A Snowy Victorian Night | Bedtime Story And Meditation

A wintry snowy escape awaits in tonight's calm bedtime story for grownups.

You're listening to A Snowy Victorian Night.

A relaxing sleep story enlivened by Dickensian magic.

Travel through time to a London theatre that serves as a portal to the Victorian era,

As if guided by the spirit of Dickens.

You explore the cobblestone streets of the West End and stroll along the Thames River.

You arrive at a snow-dusted rose garden where children frolic and build a snowman.

You retire in a cozy townhouse as sparkling snowflakes fall in the glow of gaslit lamps.

Greeted by a beloved dog,

You come in from the cold and snuggle together behind the plush curtains of a canopy bed.

To find a place to get cozy and ready for sleep,

It's time to dream away.

I would like to welcome you to Michelle's Sanctuary.

I am Michelle and as you tune in,

Imagine my voice as that of an ally and trusted friend.

You are here to customize this experience in a way that best suits you.

You may let go of my voice at any point and drift to sleep if you desire.

In a sacred time before sleep,

I encourage you to select thoughts and harvest feelings that make you feel good and serene.

When you immerse yourself in a story,

You reconnect with your creative powers to transform your experiences and open yourself to pleasant and soothing feelings.

You may skip ahead to the story if you prefer,

Or enjoy a brief breathing meditation to set the tone for this journey.

Those who engross themselves in fiction are more able to experience empathy.

Charles Dickens once wrote,

No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another.

But first,

It is time to lighten the burdens you carry and release any lingering thoughts or concerns you may have at the end of the day.

Sigh and feel your belly and chest collapse in surrender.

Begin a deep breath,

Inhaling until your belly rises and your chest expands.

When you cannot sip in another bit of soothing night air,

Open your mouth into a delicious yawn and sigh.

Release all your concerns with this breath.

Bring them out into the vastness of a dark,

Starry night.

Take in another breath.

And as your body rises,

A warm,

Healing golden light shines over you.

It shimmers from head to toe and gives you a sense of security and safety.

You yawn as you exhale and let go.

Each yawn signals to your body that you are ready to stand down and sleep.

Your breath returns to normal and in the sanctuary of your room and mind,

You are ready to drift on the ever flowing tide of your imagination as the story begins.

In the years before the pandemic,

The Theatre Royal,

Often referred to as Drury Lane,

Welcomed visitors from around the world.

People traveled to the West End Theatre to get lost in the splendor of musical productions and beloved revivals.

For a few hours,

People would lose themselves in the familiar melodies and stories that took them away from the woes of their daily lives.

The musicals and productions elevated human spirits throughout history,

Bringing together audience members from all walks of life.

The current dwelling is the most recent of four theatres to be erected in this place.

The first theatre was built in 1663.

Back then shows went on in the afternoon and the ceiling was opened so the late day sun could illuminate the stage and actors.

Over centuries,

Actors have reported being visited by apparitions and celebrated the visitations as good omens bringing blessings to new productions.

When one enters Drury Lane,

Life feels timeless,

As though the layers of history are playing out all at once.

On a chilly winter night,

Fresh into a new year,

You find yourself seated in the orchestra section in one of the 2,

000 opulent gold velvet seats that fill the theatre.

You have come to see a performance of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

Given the folklore of Drury Lane,

It becomes hard to imagine a better stage to present the ghostly visions of Scrooge.

The rows of seats look like golden ribbons that float atop a sea of scarlet carpet.

The warm and dry theatre contrasts the cold,

Bone chilling dampness of London.

You take in a deep breath,

And the air carries hints of the sweet,

Dusty smell of upholstery,

The faint floral and spicy notes of women's perfume,

And the metallic whiff of winter brought in on the evening coats of attendees rushing to fill their seats before the show begins.

Every seat has been sold,

And is occupied by patrons who add to the tangible electric energy that pours onto the stage and will be reflected back to the audiences by the performers.

You look behind you to the three tiers of seats that rise towards the celestial ceiling painted in pastel turquoise hues.

They look like golden and scarlet clouds ascending towards the heavens.

Gold ornamentations and embellishments mark the balcony walls and ceiling like royal jewels.

You look at the box seats on the sides of the theatre that have welcomed leaders and visionaries for centuries of change.

The house lights dim,

And the chatty sounds of an eager audience become hushed to near silence as the show begins.

And as you vicariously live through the lens of Scrooge and Tiny Tim,

You ride the waves of emotion on a journey through the life of a broken man.

You find yourself awakened to moments in your life that challenge your sense of self and hope in the world.

You ride the waves of emotion that follow.

You are under the influence of Dickens' words and the actors' performances,

As if you are a Marionette maneuvered by the graceful hands of a puppeteer.

Throughout the play,

You find yourself fantasizing about life in Victorian London.

While there is a sense of dreariness and struggle,

The uplifting messages of perseverance and the authentic spirit of the times brings you deep into the universal human experience,

Causes you to question the purpose of life.

Such purpose becomes clear in a simpler time,

Free of modern demands,

To-do lists,

And electronic distractions.

Tiny Tim utters,

God bless us every one,

Beneath shimmering gold spotlights,

And then the lush,

Velvet curtains are drawn.

The audience erupts in applause,

And the cast takes their curtain call to receive a standing ovation.

You clap along with the festive audience,

And feel your hands tingle and become warm from this moment of extended praise.

The house lights come up.

She watches the audience files out slowly and pours out onto Drury Lane.

You stay behind.

Your intuition urges you to linger with a soft nudge at your solar plexus.

You hear a faint voice within that causes the tiny hairs to stand on your neck and arms,

Urging you to wait a moment.

The house lights dim once the theater is empty,

And the ushers pay no mind to your presence,

As they leave the theater as well.

To the left of the stage,

You see a fuzzy illuminated outline of a man that reminds you of Dickens.

You wonder if it is a trick of the stage lights,

And at the same time imagine if it were possible Dickens would want to appear.

For decades after its publication,

He would read his famous tale in old theaters,

And at famous landmarks in London.

You walk stage right towards the wings,

Now doubting if you saw anything at all.

Your intuition guides you to a separate exit near the side of the stage.

In the shadows of the wing,

You feel something is about to happen.

Presence is a gift you may have experienced before,

And feeling it again awakens in you the ability to trust yourself.

Presence the skill was buried long ago in an earlier version of you,

But here it comes back as a reminder like the visits Scrooge experienced in A Christmas Carol.

You walk towards the hidden exit door,

Led by the golden floor lights that rise above the crimson carpet like sparkling buoys.

You feel light,

Carefree,

And inspired.

You press your palm against the heavy door,

And enter a portal through time.

The nippy air rushes through the opening,

And hits your face with a spiraling cloud of snow flurries.

While surprising,

It also feels good to inhale the crisp fresh air,

And feel the wet flakes melt on your flushed cheeks.

Just as the theater was a welcome respite from the cold,

The wintery night is now a welcome setting for adventure and freedom.

The moment your boots step onto the cobblestone sidewalk,

You recognize you are walking into the Victorian era.

The sounds of horses hooves clack on the shiny,

Wet cobblestone,

And echo down the narrow canyon between low-rise buildings.

You are outfitted in a dark evening coat that cinches at the waist,

And falls beneath your knees.

You stand with perfect posture,

Made easier and even encouraged by the tailored warm attire that pays attention to every curve in your body.

You feel virile and strong.

Your hands are kept warm in buttery gloves,

And you stand still for a moment to take in the sounds and happenings of this 19th century scene.

It is the absence of the hum of modern technology,

Of air conditioners and planes,

Of car engines and electronic devices that you notice first.

You realize you have gotten so used to the noise of your daily life that it is only recognizable once it has disappeared.

An older couple walks by,

Their arms are lovingly locked together,

And their cheeks are the rosy hues of red delicious apples,

Their attire sophisticated.

While the people of this era did not own overflowing wardrobes,

The few articles they own are well tailored and show an effort to be presentable at all times.

Women wear top hats and dark-hued wool Ivernus coats,

While women dress in corseted dresses and jewel-toned velvet capes embellished with beads and silk.

The night is full of celebration as people come out to enjoy the pristine snow that falls and gives a welcome change from dreary winter rain.

The snowflakes are the size of small coins and fall slowly,

As if encouraging you to slow down and notice their intricate designs.

Not one is the same.

You walk for the pleasure of discovery and turn towards the Thames River.

A breeze comes off the water and you walk beneath the barren trees,

Their delicate branches dusted in white snow.

Gas lights illuminate the path.

The enclosed flames offer a sense of warmth and hope.

Each night the lamp-lighters feed the flames and their careful tending keeps the city of London illuminated and the darkest of winter nights.

It is no wonder these lightkeepers inspired romantic songs and stories long after their skills were no longer required.

But in the Victorian era,

These jobs are necessary and appreciated.

The honeyed light reflects on the dark,

Silky water that winds through the city and beneath the London Bridge.

Flakes fall and melt upon landing,

Becoming one with the Thames.

You walk until you see the outline of Big Ben,

Admiring the recently restored clock that suffered from a fire and was redesigned.

And while much will change through time,

The Victorian mechanism to create each tick and tock and dance through time will remain the same until modern days.

Even in the darkness of night,

The facade appears gilded and shimmers beneath the falling snow.

The clock strikes ten and the bells cry out through the north end of the palace and reverberate over the river.

A silver mist hovers over the river bank and slithers through a narrow lane.

Again the tug in your abdomen delivers an urge to follow the mist.

You walk on the lane,

The muddied road now covered with glistening white snow.

Victorian London becomes pure beneath the sparkly white fluffy flakes that now pile high.

The air smells of wood smoke and purple black plumes waft out of the chimney stacks.

The clomping of horses' hooves carry on into the night and mix with the jubilant laughter and conversation of passers-by.

You walk by a pub and the smells of pipes and spilled ales carry out onto the lane,

Contrasting the clean metallic smell of fresh snow.

You approach a public garden surrounded by a black wrought iron gate.

A blanket of snow covers the ebony rails and melts into tiny icicles that hang down the pointed embellishments of the rail.

You cannot help yourself as you brush off the snow and snap a small icicle to inspect closely.

Suddenly you feel a soft pat of snow that hits the perfect target between your shoulder blades.

A small child erupts in infectious giggles as they cry out.

A young couple sits on a bench,

Watching the group of small children hurling snowballs across the garden.

Snow covers the twisting branches of sleeping rose bushes that will awaken and bloom when spring returns.

You gather a handful of snow from the path and pat it into a ball.

You place it in the heart of your palm and continue to smooth it,

Imploring the mischievous tyke who got you to come out for what is due.

The child runs out from behind the snow-dusted rose bush and calls out in a playful voice,

Daring you to throw the snowball.

You launch it with precision and it sails on the winds of fun,

Free of ill-intention until it is received by the child.

They stumble into a snow drift and their giggles pierce the bitter air.

This moment spurs a sense of naughtiness that contrasts the prim and proper Victorian era ways in a similar way that Dickens was able to awaken the world with his words about the various levels of society at the time.

The children continue to run about the garden and focus their attention on building a snowman beneath a gas lamp.

You offer to help them and gather holly berries for the smile and two pieces of abandoned coal that serendipitously fell off a horse cart onto the road.

Once complete,

The children run off to their flats as most of them must rise before the sun to report to their jobs to help their families.

Despite the times,

The children still know how to find fun and celebrate what is fleeting.

You appreciate the reminder they have gifted you during the spontaneous gathering.

You leave the garden and are soon the sole wanderer on the street.

You look into the windows of the city,

Surrounded by life,

As one by one the candles are blown out as the dwellers go to sleep and dream.

The glowing candles and gas lanterns offer a soft amber hue that contrasts the vibrant white lights of the modern world.

And while dimmer,

They conjure warmer and cozier feelings of intimacy and an appreciation for firelight.

More attention is required to preserve the basic needs of light and warmth than you ever give in your normal life.

In this moment you feel gratitude for all that has come easily and thus has been easily taken for granted.

This journey through another time inspires you to appreciate more,

To pay more attention to the details of the world around you.

But such is the gift of travel,

If only in your imagination you become connected to details that are often amiss in the rush of daily living and familiar patterns.

You approach a residential neighborhood,

The neighborhood where Dickens once penned his most successful works to provide food for his six children.

Much like the magic in his stories,

His fortune changed just in time and at the moment of his greatest need,

Perhaps there are markers in the timeline of your life that are awakened on this walk and have proved that things manifest and come to you when they are most needed and you are willing to receive.

You walk down the middle of the lane through the canyon of townhouses.

The facades of the gleaming buildings are flat and rise three stories high.

If it were not for the plentiful windows,

You would feel as though you were walking between two stone walls.

Abandoned Christmas trees are piled along the lane and fragrant the air with their piney perfume.

You look up at the falling snow,

Backlit by a gas lantern,

And are taken aback by the timeless beauty of nature and once again with a deeply felt hunch,

A whisper that could be confused by some to be the whoosh of a wintry breeze,

And an illuminated figure that reminds you of Dickens before it disappears,

You are led to the royal blue door of a townhouse.

You reach within the wool pocket of your Victorian coat and discover a skeleton key that fits perfectly within the lock.

The door creaks open into the foyer and a dog comes running to greet you.

The animal pushes against your cold legs,

Emitting warmth from their furry body.

You inhale the aroma of home.

The air smells of the morning's fresh-baked bread that still softly lingers.

It smells of old books,

Of cinnamon spice,

And of the stacked logs that are piled neatly in the hall.

Your dog is named after your favorite character in a book.

They come running with a leash wrapped around their body as if they have trained you to take them on a nightly walk.

You hook the clasp of the leash on their collar and venture out again for a quick stroll around the block.

Your pup arrives at the snow with the same level of zeal as the children.

It makes it seem this is the most natural response to the transitional weather,

And is something lost in adulthood.

Your dog buries their coal-hued nose into the snow,

And you watch their paws leave prints on the untouched snow as they lead you around the bend.

The street is quiet.

The horses now put to rest.

Your neighbors have gone to sleep for the night.

It is so quiet that you can hear your pup's breathing as their exhalations condense into white clouds in the air.

You listen to the snow crunch and the light rhythmic patter of snowflakes falling on your coat and the ground.

Your attention turns to the only illuminated window on the block.

An orange-gold flame flickers behind six small panes of glass,

And you see a child in a white cotton gown.

Mysteriously,

This child resembles you.

On the street,

You catch the twinkle in their eyes as they smile and mouth the words good night before blowing out the candle.

You make your way around the block,

And the cold has settled in your body in a way that has caused it to go numb.

Your muscles are tired,

But your pup leads you to the front door.

You enter and close the door behind you,

Inside the Victorian townhouse that you call home for tonight.

The ceilings are high and decorated with wide moldings.

The walls are lined in silk wallpaper and painted in your favorite hues.

You remove your coat and boots and slip your feet into a pair of well-worn slippers.

Feeling returns to your face,

Prickly at first,

Then warm.

Your fingers begin to tingle,

And the rest of your body welcomes the shelter from the snowstorm.

Every aspect of winter is best enjoyed in moderation.

On the first floor,

There is the main room and dining area,

With a table big enough to welcome a dozen guests.

Bookshelves line the walls,

And wherever there is space,

A candelabra or tapered candlestick may be found.

You imagine how lovely it would be to spend a winter among all these books,

Nestled by the fire as the snow falls outside.

Every night when the sun goes down on London,

Candlelight and flames of fires dance to their own rhythm.

The light is constantly in motion as if alive,

Licking the darkness like crests of a wave.

You ignite the wick of a small candle that rests in a brass candlestick holder with a curly Q handle.

In the centuries to come,

It will even be called an Ebenezer Scrooge candlestick holder.

But in the 19th century,

It's often taken for granted and just considered a mundane necessity.

You climb up the creaky wooden stairs,

And your trusted dog follows behind.

You arrive at the master suite on the second floor.

The canopy bed is in the center of the room.

Heavy velvet drapes hang around the frame in your favorite color,

With gold brocade that reminds you of the interior of Drury Lane.

Led by the flickering candle,

You walk towards a fireplace and light the dry kindling with a candle flame.

The wood crackles and pops,

And you carefully arrange two logs so they soon catch and burn.

It is easy to feel tired in the Victorian era,

As it is a quiet and dark time at night.

The dimly lit suite causes you to yawn.

You use the candlelight to guide you to an armoire,

Where you remove a crisp white night gown and change into it.

You put on a knit nightcap,

And then walk towards the high bed.

You peel back the heavy quilt and cotton sheet.

You pick up your pet and place them on the bed first,

And then hoist yourself onto the fur mattress.

You draw the curtains around you,

But for the bottom of the bed that faces the fire.

The warm air perfectly flows from the foot of the bed and stays within the cocoon of drapes,

So you are warm and cozy throughout the night.

The shadows from the fire dance on the bed,

Hypnotically lulling you to sleep.

Your pet molds their body into the nooks and crannies of yours,

And you both surrender to the comforts offered in this moment.

Your pet sighs,

And then you sigh and sink your head deeper into the pillows.

You connect with a timeless need for rest and sleep.

You are ready to dream and find insights and healing in the visions to come.

As such dreams have danced through the sleepy minds of those who came before you and who will come after,

They are but a timeless human experience.

And as a night stroll through Victorian London revealed,

Much may change through time,

But so much stays the same.

The words of Dickens find you once again.

Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend who sport on earth in the night season and melt away in the first beam of the sun.

So you begin to drift towards the dreams that come and welcome them as a reprieve and as recreation,

Floating down,

Down,

Down,

Towards magical moments that come with sleep.

Enjoying the quiet and the cosiness of your resting place,

Letting go of my voice and luxuriating in the peace.

And I am going to count you down to a night of healing,

Restorative sleep.

7 6 5 4 3 2 1 It's time to dream away.

Good night.