Settle in for tonight's heartwarming sleep story where a sense of community makes you feel part of something grand.
You're listening to Midsummer Under A City Sky,
A new adventure in the cozy laundrette series.
Whether you are settling in for the first time or returning to enjoy the nostalgic notes of 1973.
This story brings the perfect atmosphere to reconnect with the feelings of camaraderie with a chosen family.
With quirky characters that remind us all.
That we never know the magical and unexpected connections we may make in a lifetime at just the right time.
Stars and city lights illuminate the night sky as the philharmonic swells in a moment of divinity.
In the heart of Manhattan.
The night comes to a close.
In the cool comfort.
Of a cozy basement laundry.
Where it all began.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle and I hope my voice greets you tonight.
As a dear friend and guide.
The cozy laundrette comes from the remarkable gift of unexpected friendships I've experienced throughout time.
It's surreal to even try and capture the enchanting energy that has recently permeated New York City.
Last night I sprawled out on a blanket in Central Park.
Surrounded by friends and strangers alike as the orchestra began to play.
And I imagined what the first gatherings.
For this annual event or life.
Growing up in a small town.
And moving to the city as a teenager.
I can attest that the same small-town sense of community manifests itself in unique and incredible ways,
Even in a city this size.
And it's always such an honor to share my deep love of my chosen home of the past 27 I consider every story at the cozy laundrette.
To be my own love letter to New York.
You settle.
I invite you to come home to yourself.
Relish the sanctuary of your room and mind.
You create space from the day and all you've carried.
Sit down the weight.
As your shoulders drop from your ears.
A Taoist's eye.
Casting out your intention for peace.
Inhale when you like.
Each breath becoming fuller and deeper.
Bringing you closer to another era.
Another world.
The more you release.
The easier it becomes.
For your imagination to take over from here.
Bye.
Sense the air in your room shifting.
As it takes on the essence of a summer night in Manhattan.
Carries that unmistakable heavy scent unique to the Hudson River.
Briny deep and earthy.
Blending with the roasted candied nuts.
Wafting from a street corner.
Your mind clears.
And you let go of the day.
Allowing the heavy summer air.
To enter your room.
Helping you dress.
4 Bring your awareness to your head and face.
As you envision the fine,
Refreshing mist.
Open fire hydrants.
Spraying into neighborhoods with their cool reprieve.
Your forehead smooths.
And your jaw unclenches.
In this refreshing sensation.
All muscles in your face released.
As you imagine the pure joy of city streets.
Now rewarded from the insular snowy winter months.
3.
.
.
A sigh arrives.
With a sense of deep appreciation.
That spreads warmth and ease through your chest.
Follow that feeling down into your neck and shoulders.
With every slow exhale.
Feel your shoulders sink an inch deeper into the surface beneath you.
Feel that heavy relaxation.
Melt down into your arms.
Leaving a quiet,
Resting stillness.
In the palms of your hands.
The very tips of your fingers.
Two.
Your muscles soften further.
Your chest expands.
Let your belly go slack.
Rising and falling at its own lazy tempo.
Comforting weight of the summer night.
Down your spine.
Your back releases.
One.
From the crown of your head down to the soles of your feet.
You are ready to drift back in time as our story begins.
Perfect weather days are hard to come by in New York.
But they leave impressions that linger.
Effortlessly erasing the memories of the dirty eight-foot snow banks that shrank the sidewalk passages mere months ago.
The summer of 1973.
You're just a few months shy of Barbra Streisand's reflection.
But what's too painful to remember?
We simply choose to forget.
And given the jovial atmosphere of the crowds.
Into the pure pleasure of now being in a city.
Where the air no longer stings your face.
Streisand's lyric rings true.
You meander with the crowds.
Palette of 70s fashion.
Bell-bottoms and long flowing dresses.
Subway tokens jingle in pockets.
Polaroid cameras click and were.
As they capture snapshots of the evening.
The city wears its imperfections openly these days.
But tonight no one seems to notice.
In recent years,
These free summer concerts have helped breathe new life into the park.
Drawing people together beneath the skyline.
To remember just how magical New York can be.
So much can change in a season and especially in a year.
As Madeline,
The group's newest mother,
Is learning.
The dreaded,
Unexpected hiccups of life.
Are so often the turning points.
That make a person realize.
They are more capable.
Than they ever imagined.
Hell again.
And stronger in more ways than one.
The young woman walks by your side.
Balancing her 10-month-old melody on her hips.
All the yearnings of her youth.
The promises to her daughter.
Will experience the Philharmonic and Tchaikovsky for the first time tonight in Sheep's Meadow.
Anticipate it.
To be the most attended gathering.
Since the Free Concerts began in 1965.
The appreciation is palpable.
It wasn't all that long ago.
That Dorset and Southdown sheep roamed the green.
And farmhouses spread out beyond the edges.
What is now Central Park.
Charlie The Building Super.
Has taken the night off.
Helping roll a cart of baked goods made by Madeline's hand.
Buttery pastries and cookies.
That glisten in the golden hour light.
Dorothy and Ed are waiting in front of the meadow with Tom.
Spread out with an elegant picnic.
Spacious enough for a dozen.
Of course.
It was Ed's industrious idea.
Being the child of immigrants.
To understand the plights of Madeline's first year as a new mom.
He insisted she bring along her baked delicacies.
He would sell them with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Had even born in another time.
He'd made quite the talent agent.
His enthusiasm fails to age.
Even in his octogenarian years.
And it wouldn't surprise.
Anyone in the laundry club.
If he made a career shift.
In this third act of life.
Dorothy has saved the best spots.
Close enough.
Feel the breath of the orchestra.
And far enough back.
Feel swallowed by the gentle tide of humanity.
Pressing in around them.
She sits almost aristocratically.
In an aluminum chair.
With lime green woven fabric.
Pair of oversized sunglasses.
Perched on her gray hair.
Row of three gingham blankets.
As laid out as an archipelago.
Dotted with Madeline's pastries.
Arranged on the cloth napkin.
Almond croissants still warm at their centers.
Lemon butter cookies dusted in sugar.
Catches the last of the evening light.
Tiny opal sequins.
Ed has already sold 4 to the family beside them.
Before anyone has even settled in.
His elbow nudging Tom.
With a self-satisfied grin.
You find your place on the blanket.
And the grass beneath it.
Cool and slightly damp.
Still holding on to the afternoon's humidity.
The weight of your body.
Pressing down into the earth.
Feels grounding.
As you let go of the weight of the day.
Baby Melody.
Propped on Madeline's hip.
Takes in the meadow.
With a wide and blinking gaze of someone.
Encountering the world.
For the very first time.
Her small fingers.
Reach toward nothing in particular.
Opening and closing.
Against the warm air.
Perhaps she can sense it already.
Particular electricity of a celebrated gathering like this.
She may not remember this night.
Somewhere.
Deeply embedded in the core of her being.
Is a sense of being loved.
And this chosen family around her.
The same sense of connection.
You get to witness.
Experience yourself amongst these friends who become family.
Madeline watches her daughter's face.
And says nothing.
She doesn't need to.
You see it pass across her own features.
There's a quiet reverence.
Particular look of a woman.
Has survived the very thing she feared most.
Found herself.
Against all the forecasts of her worries.
Standing in the middle of a perfect evening.
With people who love her.
The meadow stretches out in every direction.
You've walked through Central Park.
Hundreds of times.
But you have never seen it like this.
The green is barely visible now.
Beneath the mosaic of blankets and bodies.
Living quilt of color and laughter.
Murmuring voices.
Tiniest trails of green reveal themselves.
Cracks in the mosaic where late arriving guests balance as if on beams.
Nervously chuckling and apologizing.
As they make their way through the crowds to find their people.
Children dart between the edges of family gatherings.
Barefoot.
Their laughter a bright thread.
Woven through the deep hum of the city.
And the rustle of the trees.
A college kid nearby.
Of the scruffy beer.
And curly hair cascading down his shoulders.
Sits perched on a rock.
With his transistor radio.
Crackling fades between Gerald King and Jim Croce.
Before offering an evening weather update.
Clear skies to come.
The scent of the grass is heavy and sweet.
A soft cushion to perch upon.
Brings the promise of more warm nights.
Summer gatherings.
Charlie joins the group in plaid bill bottoms.
And a crisp beige collared shirt.
Dressed up for the occasion.
He settles onto the corner of the blanket.
With a sigh of deep satisfaction.
He looks up at the sky.
In the particular way of someone.
Who grew up sleeping on fire escapes.
Divine reprieve from the summer heat.
Clear sky above a city.
Carries a different kind of meaning.
And it does for those.
Who've always had it easy.
Ed has managed to sell every last baked good.
He holds up the folded bills.
Of the triumph of a man.
Who has won something far more significant than money.
And innocence.
He has.
He holds it out to Madeline.
And presses it gently into her palm.
With both of his weathered hands.
Wrapped around herbs.
For my little grandbaby,
" he says quietly.
And Dorothy squeezes his arm.
Nary a resemblance.
Nor drop of blood shared.
There as real grandparents to Melody.
As any biological ones.
Could ever be.
You think in a moment like this.
Of how many things had to go right.
To share this experience.
From simple visions and pipe dreams.
Polished realities.
Everything started.
As a single idea.
Masterminds like Frederick Law Olmsted.
Who had a vision for this park.
In a thriving city.
Needed greenery.
And an oasis to simply breathe.
Escape the industrial noise.
Scan the crown.
Ponder all the souls.
Found their way to this city.
A place not for the weary.
And where's the Natra croon?
If I can make it there.
I'll make it anywhere The players in the Philharmonic.
Spent countless hours married to their instruments.
With a hope of one day.
Sharing their music with a crowd this size.
The largest crowd the park has ever seen.
And the familiar melodies of Tchaikovsky.
Bring together 100,
000 strangers.
Who may have never heard of his heartbreak.
And recognize it instantly.
As the haunting melodies fill the night.
Every single act of generosity.
Every determined mind.
Serving ideas of beauty and art.
Every curious music lover.
Supporter of the park.
Has made this meadow gathering.
A joyous occasion.
Where all are welcome.
This is what community feels like.
And all humans hunger for it.
Even when they cannot articulate.
That particular pang.
And longing.
Tonight.
As you settle on the blanket.
You feel it being fed.
And nurture.
The nightly transformation.
Of the city begins.
Apartment towers.
Encircling the part.
Begin to glow.
Floor by floor window by window.
Pops of amber light.
Hoar from squares as the sky deepens.
First stars may appear.
Flicker less brightly than the city light.
Toward the West.
The last cotton candy pink clouds.
Pull away from the Hudson.
Where the sun disappears.
The sky.
In deep pinks and fiery oranges.
It faded into deep blues.
Quite suddenly.
Something changes in the air.
A ripple of murmurs and whispers.
Moves through the crowd.
Heads turn.
One by one toward the stage.
As the orchestra players take their seats.
And the anticipation builds.
As everyone breathes together in the dark.
The conductor raises his baton.
And the silence follows.
It's a silence so profound.
You can hear the city around it.
Distant beep of a taxi horn.
Low rumble of the subway along Central Park West.
That shakes the ground slightly.
You hold your breath without noticing.
Everyone else does as well.
Caught in the enchanting hush.
The first note reverberates.
Rising like a wisp of steam from a manhole cover.
Slow and mystical and dreamy.
Cellos bring a low warm sound.
Something that you can feel more than hear.
The vibration travels up through the ground and it's a blanket.
And settles in your heart center.
As if receiving a loving massage.
The violins swell above.
Soaring like the resident park birds taking flight.
Their elegant v-shapes.
Cast against the periwinkle blues.
Of puffy clouds The melody unfolds into the night air.
Singing out.
This is how calm and fulfilling it is.
Simple moments in between the big life events.
Are meant to be cherished.
Melody true to her name.
Goes entirely still.
She may not have the language.
Understanding.
Of all that unfolds around her.
But all she needs.
The vibration in the air.
Delicate breeze through the meadow.
Safety of her mother's arms.
And the smell of grass.
To form core memories of softness and trust.
She blinks once,
Slowly.
Then her face opens.
Into an expression.
Of glee and awe.
Ed and Dorothy in their chairs,
Holding hands.
Glance over at her sweet face.
Charlie and Tom look down at her cherub face as well.
Trying to recall the last time.
They felt that kind of awe.
Noticing it might be rising now.
The spell is broken.
As a commercial plane lights up the sky.
And a four or five year old boy in the crowd.
Begins to enthusiastically shout.
Airplane.
Airplane.
His cheerful declaration.
Rises above the music.
And hundreds of attendees.
Quietly chuckle and smile.
You consider what this gathering must look like from an aerial view.
The ribbons of blankets and park goers spread out.
Bordered by the glittering skyscrapers.
Perhaps many aboard the plane.
Are seeing Manhattan for the first time.
Taking in its splendor.
Before landing and experiencing its hustle and bustle.
The plane moves on.
And the park settles once more.
You lie back.
And nestle your head in your clasped hands.
Watching the night sky.
As a few stray clouds gracefully brush the deep blues in the way.
Of that little boy's perfect interruption.
The music crescendos.
More beautifully than before.
And there's a deeper sense of camaraderie with the crowd.
The orchestra moves through the first movement.
And the meadow moves with it.
The crowd swaying almost imperceptibly.
100,
000 bodies responding.
To the same invisible current.
At some point in the third movement.
The silences become as full as the music.
Pockets of pauses.
Where the city seems to lean in.
Golden lights twinkle.
Beyond the silhouettes.
Of treetop clusters.
In your peripheral vision.
Do you feel a deep wave of gratitude?
The gathering in the laundry room after the show.
As the final strains reverberate through the park.
Before one last brief pause of silence.
You sense the shifting and preparations of park goers ready to return home.
And then the applause arrives.
A sound like weather.
Determined and vibrant.
People rise to their feet across the meadow.
And a slow rolling wave.
Do you stand with them?
It feels good to stretch.
To be part of something this large.
And this generous.
You help fold the blanket.
And pack up with your neighbors.
You know you will carry tonight with you.
For the rest of your life.
You will be old.
Much older than you can currently imagine.
And the smell of warm grass.
And the particular way of summer air.
Will suddenly return to you.
And you will be back here.
On this blanket.
Beneath the sky.
Hearing this music fill the space between the stars.
With a meadow of human hearts.
Beating as one.
Baby Melody.
Has been asleep for the past hour.
In such a deep peaceful slumber.
She barely stirred during the applause.
She is pressed against Madeline's chest.
Held in a sling.
One small fist resting on her cheek.
Her breath steady and perfectly timed.
As though she is conducting.
Something quieter of her own.
Madeline holds her closer You all take your time.
Quietly exiting the park.
As the moon rises high in the sky.
The wood chip paths wind through the dark between the trees.
The air is cooler now.
Noticeably so.
Carrying the night's reward after the day's heat.
Your small group falls into an easy,
Reflective silence as you walk.
Charlie carries the chairs on the cart.
And a folded blanket over one arm.
Tom helps carry the baskets.
Dorothy and Ed shuffle carefully together.
Their arms aloft.
As you pass Tavern on the Green.
Were after so many decades kept apart.
Could at last celebrate their reunion with marriage.
You walk beside Madeline.
As Melody still sleeps.
The baby's head resting on her collarbone.
At the edge of the park.
The city reminds you of its presence.
The rushing yellow checkered cab.
Managing to time the green lights perfectly.
Always considered a good omen.
The subway rumbles somewhere beneath your feet.
And the ivory wash of the streetlights.
Leads you through the shadows of the low-rise townhouses.
Charming brownstone.
Is exactly as you left it.
The window boxes.
Still bright against the stones.
Overflowing with summer's blooms.
Crystal vase of Dorothy's roses.
Still perfumes the cool hallway.
The summer stirs the aromas of history.
That live in the walls.
The sweet woods.
Into the old bricks.
You descend to the laundrette together.
The room smells of detergent.
And cool water.
A comforting reminder.
And the afternoon wash.
That now sways gently on the clothesline.
Just outside in the courtyard.
Even in the hot summer.
The basement remains quite cool.
The machine still occasionally offer a metallic tinkle.
Settling in the night.
Tom puts on a record.
As Charlie arrives with some ice and mint lemonade.
That Ed helps him serve.
Madeline.
With Melody still sleeping in her arms.
Watches them from the deep wing back chair.
With the expression of a woman.
Cannot believe her love.
The ordinary miracle of people.
Have decided to show up for each other.
Again and again.
Outside.
The city vibrates in its nighttime timbre.
Lower and steadier.
Than the daytime soundtrack.
The late buses.
And distant sirens.
Weaving themselves into a reminder.
Of what's just beyond the historic walls.
The basement laundrette.
Tom settles with a book.
A passage chosen to reflect.
On this wondrous night.
Summer Night Riverside.
By Sarah Teasdale.
In the wild,
Soft summer darkness.
How many stars are hurdle?
From the hills of the sky into the river.
To be lost in the water and forgotten.
The city wears its lights like golden spangles.
Glance after glance on the dark and glowing river.
The mists are gray.
And the world is full of a music.
That the street lamps make.
And the ripples sing together.
There are hundreds of thousands of us.
Here in the evening.
Moving.
And shuffling.
A huge and friendly shadow.
The boat that goes to Albany goes by us.
And the night wind blows.
And the river shines in the dark.
He closes the volume.
And you consider how beautifully Sarah captured New York.
So much still similar.
60 years later.
And even another 50 more.
After a while,
The lemonade is finished.
And a delicious sense of sleepiness moves through the air.
Melody stirs just enough.
That Madeline decides it's time.
Charlie walks her upstairs.
Tom stands and stretches.
And says goodnight in this specific way.
Of an over-thinker and creative mind.
Who is already composing the poem.
He will write about tonight.
It holds the door.
Dorothy takes his arm You are the last to leave.
You stand in the doorway for a moment.
Looking back at the quiet room.
The sleeping machines.
Velvety chairs.
The shelves of books.
And to feel it.
Particular fullness.
Of an evening well spent.
Sense that something was added to the world tonight.
And some of it has settled inside you permanently.
You climb the stairs.
Every familiar creak greeting you.
Within the familiar safety of your apartment.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And the city outside is barely a whisper.
Your sweet pet greets you.
Follows you to the bathroom.
Where you enjoy a quick shower.
Washing away any remnants of the summer day into the park.
Freshly clean.
And changed into lightweight pajamas.
You make your way through the apartment to your bedroom.
Without turning on the light.
The honeyed glow from the city is enough to guide you.
As it filters through the window.
And forms wide pools of light on the wooden floors.
You enter the bedroom and approach the bed.
Feeling back the freshly laundered covers.
You find the cool side of the pillow.
The sheets are crisp and clean.
The AC fills the room with white noise.
Drowning out the sounds of the city.
The sanitation trucks clanking and idling.
Down straight our muffle.
Enveloped completely.
By the steady,
Soothing hum.
Of the air conditioning.
The magical night replays in your mind once more.
Its memory is an act.
Of healing and goodwill.
The strings are warm in your mind.
Bringing a sense of fluidity as you dress.
You think back to Melody's sleeping face.
And the young boy calling out at planes.
In the held breath of a hundred thousand strangers.
Leaning into.
The same beautiful pause You feel all at once connected.
And add such deep peace in your solitude.
Your pet curls at your feet.
As the tides of sleep arise.
Like the Hudson lapping along the west edges of Manhattan.
Finding serenity.
Finding gratitude.
Finding abundance.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
Good night.
