0:01

Welcome to bedtime

0:03

stories for grown ups

0:06

in which nothing

0:08

much happens. You'll

0:10

feel good and then you

0:13

fall asleep. I'm

0:16

Catherine Nikolay. I

0:18

write and read all the stories you

0:20

hear. A Nothing Much Happens

0:23

with audio engineering by Bob Whittersheim.

0:27

Want to live in the village of nothing

0:29

much. There are

0:32

some ways to get in there. Bonus

0:35

and ad free episodes, cozy

0:38

and mh hoodies and mugs and

0:40

pencils, and my beautifully

0:42

illustrated book, well lots

0:44

more all it Nothing Much

0:46

Happens dot com. Busy

0:50

minds need a place to rest.

0:54

I've written you a soft

0:56

landing, a

0:59

simple story to rest your

1:01

attention on. I'll

1:04

tell it twice, and I'll go a

1:06

little slower the second time through. Just

1:10

by listening, you'll shift your

1:12

brain activity and put yourself

1:14

in a place where sleep will

1:17

come. If

1:19

you waken the night, you can listen

1:22

again or think

1:24

through any parts that you can remember.

1:27

Your brain will shift again and

1:29

you will fall right back to sleep.

1:33

We're creating a conditioned response,

1:36

so know that the more you do this, the

1:39

more reliable your sleep will be. If

1:43

you're new here, well

1:46

be patient at first. All

1:49

right, it's time, turn

1:53

off your light, set

1:55

down what you were looking at, get

1:59

the right pillow in the right spot,

2:02

and make your own comfort your

2:05

first priority. Whatever

2:08

happened today is

2:11

what happened today. And now

2:13

we're here. You

2:16

are safe, and I

2:18

will keep watch together.

2:22

Let's breathe in, deep through

2:24

the nose and

2:27

side through the mouth. Nice

2:33

once more, breathe in, let

2:38

it out good.

2:44

Our story tonight is called beach

2:46

walk, and it's a story

2:49

about meeting the morning light where

2:52

the water meets the land. It's

2:55

also about the first step into

2:57

the cool water, dog

3:00

chasing a stick into the waves, and

3:04

a beach towel laid out neatly in

3:06

the sand. Beach

3:10

walk. Sometimes

3:14

I went in the afternoon

3:19

or just before sunset. It

3:21

depended on the day,

3:25

on the heat and the sun,

3:29

and how many other people might

3:31

be walking today.

3:36

I woke up early and

3:39

decided that before

3:41

I got tangled up in

3:43

any other ideas

3:46

and chores or

3:48

to do list, I'd

3:51

just go. There

3:55

was something a friend of mine used

3:57

to say, when

3:59

endow do what

4:01

you were going to do first, a

4:06

suggestion to trust your instincts

4:10

and not overthink. So

4:13

I trusted mine. I

4:17

put my swimsuit on with shorts

4:19

and a tank top, and

4:22

grabbed a few beach towels and

4:25

the jug. I took on hikes

4:27

filled with ice water, and

4:30

drove out to the beach. The

4:34

lot was a long, narrow space

4:38

that would be full of cars

4:40

and scooters and bikes

4:42

by midday,

4:46

but this early there were only a few

4:48

others parked there. I

4:53

left most of my things in my car,

4:56

thinking that I'd take

4:58

a long walk then

5:01

come back here before a swim.

5:06

I even left my flip flops and

5:09

the footwell of the car as

5:13

soon as I stepped out on

5:15

to the sand. I

5:18

wanted to be barefoot. It

5:22

was cool under my souls

5:26

and damp, just

5:29

the right texture to make a castle with the

5:34

sun was still low on

5:37

the horizon, its

5:40

rays hadn't had a chance yet

5:43

to heat up all those

5:45

many grains of sand. I

5:50

stood still, feeling

5:53

them shift beneath me, wondering

5:58

just how many there might be on

6:00

a beach like this. I'd

6:05

read once that our brains

6:08

run on eighty six billion

6:10

neurons,

6:13

that there are two hundred billion

6:16

trillion stars

6:18

and the observable universe, and

6:23

I wondered about the number of blades

6:25

of grass,

6:28

of feathers, of pounds of salt in

6:30

the ocean, of gemstones

6:33

buried deep inside the ground. If

6:37

I take twenty thousand breaths a day,

6:41

and so do you and everyone

6:43

else, could

6:45

we add them all up and

6:48

divide by grains of sand? I

6:52

smiled to myself as

6:54

I started to walk, imagining

6:58

some sort of cosmic accounting

7:02

an abacus made of stars, multiplying

7:07

my breaths with the wing

7:09

beats of bees. Being

7:14

ankle deep in sand and

7:16

so near the sound of the waves

7:19

did this to me made

7:23

me feel very small,

7:27

but absolutely in balance with

7:30

the bigger universe. It

7:33

felt like finding the red

7:36

dot on the map. You

7:39

are here, and

7:43

here I was, striding

7:47

slowly down the beach and

7:50

closer to the water. If

7:54

you've ever brought little ones to

7:57

the beach or swimming

7:59

pool, or even

8:01

near to a sprinkler, you

8:04

can see it in their faces. They

8:08

are irresistibly drawn to

8:10

it, and

8:12

even in my grown up body,

8:15

I felt the same way. I

8:20

couldn't wait to feel the water wash

8:23

over my ankles, and

8:26

I picked up my pace and

8:28

splashed in The

8:32

cool waves rolling

8:35

over my feet felt

8:37

like relief,

8:42

Like those videos the folks

8:45

working to

8:47

help a sea turtle who's

8:50

been flipped onto his back. They

8:54

get him right side up again, and

8:57

you watch him push and paddle

9:01

closer to the water until he

9:03

slips all the way in and

9:08

it washes over his shell. And

9:12

you think, what a

9:14

relief it must have been,

9:19

how good it must have felt to

9:22

come home. I

9:26

started to walk through the shallows,

9:30

sometimes stepping back onto

9:32

the just damp sand and

9:36

sometimes getting wet up to my knees.

9:42

I watched a time step of

9:44

long legged sandpipers

9:46

racing along the water, chasing

9:51

each wave back as it rolled

9:53

out, and running from the next

9:55

rolling in. They

9:59

had tall, jointed legs

10:03

and long pointed bills

10:05

for digging in the sand, and

10:09

I used to mistake them for piping

10:12

plovers, alliterative

10:14

birds. They were plumper and

10:17

paler and

10:19

short build and a

10:21

rare sight. On this beach. There

10:26

were only a few people walking, and

10:30

almost no one sat up in the sand.

10:32

Yet I

10:35

enjoyed the solitude and

10:38

stopped frequently to turn

10:40

over stones and shells with my toes.

10:46

I carried some into the water

10:50

and rinsed the sand from them in my hands,

10:55

noticing the iridescent insides

10:58

of the shells and

11:00

the tiny specks of color in the rocks.

11:06

I found a few very

11:08

good skipping stones, broad

11:12

and smooth and flat,

11:16

And while most of them went straight

11:19

in with a PLoP, the

11:22

last one skipped across the surface

11:25

four times before sinking

11:27

in. I

11:31

wondered how many times had

11:34

the same flat stones been

11:36

cast out and washed

11:39

back up to

11:41

be scooped out of the surf and skipped

11:43

again. Maybe

11:48

the one I threw had

11:50

been last skipped by

11:52

some one a hundred years

11:54

ago who also

11:57

liked to get up early and

11:59

walk before the sand got

12:01

hot, And

12:04

maybe they had wondered about the hands

12:06

that threw it. Another a hundred

12:08

years before. Ahead

12:12

of me, a black dog

12:15

with shining, wet fur sat

12:18

at its owner's feet, its

12:21

tail thumping into the sand,

12:24

excitedly begging

12:26

for a stick to be thrown into the water.

12:32

The owner lifted it high in

12:34

an arc overhead, like

12:37

they were casting a fishing line, and

12:41

threw it far out into

12:44

the waves.

12:48

The dog darted keen

12:50

on its mission and

12:52

swam for what I guessed

12:55

was the twentieth time this morning

12:57

to retrieve it. I

13:01

watched as the dog caught

13:04

up the stick and turned

13:06

in the water paddling

13:09

to the shore. His

13:12

muzzle was stark white against

13:15

his black fur, and

13:18

the sight of his sweet, older

13:20

face made me

13:22

put my hand on my heart a

13:26

sudden clench of emotion. He

13:30

wouldn't always be able to do this, but

13:34

to day he could, and

13:36

his person was here for it. I

13:41

started to notice a few

13:43

umbrellas propped in

13:45

the sand, folding

13:49

chairs being wrestled into

13:51

place, towels

13:55

unfurled like tablecloths. Then

14:00

was rising higher, and

14:03

the humid air was heating up quickly.

14:08

I was ready for my swim,

14:10

so I turned and began walking

14:12

back in the direction I had come.

14:17

I passed a giant piece of

14:20

driftwood. It

14:23

was bleached white from the sun, gnarled

14:27

and dry, but

14:30

still recognizably part

14:33

of a tree. Maybe

14:37

it had been struck by lightning or

14:40

just snapped by strong winds

14:43

and sent into the water. I

14:47

had washed up here who

14:51

knows how many years ago, and

14:54

was sort of a local landmark. I

14:58

had seen high school student posing

15:01

for pictures in front of it, and

15:04

it was depicted in a watercolor from

15:07

the gallery up the street. Sometimes

15:12

people left shells balanced

15:15

on it, and once

15:17

I'd seen a team of folks

15:20

building a huge sand castle, incorporating

15:24

it into the moat. I

15:30

started the climb up

15:33

toward my car, already

15:36

thinking of the jug of cold water

15:40

spreading my towel out in the sand. It

15:45

was just a simple beech

15:47

walk. But

15:51

how many places I'd already

15:54

been this morning beach

16:00

walk? Sometimes

16:05

I went in the afternoon

16:09

or just before

16:11

sunset. It

16:14

depended on the day,

16:18

on the heat, when the sun,

16:22

and how many other people might

16:25

be walking today.

16:31

I woke up early and

16:34

decided that before

16:36

I got tangled up in

16:39

any other ideas in

16:42

chores or what to do list,

16:47

I'd just go. And

16:50

it was something a friend of mine used

16:53

to say, when

16:56

in doubt, do

16:58

what you were going to do first,

17:04

a suggestion to trust your instincts

17:07

and not overthink. So

17:11

I trusted mine. I

17:16

put my swimsuit on with

17:19

shorts on a tank top,

17:23

and grabbed a few beach towels

17:26

and the jog I took on hikes filled

17:29

with ice water, and

17:32

drove out to the beach. The

17:37

lot was a long, narrow

17:40

space that would

17:42

be full of cars and scooters

17:45

and bikes by midday,

17:48

but this early there

17:50

were only a few others

17:53

parked there. I

17:58

left most of my things my car,

18:01

thinking that i'd

18:04

take a long walk then

18:06

come back here before a swim.

18:12

I even left my flip flops in

18:14

the footwell of the car. As

18:19

soon as I stepped out onto

18:21

the sand, I

18:24

wanted to be barefoot. It

18:29

was cool under my souls

18:33

and damp, just the

18:35

right texture to make

18:37

a castle with the

18:42

sun was still low on

18:45

the horizon. Its

18:49

rays hadn't had a chance

18:51

yet to

18:54

heat up all those many grains

18:56

of sand. I

19:01

stood still, feeling

19:04

it shift beneath

19:06

me, wondering

19:12

just how many there might be on

19:14

a beach like this. I'd

19:20

read once that

19:22

our brains run on eighty

19:25

six billion nerons,

19:30

that there are two hundred

19:33

billion trillion stars

19:36

in the observable universe. And

19:41

I thought too, about the

19:44

number of blades of grass,

19:47

of feathers, of pounds

19:49

of salt in the ocean, of

19:53

gemstones buried

19:55

deep inside the ground. If

20:01

I take twenty thousand breaths

20:03

a day, and so

20:05

do you and everyone

20:08

else, could

20:11

we add them all up and

20:13

divide by grains of sand. I

20:18

smiled at myself as

20:20

I started to walk, imagining

20:25

some sort of cosmic accounting.

20:29

An abacus made of stars,

20:33

multiplying my breaths

20:36

with the wing beats of bees. Being

20:42

ankle deep in sand and

20:45

so near the sound of the waves

20:48

did this to me. Made

20:52

me feel very

20:54

small, but absolutely

20:57

in balance with the bigger

20:59

universe. It

21:02

felt like finding the red dot

21:05

on the map. You

21:08

are here, and

21:12

here I was, striding

21:15

slowly down the beach and

21:19

closer to the water. If

21:25

you've ever brought little ones to

21:27

the beach or

21:29

swimming pool, or even

21:32

near to a sprinkler, you

21:35

can see it in their faces. They

21:39

are irresistibly drawn to

21:42

it, and

21:44

even and my grown up body,

21:48

I felt the same way. I

21:52

couldn't wait to feel the water

21:55

wash over my ankles, and

22:00

I picked up my pace and

22:02

splashed in the

22:06

cool waves rolling

22:10

over my feet felt

22:13

like relief, Like

22:17

those videos of folks

22:20

working to help

22:22

a sea turtle who's

22:25

been flipped on his back. They

22:31

get him right side up again, and

22:36

you watch him push and paddle

22:38

closer to the water until

22:42

he slips all the way

22:44

in and it washes

22:47

over his shell, and

22:51

you think, what a relief

22:53

it must have been, how

22:56

good it must have felt to

23:00

come home. I

23:05

started to walk through the shallows,

23:09

sometimes stepping back

23:12

into the just damp sand, and

23:16

sometimes getting wet up

23:18

to my knees. I

23:23

watched a time step of

23:25

long legged sandpipers

23:28

racing along the water, chasing

23:33

each wave back as

23:36

it rolled out, and

23:39

running from the next rolling in. They

23:45

had tall, jointed

23:47

legs and long

23:50

pointed bills for digging

23:52

in the sand, and

23:55

I used to mistake them for

23:57

piping plovers, alliterative

24:01

birds. They were plumper

24:04

and paler and

24:06

short build and a rare

24:09

sight. On this beach. There

24:15

were only a few people walking, and

24:18

almost no one set up in the sand.

24:21

Yet I

24:26

enjoyed the solitude and

24:29

stopped frequently to

24:31

turn over stones and shells with

24:33

my toes. I

24:38

carried some into the water and

24:41

rinsed the sand from them in my hands,

24:45

noticing the iridescent insides

24:48

of the shells and

24:52

the tiny specks of color and

24:55

the rocks. I

25:00

found a few very

25:02

good skipping stones, broad

25:08

and smooth and flat, and

25:13

while most of them went straight

25:16

in with a PLoP, the

25:20

last one skipped across the surface

25:23

four times before

25:25

sinking in. How

25:30

many times had the same

25:33

flat stones been

25:35

cast out and

25:38

washed back up to

25:42

be scooped out of the surf and skipped

25:44

again. Maybe

25:48

the one I threw had

25:51

last been skipped by someone a

25:53

hundred years ago who

25:56

also liked to get

25:59

up early and walk

26:01

before the sand got hot, and

26:06

maybe they had wandered

26:08

about the hands that threw

26:10

it another hundred

26:12

years before. Ahead

26:17

of me, a black dog

26:21

with shining, wet fur sat

26:25

at its owner's feet, its

26:28

tail thumping into the

26:30

sand, excitedly begging

26:34

for a stick to be thrown back

26:37

into the water. The

26:40

owner lifted it high in

26:43

an arc overhead, like

26:47

they were casting a fishing line,

26:50

and threw it far out into

26:53

the waves.

26:57

The dog darted, keen

27:01

on its mission and swam

27:04

for what I guessed

27:06

was the twentieth time this morning

27:09

to retrieve it. I

27:13

watched as the dog caught

27:16

up the stick and

27:18

turned in the water, paddling

27:21

to the shore. His

27:25

muzzle was stark white against

27:28

his black fur, and

27:30

the sight of his sweet, older

27:33

face made

27:36

me clap a hand over my heart, a

27:41

sudden clench of emotion. He

27:45

wouldn't always be able

27:48

to do this, but

27:51

to day he could, and

27:54

his person was here for it. I

28:00

started to notice a few

28:02

umbrellas propped

28:04

in the sand, folding

28:07

chairs being wrestled into

28:09

place, towels

28:13

unfurled like tablecloths. The

28:20

sun was rising higher and

28:24

the humid air was heating up quickly.

28:29

I was ready for my swim,

28:32

so I turned and

28:35

began walking back in

28:37

the direction I had come. I

28:43

passed a giant piece of

28:45

driftwood. It

28:49

was bleached white from the sun, gnarled

28:53

and dry, but

28:57

still recognizably part

28:59

of a Maybe

29:05

it had been struck by lightning, or

29:09

just snapped by strong

29:11

winds and sent into

29:14

the water. It

29:19

had washed up here who

29:21

knows how many

29:24

years ago now, and

29:26

was sort of a local landmark. I'd

29:32

seen high school students posing

29:35

for pictures in front of it, and

29:38

it was depicted in a watercolor

29:41

from the gallery up the street. Sometimes

29:46

people left shells balanced

29:48

on it, and

29:53

once I'd seen a team

29:55

of folks building a huge sand

29:58

castle, incorporating

30:01

it into the moat. I

30:05

started the climb up

30:08

toward my car, already

30:12

thinking of the jug of cold

30:14

water spreading

30:17

my towel out in the sand.

30:22

It was just a simple

30:24

beech walk, But

30:28

how many places I

30:30

had already been this morning?

30:37

Sweet dreams