The Soul of the Atheneum
- Alicia Parrish
- Jul 20
- 5 min read
Do buildings remember?
The moment I stepped through the doors of the Atheneum Hotel, I stopped breathing for a second.
Not because of the soaring ceilings.
Not because of the magnificent staircase curving toward the upper floors.
Not because of the beauty, although it was breathtaking.
It was because something inside me became very still.
Have you ever walked into a place you’ve never been before and felt as though some forgotten part of you whispered, “You’re finally here?”
That is exactly what happened to me.
The strange part is I was never supposed to be there.
For more than forty years I have immersed myself in spirituality, mediumship, synchronicity, and helping others develop their own intuitive gifts. Lily Dale had never been on my list of places I wanted to visit. It simply wasn’t calling me.
Then a friend asked if I would go with her.
She wanted to support another friend who was teaching animal communication. I smiled because animal communication was one of the first intuitive services I ever offered professionally. I taught it for years. I loved it then and I still do.
Did I need another class?
No.
Did I go anyway?
Absolutely.
Sometimes the Universe doesn’t ask you to say yes because you need the destination.
It asks you to say yes because it knows what is waiting along the way.
Looking back now, I realize Lily Dale wasn’t why I was there.
The Atheneum was.
And what I experienced inside those walls has stayed with me ever since.
The week greeted us with unusually high heat and humidity. The kind that wraps itself around you the moment you step outside. We settled into our air conditioned hotel room with two free days before the workshop began, wondering how we should spend them.
Then my friend handed me her phone.
“Look at this place,” she said. “Doesn’t it remind you of The Grand Hotel from Somewhere in Time?”
The moment I saw the photograph, I felt something pull at me.
A magnificent Victorian hotel overlooking Chautauqua Lake.
Elegant.
Timeless.
Almost too beautiful to be real.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We planned to have lunch at the Heirloom Restaurant inside the hotel. I called ahead to ask if reservations were needed.
“No reservations today.”
Perfect.
Or so we thought.
Finding our way into the Chautauqua Institution became its own little adventure. We drove to the entrance only to learn we first needed visitor passes. We backed up, parked, stood in line, answered questions, handed over driver’s licenses, and finally received our tickets before returning to the same gate we had just left.
At the time it felt like a lot of work for lunch.
Now I wonder if the delay was part of the experience.
Sometimes the Universe slows your pace before placing something unforgettable in front of you.
The moment we entered the grounds, I understood.
Everything felt different.
The streets.
The cottages.
The gardens.
The silence.
It was as though someone had gently folded time.
When we pulled up to the Atheneum Hotel, the valet greeted us warmly. I stepped from the car and crossed the threshold.
Built in 1881, she stood there with quiet grace.
The instant I entered the rotunda, the outside world disappeared.
The soaring ceilings reached toward the light. The grand staircase curved upward with elegance. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing everything in a soft golden glow.
I stood there wondering how many lives had unfolded beneath this very roof.
How many first meetings?
How many farewells?
How many family reunions?
How many wedding celebrations?
How many quiet conversations that changed someone’s life forever?
We made our way to lunch.
The restaurant overlooked the lake through magnificent Victorian windows. A warm summer breeze drifted across our table as we enjoyed an unforgettable meal. Every bite tasted wonderful, but it was the view that fed something much deeper inside me.
After lunch my friend settled comfortably onto one of the couches in the rotunda while I wandered off with my camera.
Truthfully, I didn’t wander.
I ran.
Up staircase after staircase.
Down endless hallways.
Room after room.
Photograph after photograph.
Video after video.
I kept trying to capture what I was feeling.
Nothing came close.
The hotel was almost empty except for a housekeeper quietly going about his day. The stillness made everything feel even more alive.
As I explored, my imagination came alive.
I pictured children laughing through these halls.
Ladies in long dresses descending the staircase.
Guests arriving with trunks and hatboxes.
Music floating through the rotunda.
Authors sitting by the windows waiting for inspiration.
Those thoughts weren't forced.
They simply appeared.
Eventually I found myself sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch with a tall glass of ice water and lemon.
The warm breeze drifted across Chautauqua Lake and touched my face.
Time seemed to disappear.
For a little while I wasn’t thinking about yesterday or tomorrow.
I was simply there.
Completely present.
My friend finally texted asking where I had disappeared to.
I laughed.
“I’m on the front porch.”
It honestly felt as though I had slipped into another century and someone had gently called me back.
We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the Institution together. Every cottage seemed to have its own personality. Every porch invited you to sit for a while. Every street felt peaceful. It all looked like a movie set, except it wasn’t pretending to be anything. It simply was.
As we left the gates later that afternoon, our visitor passes were scanned one last time.
We came.
We saw.
We left.
At least physically.
Part of me is still sitting in that rocking chair overlooking the lake.
Long after returning home, I found myself thinking about the Atheneum over and over again.
Not because it is beautiful.
Not because it is historic.
Not because of the wonderful lunch or the photographs I brought home.
It stayed with me because of how it made me feel.
Millions of people have crossed those thresholds since 1881.
They celebrated birthdays and anniversaries.
They fell in love.
They reunited with family.
They grieved.
They laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.
Children became grandparents.
Grandparents became memories.
How many songs have been written while looking across that lake?
How many books began on that front porch?
How many paintings were inspired by an afternoon spent inside those walls?
As someone who has spent a lifetime paying attention to synchronicities, meaningful places, and the invisible threads that connect us all, I cannot stop wondering about one thing.
Do places remember us?
Do our emotions, our laughter, our grief, our love, and our dreams leave something behind?
Or is it simply that certain places awaken something that has always been waiting inside us?
Perhaps that is why I left the Atheneum feeling different than when I arrived.
Perhaps that is why I still think about it.
So I leave you with the same question I have been asking myself ever since.
When we walk into places like the Atheneum and feel something stir deep within us, are we feeling the energy of the building, or the energy of the people who somehow remain?
Is there a part of this hotel that has a soul and could we call it the Soul of the Atheneum?
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