The Manhattan Solstice | Sleep Story To Fall Asleep

Travel to Manhattan in 1971 to experience a magical sunset that aligns perfectly with the city grid. With the eclectic members of a laundry club that convenes weekly in the launderette of a historic brownstone, you enjoy a night of music and poetry at a speakeasy. A storm offers reprieve as you walk through Central Park and return to the launderette with your neighbors. It's time to dream away.

Transcript

Relax and fall fast asleep in this calm sleep story for grownups.

You are listening to the Manhattan Solstice,

A part of the cozy Launderette series.

In this bedtime story,

Travel to Manhattan in the early 1970s at a sacred time when the sun aligns perfectly with the city's street grid and shines amber light down the middle of urban canyons.

You join the beloved members of the Laundry Club for a night at an underground speakeasy where words and music offer a creative pulse for the city of dreams.

After the show,

You walk through Central Park as a summer thunderstorm arrives and get caught in the rain.

You return home with your neighbors and convene in the cozy Launderette as rain pelts against the windows before returning to your apartment and falling asleep.

It's time to dream away.

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

I am Michelle and as you tune in,

Think of me as a trusted friend.

I am here to remind you of your creative and self-soothing powers.

This is your time to customize a relaxing experience and mental vacation in a way that feels best for you.

Forget about all concerns of today or thoughts about tomorrow.

Relish the softness of your bed,

The safety of your room,

And the sanctuary of your body and mind.

You may let go of my voice and fall asleep at any point if that feels best.

Tune into your breath and imagine it takes on the ease of summer winds blowing across the grassy fields of Central Park.

When surrounded by a bustling city,

One may find peace and refuge within the green space.

Take a deep breath and fill yourself with all the air that your body can hold.

Open your mouth and yawn without a care in the world.

Then sigh,

Let go,

Sink deeper into your bed.

Again sip in a healing breath of air,

Imagining it is a fragrant summer night.

Inhale the dewy grass,

Sweet flowers,

And the Central Park lake in the distance.

Then yawn and sigh.

Exhale and let go.

Enjoy one more round at your own pace as you inhale,

Yawn,

Sigh,

And prepare yourself for rest and sleep.

As you sigh,

Every muscle and every joint and every place you hold tension in your body eases.

The night is for ease.

The night is for dreaming.

Open your heart and mind to all the beautiful possibilities that may come as the story begins.

Though it would be decades before a wordsmith and native New Yorker would coin the term Manhattanhenge,

City dwellers always enjoyed a biannual display as the sun perfectly aligned with the city grid as it rose and set.

The word would become a New Yorker's ode to Stonehenge.

In winter the sunrise centers in the east,

And around the summer solstice the late day sunset pours gilded light through the heart of Maine thoroughfares from west to east before slipping behind the Hudson River.

Like so many things,

The celestial wonder existed long before it received a specific name.

But the modern world is keen on adding to an ever expanding lexicon.

Some city dwellers call it the Manhattan Solstice,

Their pride in New York so deeply ingrained that it makes sense for the city to have a solstice all to itself.

You walk with the members of the laundry club on a humid night in June.

The hot heavy air is a vessel that holds the fragrance of city smells created by grilled pretzels,

Candied nuts,

And the slightly salty perfume of tidal estuaries surrounding the island.

For the unfortunate Manhattanites without air conditioning,

Many congregate in parks and on corners in folding chairs to escape their stifling apartments and play dominoes on card tables.

A fire hydrant gushes onto West 69th Street as children jump through the prismatic water touched by the last rays of sunlight that gleam on the city.

Summer is not quite officially here,

But the weather and vibrant attire worn by locals indicates otherwise.

You walk north on Broadway in the company of your neighbors and fellow members of the laundry club,

Ed and Madeline.

As the seasons have cycled through another year,

The group that once convened weekly within the exposed brick walls of the basement launderette has become a tribe of eclectic friends that roam the Upper West Side on new adventures.

But to you,

It feels like a family.

Madeline wears a lavender cotton dress that cinches around her narrow waist,

With one hand on her hip and the other shielding her eyes from the sun.

She waits to cross Broadway as she leads the crew.

Confetti sized bits of flour remain beneath her nails from the pre-dawn hour she spent baking fresh pastries for customers who roamed into the shop lazily on a Saturday morning.

The smell of buttery baked goods lingers on her skin,

Faintly covered by honeysuckle perfume dabbed on her wrists and neck.

She locks arms with Ed,

Who has become a paternal figure in this independent woman's life.

Despite the heat,

Ed wears his finest checkered polyester suit and beads of sweat glisten around his jet black hairline.

He carries two dozen yellow roses for Dorothy,

His high school sweetheart,

Who he reunited with a year ago.

She is making her first stage appearance in years with a promise to sing Ed's favorite song from Funny Girl.

He has the exuberance of a teenage boy on Valentine's Day and is ready to impress.

You embrace the fashion of 1971 and wear a popular earth-toned paisley pattern used in scarves,

Dresses,

Dress shirts,

And handkerchiefs.

The stitches are durable,

Made in an era where items are built to last.

The three of you are en route to The Cellar,

A speakeasy and underground club in the basement of a Beaux Arts building that was once the home of the city's wealthiest barons and business owners.

The rooftop once served as an urban farm,

Where chickens laid eggs and corn stalks grew against the backdrop of a growing city skyline.

But now the 17-storied building has been divided into smaller apartments where theater actors,

Teachers,

And artists raise their families.

You approach the crosswalk at West 72nd as the fiery gold sun lowers beyond Riverside Park.

The light pours through the heart of the canyon of stone and steel facades in perfect symmetry as it becomes level with the concrete grid of Manhattan.

An older woman with a coiffed hairdo and large octagon-shaped glasses grips the wrists of her twin grandchildren and stops as well.

The stoplight changes and you cross the wide street while pausing to take in the glory.

Your eyes follow the light down the blocks of row houses and luxury buildings to the entrance of Central Park.

The honeyed light is more opulent than the most ornate stone-carved trim of the esteemed buildings that line West 72nd Street.

This beautiful moment is a reminder that wealth is not required to enjoy the finest of Mother Nature's gifts.

An artist's hand is often inspired to replicate the shimmering light and feelings of hope and peace that the Manhattan solstice brings.

You think of the oil painters and watercolor artists in Riverside Park and Central Park at this very moment,

Positioned behind an easel as tourists look on and watch them blend colors and gradients to replicate this biannual occurrence.

Money may have its power in cities,

But New York remains a city of artists and dreamers who forage and imagine to craft a life of freedom.

They create international waves with melodic phrases and articulate words strung together in the historic walls of densely populated buildings.

And while impossible,

It's not unreasonable for a sensitive dweller to feel the heartbeat of the neighbors who share their walls in a bustling city that never fully sleeps.

The sidewalks radiate more heat than the thick air,

And you feel it rise and warm your ankles and calves like a furnace beneath your feet.

Everyone moves a bit slower,

Yet in the recognizable rhythm that differentiates the residents from tourists.

You pass a fruit stand that overflows with ripe watermelons,

Baskets of fresh berries,

And more greenery than one may find on an average city block.

You take in a deep breath and smell the ripe strawberries that thankfully overpower the exhaust fumes of a city bus that idles by the curb as passengers board.

Ed waves to the fruit stand vendor Raphael.

His brief tenure in the neighborhood has yielded more friends and acquaintances than most people will acquire in a lifetime.

Its quirkiness and clumsiness in social settings endear people to him,

They feel safe letting their guard down,

And removing the masks of indifference they wear to assimilate to an urban landscape.

Raphael gives Ed a carton of ripe bing cherries in return for the many times Ed will just happen to be around to watch the stand when Raphael is desperate for a break.

You continue north as twilight sets in,

Offering only a slight reprieve from the sweltering heat as a temperature drops a few degrees.

Madeline leads you and Ed towards an unmarked door that is the entrance to the cellar.

A gaggle of young artists dressed in black congregates on the curb with an air of feigned apathy that long-time New Yorkers all know is simply an act.

City dwellers are perceptive as a means to survive,

And their coolness is but another form of self-protection.

But all one needs to do is ask for directions,

And the most stoic city inhabitant will come to life with an eagerness to help.

Ed greets the young artists like they are long-time friends,

Complimenting the youngsters on how well they blend into the shadows of Gotham.

And as much as they aim to remain stoic,

His ingratiating small talk causes them to break into wide smiles and laughter.

They compliment his suit and call him a hip old man.

Ed opens the door and waves the group of artists in.

You follow behind Madeline,

And Ed closes the heavy door.

Tea light candles and sconces illuminate the ebony walls of a stairwell that leads to the basement.

A sign not much larger than the brass name tag of a doorman dangles on a chain above the archway of the stairwell,

Engraved with the words,

The cellar.

Ed jokes the sign belongs in a dollhouse and not a club.

Madeline explains it's meant to be a secret club,

So having a sign at all may be too much.

You walk down a short hallway with purple velvet tiles on the walls that brush against your bare arms as you squeeze through with the crowd.

The air is cool and the smell of nagshampa wafts from the dressing rooms in a snake-like cloud.

Small cocktail tables scatter throughout the candlelit space,

And an antique chandelier hangs from the ceiling.

Charlie the building super has arrived in advance and secured a table in the back corner of the club.

It's rare to find Charlie in a dress shirt and pressed slacks,

And you almost don't recognize him.

Madeline skips ahead and greets him with a hug.

And you walk behind Ed and settle on low black stools in the shape of barrels.

Tapestries imported from India and made from the fabrics of jewel-toned saris cover the walls.

They contain gold sequins that catch the candlelight and twinkle as a single spotlight illuminates the modest stage.

The audience settles as a trumpet player joins a three-piece jazz band and takes the stage to open the show with a soulful rendition of Summertime.

The horn cuts through the smoky room.

Goosebumps rise on your arms and legs brought on by the cool basement air and the passionate notes of the trumpet.

He plays in a universal language,

One that many may hear,

But only a few can speak.

His lips and fingers masterfully move with an ease that took years of mastery to arrive at this moment of sonic bliss.

There is a silent pause as the music ends and the audience takes a collective breath to enjoy this shift in mood before erupting into applause.

An emcee comes to the stage and introduces Tom,

The poet and source of wisdom at laundry club gatherings.

Dressed in a blue velvet blazer over a black turtleneck and black slacks,

Like many men of the time,

He sacrifices comfort for style.

Tom holds a piece of parchment paper and clears his throat confidently before he recites a poem.

I am my city,

My city is me.

It knows my wounds as it rises beneath my feet.

I walk in its shadows yet seek its light.

In golden rays and on twinkling nights.

My city lives beyond my days.

It keeps me grounded in every phase.

When I think I cannot take this life much more,

I am reminded of the city's core that thrives,

That dreams,

That imagines,

That schemes.

Because I know the city,

And it knows me.

The crowd is full of native New Yorkers and souls who made the pilgrimage to New York with the deep knowing that it was their destined home before arriving.

The poetic message strikes them deeply.

These dark cavernous scenes are the safe origins for visionaries to holy art that may one day inspire people around the globe.

Yet even those who reach great heights in their careers will wax on longingly about the underground community where they first found their voice and found support.

A singer-songwriter that sounds like Dylan takes the stage with an anti-war song.

A magician and comic follow.

And like many performers at the cellar,

They will leave for the Catskills after their sets to entertain summer revelers at resorts.

Dorothy closes the show with a torchy version of people accompanied by the trumpet player and the three-piece jazz band.

The tempo is slow and the snare drums are tapped with gentle,

Whispery brushstrokes as she stands in the center of the stage.

Ed's eyes are transfixed on her and the room is still.

And while even the most jaded New Yorker,

And at times,

Streisand herself,

Might find the lyrics corny at first,

This gathering proves that people who need people are the luckiest in the world.

The Laundry Club has proven this with every gathering of once strangers who became an unlikely family.

You admire Dorothy for her fearlessness in returning to the stage again,

Honored to support her.

She sings the last stanza,

Looking out into the crowd at Ed.

The electric energy of their connection cuts through the nightclub like a lightning bolt.

Their love story is a powerful reminder that it is never too late to find the love you seek.

Silence seizes the room after the final note before applause erupts.

The eclectic array of talent has provided a versatile wave of emotions and a rich experience that is a distillation of the many flavors of the city.

The lights come up,

And first Tom and then Dorothy join you in the support of Laundry Club members.

Dorothy kisses Ed on the lips and then wipes away her scarlet lipstick from his mouth.

She cradles the yellow roses in her arm like a beloved newborn,

And the Laundry Club makes their exit up the stairs onto the city street.

The temperature has dropped significantly,

And waves of cool air weave through hot,

Humid pockets.

The city lights illuminate the dark underbellies of storm clouds that rapidly glide across the blue-black sky.

There is a threat of a storm,

Yet Madeline joyfully suggests a walk through Central Park on the way home.

The detour only adds a few extra blocks,

And so the group acquiesces.

There you enter the park at West 77th Street and walk down the bridle path and towards West Drive.

The conversation comes easy.

With this chorus of voices with such tight-knit bonds,

You often wonder if you have shared other lives before this one.

It is a night of celebration,

Full of pride for the artistic expressions of your dear friends.

Madeline and Charlie walk towards the looming outcrops of bedrock that surround the Central Park lake,

Known as Manhattan Schist.

Rays of mica and quartz sparkle in the glow of street lamps as the air becomes misty.

Red-eared slider turtles lounge on the rocks that rise out of the lake.

The first drops of rain fall onto the lake and create ripples.

The city towers reflect on the silky dark water like a dreamy oil painting.

The fat cool raindrops feel wonderful as they land on your face and arms and pass around the basket of ripe bing cherries.

You take a few and bite into the sweet,

Juicy fruit.

The flavors of clean,

Metallic rain and sweet,

Tangy cherry juice arrive on your palate with a profile that captures this magical moment.

The skies open up and the rain falls harder.

With the inevitability of becoming soaked,

The members of the laundry club surrender to the storm and embrace it.

Madeline and Dorothy begin to dance and spin in the rain.

Tom and Charlie are reserved and stand aside until Ed chides them for acting like old grumps and so they join in the fun.

Everyone will spend their lives remembering the summer night caught in the rain with the taste of sweet cherries on their tongues.

The rain washes away the memories of the earlier discomfort brought on by the oppressive heat and brings a promise of new opportunities.

Lightning flashes across the sky as the group exits the park onto Central Park West.

A man in a suit runs towards a cab with a soggy newspaper held over his head.

Every New Yorker knows what it is like to be caught off guard by the fickle weather.

And on nights like this,

It is easier to enjoy it than fight it.

Streams form in the streets and you splash through puddles as the group walks west towards your charming brownstone,

Tom more loose and jovial than you have ever seen him,

Grabs hold of a shiny black lamppost and spins around it doing his best to emulate Gene Kelly.

The laughter of the laundry club echoes down the quiet side street as you approach the stairs to your building.

One by one you pile into the warm foyer that felt too stuffy in the afternoon but is now cozy and comforting.

You follow Ed towards the laundry room,

Dripping wet as you descend the stairs to the intimate headquarters.

Tiffany lamps cast the launderette in warm tones of orange and red.

A silver light flashes through the windows as the storm intensifies.

Madeline puts on the hot water for tea while Charlie gathers the teabags and cups.

Ed removes freshly laundered towels from the dryer that he passes around to everyone.

You bury your face into a plush white towel and savor the fragrance of clean laundry.

Terry cloth fabric is still warm and relieves you of a chill from your damp clothes.

You wrap it around your shoulders and settle into an armchair,

Sinking into the velvety cushions.

Tom lights a few candles in the room and the amber light flickers as silver lightning flashes.

The lights continue their dramatic dance.

As Madeline and Charlie serve tea to everyone's preferences,

You reflect on how wonderful it is to know someone's likes and dislikes so intimately and for yours to be acknowledged as well.

Tom raises his teacup in a toast just before the clock strikes midnight to solstice sunsets,

To art and music,

To cherries in the rain,

And to the magical memories of the past and those yet to be made.

May we always revel in the simple things.

Thank you all for being part of this perfect moment with me.

Everyone smiles and cheers and sips the soporific tea as the adventures of the night present themselves to you.

As Polaroid snaps arranged with care in the album of your mind,

After a swallow,

Ed's eyes light up and in typical Ed fashion he interjects,

You know this group has some good vibes.

The Beach Boys would approve.

He pantomimes riding a surfboard in the center of the room and everyone laughs at this corny yet somehow hip old man.

Silent lulls weave through the sips of tea and sighs in a comfort only experienced when people are surrounded by those they love and trust.

The highlights of the evening are revisited with laughter and joy.

Every new adventure with the laundry club deepens the bonds between souls meant to come together in a city of millions.

To help Ed tidy up after the last silky drops of tea are swallowed.

The rain continues to pelt against the tiny basement windows.

Dorothy gathers the towels to run them through the wash once more.

The rhythmic hum and whoosh of the washing machine joins the patter of rain to create a sleep song that causes everyone to yawn.

One by one the members of the laundry club return to their apartments for a night of sleep.

You trail behind up the stairs and your legs become heavy and tired.

In a delightful way the dampness of your clothes is a reminder of a blissful night.

You unlock the door to your apartment and step in.

Your pet sleepily stretches and walks through the shadows of the apartment towards you.

Your furry animal sniffs at the unfamiliar smells brought in on your damp attire.

Lightning flashes and illuminates the exposed brick walls.

The apartment is cool and the fresh smell of rain fills the air.

You remove your shoes and walk to the bedroom to change into lightweight sleep clothes.

You then go about your pre-bedtime routine and wash your face with lavender peppermint soap and brush your teeth.

You enjoy the tingling,

Refreshed feeling this act of self-care leaves as you prepare for the timeless journey to sleep.

You appreciate every simple pleasure as you walk to your bedroom and peel back the lightweight summer bedspread and cool cotton sheets,

You climb into the bed and pat the mattress for your pet to join you.

They jump up and curl next to your side.

The pillows contour around your neck and head.

As you drift to sleep in a city where millions are already asleep and dreaming,

You think of the laundry club and the warm swells of love and appreciation that start in your heart and spread like rays of light that pour through side streets during the Manhattan solstice.

The positive sensations travel to your face as your muscles naturally respond with a soft smile and your lungs let out a sigh.

You are so very blessed and grateful as you prepare for the bridge to your sleeping life.

The hypnotic soundtrack of rain lures you to sleep as you drift deeper and deeper down to the comforts of your bed,

Safe,

Dry,

Relaxed and fulfilled,

Finding peace,

Finding respite,

Finding release,

Finding serenity,

Finding sleep.

It's time to dream away.

Good night.

Reviews

I’ve listened to this story many times but rarely to the end. Thanks Michelle, for many good nights of restful sleep.

Once again another fantastic story to fall a sleep with.

I love the brownstone laundry club stories! I was so happy to see a new one! Thanks, Michelle!

Wow💟 I was just falling in love with the story and next thing I know 😴💤💤 thanks again Michelle ✨🤗🙏🏻

A new story from Michelle
is always a treat and this was no exception. I do so love the laundry club story's. And of course 1971 was a great year, to be born or even to go out with good friends in NY.
Loved it!!
P.s apologies for the misspelling on your name, as a Jeffrey (with many spellings) I generally try to get it right. Looks like one got past the goalie.🤷‍♂️

Highly recommended,.

Thank you, Michelle🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻I love the laundrette series. Even though it was full moon, I did not catch much about the content. The diversity of your sleep stories is quite astonishing. The night before, I was in Sardinia, and I enjoyed it, for however much of it I heard. Maybe tonight I will be on a snowy island to cool off from the current heat. Or go watch the Northern lights. Or…🙏🏻😴🙏🏻😴🙏🏻😴🙏🏻

Always do well done, so articulate in your descriptions! Love to hear your stories. So soothing-puts me to sleep