls is nearly black, setting the building out against the rich green of the surrounding forest and the brilliant blue of the sky.
It is small for a castle, with only one tower and a few rooms below.
The tower is, of course, the Morrigan's quarters.
From here, she can see nearly the entire island.
Restless to begin her task, the Morrigan turns and gracefully ventures down the winding stairs to the main part of the castle.
She whips her black velvet coat over her deep red dress and makes for the stables.
Her huge black horse is waiting for her.
Nearly as tall as a cottage, The horse seems almost insurmountable.
But she is a docile creature and waits patiently as the morrigan swings herself gracefully onto her back.
They trot out of the stables together and follow one of the innumerable animal paths through the forest.
What ingredients of her potion should she collect first?
Those needed for protection, perhaps.
They are the most important, and the most numerous.
She turns her horse towards a thicket of holly and hops down to pick a few of the pointed shiny leaves.
The morrigan reflects on the power of protection.
Sometimes protection means being the shield and sometimes the sword, with a point sharper than these holly leafs.
For many years, she protected Ireland, both in times of war and peace.
She protected its heroes, none more so than Cú Chulainn.
Their relationship was complex, to say the least, but she always tried to keep him safe.
As the people's great hero, his safety bolstered and uplifted the people of Ireland forever.
She was always good at picking champions.
Rather than getting back on her horse, the Morrigan leads her from the holly tree and to a nearby patch of aromatic herbs.
She has them dried in the kitchen of her castle, but fresh is always better when making magic.
Dill, oregano, and parsley are all grown side by side. perfuming the air around them.
The Morrigan takes out her small silver knife and cuts a few sprigs, being sure not to take too much.
The Morrigan is a caretaker of this forest, in which she can find every plant herb, flower and root she could ever need.
This is the gift of her island.
The island itself has been called many things over the course of human history and has been rumored to be many different places.
For years, the humans of the British Isles thought volcanic Sicily was her island.
They were mistaken, for her island cannot be found on any map of the world.
It is both part of the world and apart from it.
The Irish knew it as Tir Nanog.
The people of the neighboring island called it Avalon.
Whatever it has been called, it has always served as the base from which she could heal, protect and nurture all other parts of the world.
Having collected her herbs, the Morrigan climbs atop her huge horse once again.
She is looking for a patch of vervain, though she does not remember exactly where it is located.
The island can seem very small and incredibly large sometimes.
The horse carries her unhurriedly through the greenery.
The morrigan hears lowing through the trees. and realizes she is near the cattle pastures.
She gently nudges her horse further into the forest and away from her herd of great red cattle.
A heifer is one of her favorite forms to take when appearing to humans.
It is such an unexpected and domestic animal, yet so important to the people of times past.
She likes to remind humankind that she is as necessary to them as the cattle they depend upon.
The forest becomes dark around the morgan and her horse.
She can feel the eyes of numerous animals on her, but has no fear.
The Morrigan herself, from time to time, runs through this forest as one of the creatures of the dark world.
She closes her eyes and remembers the feeling of having four strong legs keen, pointed ears and a long snout.
Always the lone wolf at other times.
She revels in the freedom and companionship of running through the woods with the real wolves.
They accept her as one of their own in ways that no other creature can.
She has to stop herself from leaning into the yearning to howl at the moon.
Now is not the time.
Finally, she finds the Vervain and adds a few leaves to her collection.
She ties her five herbs into a small purple linen bag and whispers a protective charm over it, making it even more powerful.
She has always known the ways of magic.
But the ancient Britons told each other that she learned her skills from a nunnery or, even worse, from the magician Merlin.
They called her Morgan Le Fay, Morgan the Fairy, and knew her best in connection to an ancient king.
This is also who she is.
Morgan Le Fay turns her attention to the next ingredients on her mental list.
Those for cleansing and healing.
Whatever the many stories about her may say, she has always been a healer.
It was she who took Arthur, her friend and beloved half-brother, from the world of man onto her island to heal and live forever.
More than just a healer, witch and courtier.
She spent her years in Arthur's court, utilizing her skills as a mathematician, astronomer and strategist.
It was her last significant interference in the world of man, but it was also her greatest.
Even today, who knows how many years later, one cannot say the name of King Arthur without following it with Morgan Le Fay.
First, for the cleansing.
Morgan Le Fay steers her horse towards a patch of rosemary and sage that grows on the edge of a nearby clearing and grabs a handful of pine needles as she passes a low bough.
These three herbs are not for stewing in her great cauldron, but for burning during the ritual.
She hops off her horse and collects her herbs, cutting a few extra to smell, as she walks through the clearing, her horse following slowly behind her.
Morgan LeVay looks up at the brilliant sun and closes her eyes, allowing the golden rays to warm her face.
Her thoughts turn to her sister's.
Though Arthur was her half-brother, she also has two full sisters.
Morgan Le Fay, though called a fairy, is the most human version of herself. complete with a family.
Yet, her sisters were facets of the whole woman she is now.
She is the triple goddess, after all.
One sister was evil.
One sister was benignly good, and Morgan herself is somewhere between.
Both good and bad, such as all humans are.
In the same way that she has been three sisters at the same time, she has also been three ages at once.
The maiden, the mother, and the crone.
Throughout the myths, legends, and folktales of these islands run the same three women.
The maiden is young, pure, and free. while the crone is old, wise, and mysterious.
There is yet another name for Morgan Le Fay when she is the mother, for mothers have powers of their own.
Her thoughts are brought back to the here and now when she feels the soft carpet of low-growing chamomile beneath her bare feet.
Morgan Le Fay follows the patch to the flowers and collects a large bag full.
Some she will use for her potion and some she will use for her tea.
Such a wonderfully helpful and healing plant is chamomile, but it alone will not suffice for her spell.
She must combine it with other healing herbs.
Following her nose, Morgan LeVay spots a wild and untamed bush of mint.
She sighs to herself, knowing that this herb needs more work.
She pats her horse fondly on the rump, letting her know that she can graze for a bit while Morgan Le Fay works.
The fairy then turns back to the mint plant.
First, she takes a large handful for her potion.
Then, she grabs a leaf and chews it thoughtfully.
She relishes the feeling of the mint oil spreading through her mouth and bringing the refreshing boost of cool sensation.
Finally, she pulls out her large plant scissors and begins to trim back the mint.
As she works, Morgan Le Fay reflects on the persistent determination of mint to take over any garden.
Like ivy and broom, She has to keep an eye on it for the health of the garden, carefully cutting it back when it gets out of hand.
The sun warms her as she works, and the smell of mint is soon mingled with the comforting smell of earth and vegetation.
She pauses for a moment, wiping the well-earned sweat from her brow, and watches a couple of emerald green butterflies chase one another around.
Her work finished, Morgan Le Fay stands and brushes the dirt from her hands.
She sets off with her tools and her sprigs of mint to find her horse.
The horse is munching happily in some tall, wild grasses not far away.
Morgan Le Fay comes up to the animal and places her loot in the large satchels she brought with her.
She is about to gently chide her horse for forcing her to come so far off her intended route when she spots the last healing herb peeking through the grasses.
Yarrow.
The horse snorts in a self-satisfied way, and Morgan Le Fay decides not to comment.
She takes a few stalks of yarrow.
She pauses, thinking of the final three ingredients she needs.
Mistletoe, lavender, and poppy.
These are plants for peace and, in the case of mistletoe, She debated about adding the mistletoe to this potion, but decided that protection, healing and cleansing were pointless without growth.
Growth in the sense of fertile lands for crops, nurturing development in children and personal betterment of all humankind.
Growth is after all one of the main responsibilities of Modron, the mother goddess.
This is also who she is.
Modron mounts her horse and looks up at the sky. noting the lateness of the hour.
They ride back towards the castle.
As Smodren knows, there is a growth of mistletoe nestled in a juniper tree nearby.
Mistletoe is another plant she keeps an eye on, but the juniper tree seems to enjoy the company, and Modron needs white mistletoe seeds every once in a while for her magic.
Modrin rides her tall black horse right into the stable and puts down her bags.
The few remaining herbs can wait.
She needs to care for her sweet companion that has carried her throughout the forest all day.
Modron makes sure there is food and water before taking a soft brush and tending to the horse's shiny black coat.
The horse leans into each stroke, enjoying the pampering treatment.
Modron hums a song under her breath.
In Wales they used to tell stories of Modron and the long lengths she went to in order to save her son.
They celebrated her devotion and love.
Muldren thinks of her son now.
She thinks of all her sons and daughters in every story told throughout these isles, for she is always in them as the mother.
Sometimes she goes out to save her children.
Sometimes she is their counselor and sometimes she merely waits for them to return from their adventures world-weary and changed.
Having put her horse away for the night, Muldren grabs a few white berries from the lower branches of the juniper tree.
She then follows a stone path around the base of the castle to her small flower patch.
She cuts the purple lavender and brings it to her nose.
Modron takes a deep breath, allowing the scent of the flowers to wash over her and calm her after a long day.
Then, She leans down and picks one large red poppy with papery petals.
At last, she has her ingredients.
She takes her satchels to a grove of willow trees next to a babbling spring just below the castle.
If she looks, she can see the walls through the drooping vines of the willow.
At the center of the grove is a huge pewter cauldron.
It is so large that a man could sit in it quite comfortably.
Modron starts a fire below it and gets to work.
First, she burns the pine needles and sage, walking three times around the cauldron to cleanse it.
She passes each hand through the smoke of the herbs and then her big wooden spoon.
The spoon looks like a small oar meant for moving liquid around and manipulating it easily.
The sky is getting darker, and the sun is making a dive towards the horizon now.
And this magical woman, she is the three in one.
Maiden.
Mother.
Mother.
These are all who she is.
Morgan Le Fay places the rosemary in the cauldron and rubs it around its belly-like walls for the final act of purification.
She then takes a few buckets of water from the creek and empties them into the cauldron.
She thinks about the human world and her desire to heal it.
Renew it and make it healthy.
Into the pot go the chamomile, yarrow, and mint.
The steam from the cauldron smells refreshing and clears her mind.
The Morrigan calls upon her strength to protect humans whom she loves and watches over.
There is a soft plopping sound as the vervain holly leaves dill, oregano and parsley fall into the simmering liquid.
It is impossible to tell the color of the potion, as it sits in the black-bottomed cauldron under the quickly darkening sky.
All that can be seen is the reflection of the sunset from between the tops of the willow trees.
Purple, pink, and orange seem to streak the surface in swirling shades.
Maudron calls upon her deep, nurturing love as she adds the mistletoe berries.
She adds the lavender and poppy seeds for peace of the mind, body and spirit for humanity.
She places her wooden spoon into the potion and stirs, anticlockwise, humming her strange song.
The sun is nearly gone now, but the surface of the potion seems to glitter and sparkle, as though reflecting the golden light of a summer's day.
The triple goddess, the fairy, the magical woman, looks down at her lovely creation.
It simmers happily as she dips her long fingered hands into it.
The potion, which would feel quite warm to a stranger, is merely cool and comforting in her hands.
She cups them, lifts a hand of the potion out of the cauldron, and throws it into the air.
No liquid falls back down on her, however.
It floats away on the wind, over the entire human world.
The goddess's gift of peace, protection and healing falls over her precious green isles as much as anywhere else.
It touches the woods, fields, and hills that have told her stories for generations.
A job done, the goddess looks up at the dark blue sky. and the brightening moon.
She bends her knees and leaps into the air, allowing her arms to become sleek, black wings.
She is the raven once again, and flies into the night to watch over the world.
Thanks for watching!
Thanks for watching!
Thanks for watching!
Thank you.
Thanks for watching!
