Rainy Night In Victorian London | Sleep Story

A rainy sleep escape awaits in tonight's calm bedtime story for grown-ups.

You are listening to Rainy Night in Victorian London,

A sleep story that brings us back to a period marked by the romance of Bronte novels and the magic of Dickens.

Walk on wet,

Cobblestone lanes that double the beauty of the times and their reflections.

The words of British poems soothe you when you step inside a dimly lit bookstore.

You return to a cozy attic flat that overlooks glowing lights and architectural wonders.

As fog and rain blanket the historic city,

You cuddle with a beloved pet by the fire and fall asleep.

It's time to dream away.

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

As you tune in,

Think of me as an ally and dear friend.

You are free to modify your listening experience in a way that feels right for you.

Let go of my voice at any point and drift to sleep if you desire.

Our sole intention with this bedtime routine is for you to feel the most relaxed,

Content,

And at peace that you have all day.

Your thoughts set the tone for a night of repose and dreaming,

So do your best to self-select ideas that guide you to bliss and harvest serene feelings.

When you immerse yourself in a story,

You reconnect with your creative mind and each aspect of the journey becomes real to your body and nervous system.

Indulge now in the magical gifts that come from storytelling and visualizing.

Charlotte Bronte once expressed,

What you want to ignite in others must first burn inside yourself.

If you seek love,

Fill yourself with love.

If you seek compassion,

Nurture this within you.

This time before bed is for you to fill yourself with love and compassion,

Tranquility and peace.

Everyone and everything else in your life will benefit from this time spent nurturing your body and spirit.

And most importantly,

You will benefit.

So let out a sigh and make a sound.

This exhalation releases any tension in your body.

Slowly take in a deep breath,

Inhaling until your belly rises and your chest expands.

Imagine the air in your room carries the aromas of a rainy London night.

The mineral smell of the Thames and clean rain.

The aroma of wood smoke and tea wafting out of tea rooms.

One breath and thought can transport you to another place and time.

When your lungs are full,

Open your mouth into a delicious yawn and sigh.

Release all your concerns with this breath.

Cast them out into a dark starry sky.

Take in another breath.

As your body rises,

Imagine orange gold light emanating from a fireplace and cloaks your body in warmth.

The silky light flows over you from head to toe and gives you a sense of security and safety.

You yawn and then exhale and sigh as you let go.

Each yawn brings your body closer to sleep.

Enjoy one last round of this breathing pattern at your own pace.

Sipping in the air as you inhale,

Yawn and sigh.

When ready,

Return your breath to normal.

In the state of ease,

Your imagination is ready to take flight.

It's time for the story to begin.

In some cultures,

People study the rain with such dedication that hundreds of names are assigned to the varying showers to celebrate their diversity.

Each drop brings its own sound and beat to come together in a soothing orchestra of clean rain.

The metallic tinted droplets fall onto the cobblestone lanes of London as you enjoy an evening walk in another era.

On the cusp of the 20th century,

The soporific patter on the slick stones and awnings of shops joins the ubiquitous clippity-clop of horses leading carriages with their squeaky wheels to residential streets.

The air is cool,

The hint of winter felt in its dampness.

As you revel in the warmth of a tailored coat that hugs around your frame,

The rain falls on the silk of your black bralley or umbrella and hypnotic translucent silvery streams flow over the sides.

A five-year-old boy in brown knickers jumps in a puddle,

Causing his mother to voice her concerns that the boy will be cold.

He looks at you mischievously and smiles.

And you cannot help but laugh and think back to a time when the joy of experiencing a puddle outweighed the consequences to follow.

Seeing your laughter,

His mother laughs as well.

Her hair is in a taut bun beneath a hat decorated with flowers that offer a promise of spring with pops of color.

She balances her umbrella over her head and permits the boy to enjoy a few more splashes before insisting they return home to dry his socks and trousers by the fire.

The spirit of London is bustling despite the rain as city dwellers come out in defiance,

Refusing to let the weather keep them indoors all day and night.

You notice how much people engage with one another,

Politely offering a good evening and cheerio to loved ones and strangers alike.

The friendliness causes a warm sensation to travel throughout your body.

Everyone seems to be connected to the moment and connected to their surroundings,

Not lost in a world of electronic hums and devices.

In the grace of this historic city,

You feel your guard come down and your desire to connect and explore heightens with each step.

You walk along the Thames River.

Big Ben is in the distance but difficult to see through the incoming fog.

The tide is high and the waves are a pearly indigo gray.

The wooden heels of your well-made shoes click on the sidewalk.

Reflections on the wet stones capture your attention as they double the golden beauty of glass lanterns that illuminate the night and add warmth to the shades of blue,

Black,

And gray that dominate the color palette of London during storms like this.

A block away from the Thames,

You come upon a tea room where patrons dine in the glow of cantaloupes in a room filled with opulent jewel-toned silk seats and mahogany tables set with fine china.

The women wear corsets and elegant silk blouses with flouncy sleeves and high necklines made of lace.

Their long,

Heavy skirts flow like the Thames with each movement.

The men wear three-pieced suits in dark blues and earth tones that create narrow silhouettes.

Your attention turns to your attire which exemplifies your preferences taken from the fashion of the time.

These clothes make you feel safe from the elements.

They are durable and meant to last.

The garments make you feel confident and more refined than the clothes that you wear in your waking life.

In the modern world,

These articles make you more aware of your posture and movement,

Putting you in tune with your body and the strength of your spine and core.

You feel a bit taller and stand a bit prouder in this new landscape,

In part from the clothing,

But in part from the freedom you have to be yourself in this place and time where you do not know a soul.

Being someplace out of your reality enlivens the curiosity of your inner child.

You feel okay with not knowing everything.

You are an observer,

Here for an adventure.

You randomly turn down a winding lane so intimate it feels as though you are walking down a hallway,

Peering into the storybook windows of townhouses.

You see families huddled around a table,

Enjoying dinner,

Glimpses into each window,

Our portals into different stage shows,

And introduce you to a different cast of characters in each building.

Such voyeurism is common in cities like London.

Rather than feeling intrusive,

These moments create a connection and sense of pride in being a Londoner.

A young girl with long ringlets that frame her porcelain face sits in a bow window and peers out on the night.

Her index finger curls around the loop of a brass chamber stick candle holder.

The candlelight causes a halo to form around her hair and illuminate her face.

When she sees you walk by,

She smiles.

In part,

She wishes to be out dancing in the rain,

But dressed in her nightclothes,

She is clearly meant to go to sleep soon.

You hear the muted voice of her mother calling,

And she waves at you before disappearing into the darkness of the room.

You continue to walk,

And laughter pours out of a corner pub as live music reverberates down the lane.

The jovial atmosphere lifts your spirit as well as those who walk past and spontaneously pop in as part of London goes to sleep.

Another part is now coming to life.

The warm light in the pub and the high spirits of the patrons once again prove that the rain does not keep the city down.

You cross the street and dart a puddle that reflects a parked horse and carriage and flickering glass lantern like an oil painting that will one day be hung in a museum to depict this era.

But the nip in the air,

The sounds,

The feeling of the cobblestone below you,

And the savory aromas from the pub make this moment all too real.

The fog is as sheer as gossamer.

It lays low as it comes in off the Thames.

The rain is steady but light,

Not quite ready to return home for the night.

You walk to one of the most beloved bookshops in the neighborhood.

On weekend afternoons,

Children come and sit for story time as a grand motherly volunteer reads books to them in her sing-song voice with its charming warble acquired by damp London winters and time.

The shop will close soon and the young cashier is entranced in the newly released novel by H.

G.

Wells,

The Time Machine.

He's so involved in the prose that he doesn't hear the brass bell ring when you enter the warmly lit shop.

Books lie the cherry wood built-in shelves that stand so high that a ladder hangs on a railing that runs around the perimeter of the shop.

A stone wall peeks out in places where books are sparse and small oil lanterns illuminate the store.

You let your intuition guide you and play an often enjoyable game for those who believe in destiny and synchronicity.

You close your eyes and run your finger across the leathery spines of books and count to your favorite number.

As you wander down the aisle,

You stop when you reach your number and open the book your finger lands on.

It is a collection of poems by British writers of the 19th century compiled in part to celebrate the century as it comes to a close.

You randomly open the book to a page.

Curious as to whether the words will have meaning on this journey,

You find a poem by Amy Levi.

Green is the plane tree in the square.

The other trees are brown.

They droop and pine for country air.

The plane tree loves the town.

Here from my garret pane,

I mark the plane tree bud and blow,

Shed her recuperative bark,

And spread her shade below.

Among her branches in and out,

The city breezes play.

The done fog wraps her round about.

Above the smoke curls gray.

Others the country take for choice and hold the town in scorn.

But she has listened to the voice and city breezes born.

The poem captures what you have seen of Victorian London.

And while you need not determine yourself fit for the city like the plane tree,

Or for the country like the others,

You take pride in following the city breeze home.

On this night,

You are a Londoner.

The shop boy looks up from his book for the first time.

For a second convinced that you are an apparition.

Perhaps he can sense you are from another time.

But you don't let on and simply wish him a good night.

You step out into the rain once more and ascend the slick cobblestones up a hill to rows of townhouses that look out onto London.

The rain falls harder and the wind speeds up.

Your timing is impeccable as you come upon your townhouse and insert the key into the skeleton lock.

A violinist lives on the first floor and her melodies escape the thick plaster walls of her flat,

Softly playing through the halls like a lullaby.

Soft tones with rich vibrato soothe you when you pass her door.

Greeted by her mournful violin each time you return makes the sound become a symbolic welcome home.

You ascend the burgundy and ivory carpet that covers the winding wooden steps.

A creek beneath your feet.

Rain falls on the dozens of glass panes set in metal frames that look out onto a courtyard.

You ascend and ascend to the second,

Third,

And fourth floor.

The higher you go the more you can see London outside the window.

The final steps spiral around nearly 360 degrees to bring you to your attic flat once used for storage.

Many rare antiques from decades past now decorate the cozy space.

You open the door to be welcomed by a beloved pet.

The fluffy animal sniffs at your damp attire,

Taking in the scents of London rain.

A few water droplets land on your pet's nose and they shake them off with playful agitation.

You remove your shoes and leave them in the hall next to your braly to dry.

The flat is small in a comforting way.

It's the kind of space one enters and instantly wishes to sink into the many silk pillows and velvet upholstery of a settee near the garret window that looks out on the city.

The colors in the room are jewel-toned and rich with sapphire and gold rugs scattered like soft islands atop the creaking wood floorboards.

Garnet,

Amethyst,

Emerald,

And gold accents marry decadence with modest comforts.

Raindrops fall heavier on skylights,

Their patter persistent.

The glow of London fills the dark room as you light an oil lamp to guide you.

You walk to the fireplace and start a fire.

Soon the crackling and popping of a dry log join the music of the rain and wind.

You walk to an armoire,

A beloved piece of furniture that stores your favorite mementos,

Journals,

And clothes.

Its craftsmanship is so beautiful that you often run your hand over the curves and hand-painted embellishments to appreciate each detail.

At times you imagine this armoire could serve as a portal to another place and time.

You gather a nightcap and cotton gown from the armoire and inhale the fragrant smell of lavender that lingers in the soft fabric.

You remove your damp clothes and drape them over a rack by the fire.

The attic flat brings you so much pleasure with its simplicity.

For such a small space,

You admire its ability to meet all your needs.

The fog is thick and heavy over the glistening streets and the rain cascades down the shingles of neighboring townhouses.

Charcoal-hued smoke squiggles out of chimneys towards the slate gray clouds.

On afternoons when the rain stays away,

The chimney sweeps may be heard whistling as they clean the chimneys and perch themselves on the edges of roofs to enjoy their lunches.

You sit by the fire and peer out onto the city,

Your velvet settee like a mezzanine seat overlooking the theater of London winding down.

Your pet settles at your side,

Its warm body a reminder of the cold that you still carry with you from your walk.

Your limbs become warm and your fingers and toes tingle as the heat of the fire brings back feeling.

A church spire juts against the smoky marine blue sky,

Piercing the dense storm clouds that swiftly roll in.

A lantern glows in the belfry as a young bell ringer sounds off the bells for the last time today.

Simultaneously,

On the other side of the neighborhood,

The peals of Big Ben sound for the last time.

The low chimes echo throughout London,

Accompanied by the sound of falling rain.

You get lost in the motion of the night outside.

Your tired eyes follow the crystal drops of rain,

Slipping down the panes of garret windows that align with the triangular edges of roofs throughout the block.

The architecture offers a sense of charm,

With windows designed to admire the night sky and welcome the light of morning The curls of smoke rise from chimneys and haunt the rain as they slither toward the clouds.

The world here is quieter without the hum of electronic devices.

Even in a city,

You can appreciate the sounds of nature and life around you.

Your attention turns to the room.

Handmade laced doilies scatter the room to keep the glossy wooden surfaces of tables pristine.

Oil paintings purchased from street vendors depict London in various seasons,

From misty nights to summer days.

When rose gardens are in full bloom,

You take in a deep breath and yawn and note that the air has become warm and dry from the fire.

The burning wood blends harmoniously with the sweet smells of the attic,

Of books and old wood and dried lavender placed in glass vases on the mantel.

You feel at home in this home away from home and being here makes you realize how easily you can flow through different settings in this life and still find comfort and peace.

One by one,

The last lit rooms of townhouses become dark as dwellers blow out their candles and dim their oil lanterns and the city goes to sleep.

Your eyes instoke the fire,

Adding another log to keep you warm throughout the chilly night.

You walk to the corner of the flat to a brass bed beneath a skylight.

The somnolent rain patters above the comfortable bed to offer the perfect soundtrack for dreaming.

You peel back one of the heaviest and fluffiest quilts you have ever seen and your pet hops onto the bed.

The mattress springs softly squeak as you join them and settle.

You cover yourself in a plush quilt and sink your head into the feather pillows.

The firelight creates shadows that rise on the wine-hued silk wallpaper,

Calming you with their hypnotic motion.

Your pet settles at your feet to keep them warm throughout the night.

Together you surrender to the comforts offered in this moment and sigh in tandem.

You connect with the timeless need for rest and sleep,

Floating and drifting to untapped pleasures that lie in wait in your sleeping life.

For millennia,

Millennia,

Dreams have welcomed the sleepy minds of those who came before you and will do the same for those who come after.

They are a timeless human experience and as a rainy night adventure through Victorian London revealed,

Much may change through time but so much stays the same.

Floating down,

Down,

Down towards the magical moments that come with sleep.

Enjoying the sounds of rain and the softness of this time letting go of my voice and luxuriating in the tranquil moment.

Finding stillness,

Finding grace,

Finding grace,

Finding repose,

Finding sleep.

It's time to dream away.