A rainy summer evening waits for you in Old Louisville at the turn of the 20th century.
You're listening to.
Rainy Night at Belgravia Court,
A sleep story that offers a sunset stroll through Central Park and a gaslit Victorian neighborhood as a storm gathers over the Ohio River.
Walk beneath dripping eaves.
Down boulevards lined with turrets and stained glass past St.
James Court.
And into the hidden garden of Belgravia Court.
Every detail of the storybook setting.
Exemplifies beauty and meticulous care.
Seek refuge inside an elegant candlelit home as a storm rages outside.
Velvet silks and opulent rooms bring the deepest sense of comfort and peace as you settle in your bedroom above a rain-soaked garden.
Release all the demands of the modern world.
As you fall asleep to the sounds of rain.
At the turn of the 20th century.
It's time to dream away.
Welcome to Michelle's Sanctuary.
I'm Michelle.
And I hope as you listen.
My voice greets you as a trusted guide and friend.
Whenever I focus on periods throughout history.
I lean into the moments that most promise a sanctuary.
No era is close to perfect.
But here we find the softness and elegance of another time.
As each story is meant to unfold like a dream.
I was recently so blessed to spend a week in Louisville after receiving a generous scholarship from Vermont Creamery to attend an annual conference.
On my last afternoon,
I took a walk through the cherished streets of Old Louisville,
Or Louisville to some of us.
The neighborhood is renowned for being one of the largest collections of of preserved Victorian homes in the country.
Many filled with remarkable stained glass.
I've always found both romantic.
A clear choice by the artisans and visionaries who poured such intention into their craftsmanship.
They all seem to have the same determination and shared intention.
Make every detail as artistic as you can.
From sweeping verandas to towers and turrets.
To hidden alcoves and engraved wood.
Every small detail showcases something magical and beautiful.
And this neighborhood still exists.
Because of generations of people who chose to preserve,
Restore,
And care for these homes long after they were first built.
As I wandered along the carless Belgravia courts.
I envisioned what this neighborhood.
Must have been like more than a century ago.
When these homes were newly built.
Their stained glass still bright.
Their gardens budding for the first time.
And every detail.
Reflection of the hopes of the people who created them.
Tonight,
I'd like to take you there.
I invite you to let go of anything you don't need.
Adjust any details.
Frame the experience.
You most desire.
And drift off whenever sleep finds you.
There is nowhere else you need to be.
Let's begin by settling in.
As you release a sigh.
Casting out all concerns into the night.
Inhale slowly.
Sipping in this breath.
Like a healing tonic.
And notice a shift in your room.
The air becomes fragrant.
The notes of newly polished banisters and freshly cut summer blooms.
Open your mouth and perhaps yawn.
Before you let out.
Another long,
Luxurious sigh,
As if to say,
This is my time,
For me.
Once more.
Breathe in slow and full.
Yarn without holding back.
And sigh.
Letting whatever the day left behind.
Go with it.
The space around you.
Continues to soften.
The edges of things.
Fading a little further.
As I count you down.
With each number.
You'll travel away from tonight.
And get a little closer to a rainy evening.
In 1905.
Five.
Feel the muscles of your forehead release.
Relax your eyes,
Your cheeks,
And your jaw.
As tension melts away.
Your room begins to glow.
With a flickering light of gas streetlamps.
The amber glow dancing through stained glass and shades of ruby,
Sapphire,
And emerald.
4 Feel your neck lengthen.
While your shoulders become deliciously heavy.
And drop away from your ears.
A promising wave of peace.
Those down your arms.
Through your hands.
And into every fingertip.
The air carries the pleasant fragrance.
Blooming ragnolias.
Climbing roses and sweet tea.
3.
.
.
Feel your chest and back expand and release.
Every muscle alongside your spine.
Softens like warm candle wax.
Modern noise fades into the distant clump of horse hooves.
Rustling leaves.
And carriage wheels moving over bricks.
You.
Feel an opening in your hips your thighs,
Knees.
Calves,
Ankles and feet.
Real pleasantly heavy.
As you inhale once more.
Sensing the hint of the rain in the air.
Or you sigh One.
From the crown of your head to the tips of your toes and fingers.
Your whole body is as relaxed as it has been all day.
The spirit of old Louisville takes hold.
As you journey into the night.
And our story unfolds.
Your newly polished boots,
Laced neatly to your ankles.
Carry you across the velvety green lawns of Central Park.
A beautiful new gathering place in the heart of this new suburb in Louisville.
The winding paths beneath your feet.
Were shaped by the vision of Frederick Law Olmsted.
The very same landscape architect.
Whose work transformed New York's Central Park decades before.
Here near the end of his remarkable career.
His designs bring another peaceful refuge to life.
A place created.
For timeless strolls,
Quiet conversations.
And summer evenings beneath the trees.
The southern exposition that once filled these grounds with wonder.
Has now become a cherished memory.
The excitement it brought to Louisville.
Still lingers in the air.
Not long ago.
Visitors gathered here.
To marvel at new inventions.
Imagining a future filled with possibility.
Now the park has settled into a gentler rhythm.
Its young trees stretching toward the sky.
As the surrounding Victorian homes.
Stand with all the promise and craftsmanship.
Of a neighborhood still taking shape.
Many of the souls.
Leisurely walk beside you.
Visiting the new park for the first time.
Reveling in the rich golden hour light.
The summer sun continues its slow descent.
Sitting well after 9.
During the Dog Days of July.
Warm golden light.
Spills across the emerald expanse.
As deep purple and slate-hued storm clouds.
Gather along the lush tree line.
A small string quartet.
Has settled beneath a shade tree.
With foliage as lush as a peacock's plumage.
The strings of each instrument.
Glint in the last light of the evening.
As the lively song drifts softly across the park.
Every so often.
The melody is joined by the reverberating clops of horse hooves.
The squeaking wheels of carriages.
That pass along the park's edge.
Near a cluster of benches that still smell of fresh sawdust.
A group of young thespians.
Performs a small scene for anyone willing.
To stop and watch.
A modest crowd has gathered.
Perched on the benches.
Wooden soap boxes and wine crates.
Laughing softly as the evening unfolds around them.
The air is warm and thick.
In that way it can get in the South.
Heavy as a cloak.
That lightens in the breeze.
The scent of flowers and grass.
Fills the air with a faintest trace of the Ohio River's rich muddy waters.
The breeze lends a coolness to the evening.
An older gentleman nearby.
Dressed in his Sunday best.
Sits on one of the park benches with his hat resting on his knee.
Grandson.
Not more than seven or eight.
Sits beside him.
As he tells of the summer he'll never forget.
It was the summer that this patch of earth the grand streets around it.
Now abundant with sprawling Victorian homes.
Played host to something.
The whole country came to see.
The boy has heard the story many times and will hear it many more.
But never seems to tire of this enthusiastic tale.
You let yourself listen.
Half drifting as you settle in the grass.
The older man describes it.
20 some years ago now.
In 1883.
The ground just beyond where you're standing.
The very foundation.
Beneath St.
James Court.
And Belgravia Corps.
Was cleared for something enormous.
The Southern Exposition.
It was a hundred days each summer.
For five summers running.
A sprawling wooden hall so vast.
It was said to be.
The largest ever built in the country.
Merely a million people.
Came through its doors.
That very first season alone.
More visitors than the entire city had residents.
But it was the evenings people still talk about.
When the sun went down.
The whole building came alive.
4,
600.
Of Thomas Edison's new incandescent bulbs.
More electric light in that one place.
Than existed in all of New York City at the time.
The man tells his grandson.
The crowds would go quiet just before dusk.
Waiting.
And then an amber glow would begin to seep through the dimming light.
Brightening and brightening.
The Great Hall.
Stood lit up gold from end to end.
And grown men.
Who'd seen it a dozen times.
Still felt their breath catch.
The man tells the boy.
That his father was just about his age.
When they would come to witness this together.
There were fireworks on the weekends.
Concerts drifting out over the lawns.
An art gallery full of paintings.
From halfway around the world.
And the city of Louisville gleams.
By the time the last exposition closed its doors.
The great wooden hall.
Is taken apart.
Board by board.
And the land beneath it.
This very land.
Divided into the courts and boulevards.
Standing among tonight.
The homes rose in its place.
One by one.
Each built by someone who remembered.
What it felt like to stand in a crowd.
Watch a whole building fill with light for the first time.
You find yourself thinking.
How many places built in that same spirit of wonder.
Eventually fade and disappear.
Swallowed by time or circumstance.
A change.
One day in the future.
But Louisville will prove to have a different fate.
For even 120 years beyond this moment.
New souls will lovingly restore these elegant Victorian homes ensuring the lights will never go out.
It's the beauty will never fade.
And even being here.
For the grand opening of Central Park.
The little boy can't help but feel a bit wistful and nostalgic for something he never knew.
Wondering what it might have been like.
To be beside his grandfather.
Taking in the splendor of Edison.
The mood suddenly changes.
As the first hints of thunder begin to grumble.
The old man takes the boy's hand and they rise.
As he insists they better scurry home before his grandmother and mother start to worry.
You make your way out of the park as well.
To wander the surrounding streets.
Gentlemen in evening coats.
Stroll along the sidewalks.
The sense of purpose.
Even though for most.
The purpose is leisure.
Women in long,
Elegant dresses move beside them.
They're silk,
Pastel,
And ivory parasols.
Closed now that the sun has lowered.
Children chase each other.
In a game of tag.
As a fluffy white dog trails behind them.
Barking at them to wait.
Neighbors call to one another from their verandas.
Easy and familiar.
A kind of greeting.
Belongs to neighbors.
Sharing a familiar stream.
And a familiar evening rhythm.
The scent of tea drifts from an open window.
Mingling with distant laughter.
And a few notes of a grand piano.
Drifting out of a parlor's window.
Carriage wheels roll steadily over the brick streets.
And expand.
So lightly you almost miss it.
The first drop of rain lands against your cheek.
St.
James Court.
Folds around you.
She'll walk through this grand and generous neighborhood.
Or imagination.
Individuality found their place.
Against the uniform streets.
Being built elsewhere.
No home is quite alike.
From warm red brick facades.
To rosy pink and lavender three-story homes.
The roof lines offer a soft skyline.
Of gables and turrets.
Against the darkening,
Silver,
Black underbellies.
Of incoming clouds.
Gas lamps lined the boulevard.
Their flames dancing beyond the glass.
The light flares in the halo of mist that arrives.
Forming pools of orange gold.
And the glistening bricks below.
You find your way into Belgravia Court.
Tucked in a way.
It feels like a secret garden.
An island of grass and flowers.
Close through the center.
Two brick paths.
With elegant Victorian homes on each side.
It's smaller and more intimate.
Than the grand court beside it.
Multi-tiered stone fountain.
Adds a meditative song.
Trickling with a soft rain.
Belgravia Court.
Named after an affluent London district.
So gentle.
Almost European atmosphere.
That is quite unlike the expectations.
One has of Kentucky.
More than a hundred years from now.
People will walk these same moonlit courts.
Engaging in novel ghost tours.
In one of the most carefully preserved collections of Victorian homes.
Tonight in 1905.
The homes are newly lived in,
Breathed in.
And absolutely stunning.
You make your way.
To one of the most unique homes along the boulevard.
Tastefully painted in a palette of colors that you find the most enchanting.
The rain falls heavier.
Just as you ascend the freshly painted ivory stairs.
To the wraparound poor.
Where warm gaslight glows.
Wicker chairs wait invitingly beneath hanging ferns.
And thick summer foliage.
Climbs along the porch railing.
The air cools.
Many of the residents of Belgravia court.
Stay outside on their porches and verandas.
Some playing music.
While others get lost in easy conversation.
And while you sit in solitude.
You feel anything but alone.
A sense of connection.
Witnessing the harmonious interactions.
Makes you feel part of something bigger.
Around you.
The neighborhood settles into its evening rhythm.
A glass of lemonade passed between neighbors.
The cascade of evening tea.
Being poured into fine china.
Children being coaxed toward bed.
Of the promise of a story.
The whole street alive.
With a particular contentment of people.
Who are exactly where they wish to be.
Nobody's racing inside.
To get lost in their electronic devices.
The present moment.
Is everything.
There's a stillness to this place.
It has nothing to do with silence.
And everything to do with intention.
Every detail here.
The carved gingerbread trim along the porch eaves.
Delicate ironwork of the railing.
Majestic tower rising above the roofline.
Particular curve of the windows.
Was made slowly by hand.
By someone who care.
Whether it turned out beautiful.
Carved flowers.
In stone and wood.
Gargoyles and bird motifs.
Bring a sense of individual expression and whimsy.
Everything was crafted in the time it took to craft.
Not rush.
Just above,
A stained glass window depicts a night garden.
Catching the last light.
Its deep sapphire panes.
For the storm fully rolls in.
You let your eyes travel slowly.
Along the front of the house.
Reading it as you would read a book.
You hope to never put down.
And while no house is identical.
This one holds its own particular signature.
A rounded turret rising at one corner.
Capped in a dark sleep.
It has weathered to a soft,
Mottled mint green.
Deep-set windows trimmed in ivory.
Against your favorite hues.
Somewhere above.
A widow's walk traces the roofline.
Empty tonight.
Its iron rail glinting faintly.
By the flicker of gaslights.
You feel so safe on the porch.
Loving this home deeply for all its charms.
Feeling its own warmth coming back to you.
In return.
The storm clouds.
Paint the sky fully now.
Deepening shades.
Purples and grays.
The steady,
Generous rain.
Drums against the porch roof.
Lands on the waxy petals of trailing ivy.
Water trickles into the garden beds below.
The scent of wet earth.
Rises up to meet you.
The air becomes a cool reprieve.
As a soft rainy mist.
Kisses your face.
It as the winds change course.
The porch no longer offers the same dry refuge.
Your neighbors begin to turn in for the night.
You rise and stretch.
Finding your way to the stained glass door.
You turn the brass handle.
Step out of the rain.
The air is quite warm and dry.
Circulating from the cracked windows.
You remove your boobs.
And your feet slide into plush slippers.
As you make your way throughout the house.
Closing the windows.
One by one.
Polished wood floors.
Stretched beneath your feet.
Warm underfoot.
Despite the cool evening.
A velvet sofa.
Sits low and inviting near the heart.
Draped in a throw of deep jewel tones.
Silk curtains sway faintly in the drafts from the windows before you close them.
You grab a long,
Wooden match.
From an ornate metal box.
Lined with wine-hued velvet.
You strike it and light candles that scatter.
Every marble surface and lay stoily.
Until they flicker and transform the room.
To a cozy haven from the storm.
The light catches.
A nearby crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers.
And along the spines.
Small stack of books.
Left open on a side table.
Curled at one end of the sofa.
Entirely unbothered by the storm.
A long-haired grey cat.
Sleeps in the shape of a crescent moon.
Her fluffy tail.
Taps the velvet slowly as you approach.
And she begins to purr You sit beside her.
And take in the beauty of the room.
Oil paintings of the Ohio River.
Steamboats at sunset.
Lush fields of Kentucky bluegrass.
Painted with precise brush strokes.
Each room has its own fireplace.
The parlor offers the grandest one.
Always ready to light.
But not necessarily tonight.
It's rained and dark.
Carved mahogany wood.
And a mantle cloth.
Softly above it.
It's brass.
Pendulum keeps time.
Glows in the light of a dozen candle flames.
Silk,
Forest green wallpaper.
Halfway down the walls.
To meet rich mahogany wainscoting.
Table nearby.
Holds a chess set mid-game.
The piece is waiting.
For whenever you return.
A grand piano.
Sits before the bowl window.
Were hand-blown glass bottles.
In shades of raspberry cerulean.
Cobalt and violet.
Decorate the sill.
Amongst orchids and lush hanging ferns.
Despite all the grandeur.
The home feels lived in and cozy.
Welcoming and truly love.
The storm continues to rage outside.
The wind now causing the rain.
Fall at a sharp angle.
Is it on the sofa?
For an uncertain amount of time.
As the candles burned down.
And Lillian,
The cat.
Presses her full purring weight into you.
But eventually.
.
.
As the room darkens.
And your eyelids become quite heavy.
You stand,
Put out candles one by one.
With a brass snuffer.
You keep a single candle.
To light the way as you ascend the stairs.
The steps are smooth beneath your feet.
Polished banister.
Cool beneath your palm.
As it glides upward.
Lillian slowly follows behind.
She does everything in her own time.
Stops to yawn halfway up the stairs.
You arrive at the landing.
Following the dim hallway the main bedroom suite.
You use the flame of the candle in your hand.
To light the candles throughout the room.
A clawfoot tub.
Is position.
Near a bay window.
That overlooks the garden below.
You draw a warm bath.
Turning the polished brass handles.
As water begins to fill the porcelain clawfoot tub.
And you add some fragrant bath oil.
From a cork-topped glass jar from the pharmacy.
And in a time.
When many homes still don't have this luxury.
Your private indoor bath.
A rare and cherished comfort.
You truly appreciate.
On this rainy night.
Candlelight flickers across the porcelain.
As rain traces slow squiggly paths down the window before you.
As you settle into the bath.
You notice.
Almost with surprise.
So much joy comes from these simple pleasures.
The world here is quieter.
Nothing to pull your attention away.
The occasional horse neighing.
Steady rain.
And the sound of your purring cat.
Curled up on the floor.
Nothing buzzing or making noise tonight.
You revel in the unbothered quiet.
Our home built.
For anyone imagined a world never stopped asking for your attention.
Never stopped bringing information.
Your muscles loosen,
One by one sleep you realize.
Is already beginning to find you.
Do you welcome its timely arrival?
You rise from the bath.
Toweling off.
Changing into cotton bedclothes.
The fabric is comfortable.
It's breathable fiber like a loose hug.
You walk through the room.
Making your way to the plush canopy bed.
Tucked beneath the pillows.
The drawer of the nearby nightstand.
Small sachets of lavender.
Release their scent as you settle in.
Mingling with the smell of polished wood.
Rainwashed air.
Drifting faintly through the cracked window.
Just beyond the pain.
The gas lights continue their steady glow along the boulevard.
The Gardens of Belgravia Court.
Welcome the nourishing rain.
Somewhere down the block.
Porch swing.
Fatally creaks once Bye.
Then fall still.
As its owner finally gives in to sleep as well.
You settle beneath the quilt and sheets.
Lillian curls beside you.
To sigh in unison.
And then.
House by house.
Window by window.
Darkness takes hold.
As the neighborhood goes to sleep Gaslights burn low over the rain-slicked bridge.
Reflects them in long,
Wavering gold ribbons.
Feel yourself sinking deeper into the bed.
Sound of rain against the glass,
Slowing her breath without any effort at all.
There's nowhere else to be tonight.
There is only this room.
Was rain.
The soft and steady quiet.
You are held by the safety and comfort of Belgravia Court.
As the rain melts you.
And the magic of another era.
Guide you across the bridge to sleep.
Finding peace.
Finding stillness.
Finding serenity.
Finding sleep.
It's time to dream away.
