Episode Transcript
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0:01
Welcome to bedtime
0:03
Stories for Everyone,
0:06
in which nothing
0:09
much happens, you
0:11
feel good, and then
0:14
you fall asleep. I'm
0:17
Catherine Nikolay. I
0:20
create everything you hear on
0:23
Nothing Much Happens. Audio
0:26
Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
0:31
We give to a different charity
0:33
each week, and this week
0:35
we are giving to Hot
0:38
Mess Express,
0:40
a woman led non profit with
0:43
chapters across the United States.
0:47
They serve the women in their community
0:49
with no judgment through cleaning,
0:53
organizing, and offering
0:55
a fresh start. Learn
0:57
more about them in our show notes. I'd
1:01
like to thank a few recent subscribers
1:05
to our premium feed, so
1:09
thank you Alice and
1:11
Anna, Thank
1:13
you Harold, thank
1:15
you Eddie and Don. Subscribing
1:20
really does make what
1:22
we do here possible. As
1:25
well as bringing you our complete
1:28
catalog of episodes ad
1:30
free,
1:32
we have dozens of bonus episodes
1:36
as well as a growing number of
1:38
our extra long Slightly
1:40
More Happens episodes. We
1:44
just added another Marmalade
1:46
and crumb one
1:49
and you get all of this for
1:52
about a dime a day. If
1:55
you're interested in joining, you'll
1:57
find a link in our notes. Just
2:00
search an MH premium
2:03
on Apple podcasts.
2:06
Now This method
2:09
works by giving
2:11
your brain something too
2:13
attached to It
2:16
becomes like an anchor.
2:20
Your ship drops
2:22
anchor, and instead
2:24
of traveling all over the place,
2:28
your mind is held in one
2:32
soft, relaxing place,
2:36
and you sleep. All
2:39
you need to do is
2:41
listen. I'll
2:44
tell the story twice,
2:46
and I'll go a little slower the second
2:49
time through. If
2:52
you wake again in the night, don't
2:55
hesitate to turn an episode
2:59
right back on. With
3:01
time, you'll wake less, and
3:04
even when you do, you'll
3:07
return to sleep within moments.
3:11
Our story tonight is
3:14
called Cinder and the
3:16
Springtime, and
3:18
it's a story about a gift given
3:22
to returning neighbors on
3:25
a bright, warm day. It's
3:27
also about moss and
3:30
pine needles, a
3:32
bicycle basket made special
3:35
for a friend, practical
3:38
magic, and gratitude
3:41
for the ones we share our space with. Now
3:50
it's time turn
3:53
out your light, set
3:57
down your device, and get asked.
4:00
Comfortable as you can,
4:04
tuck yourself in with all
4:06
the loving care little
4:08
you needs tonight. Relax
4:13
your jaw on your shoulders
4:18
and let your body be heavy. Whatever
4:22
you've gotten done today, it
4:25
was enough. You
4:29
have done enough.
4:33
Draw a deep breath in
4:36
through the nose and
4:40
sigh from your mouth. One
4:47
more in.
4:52
Let it go
4:58
good
5:02
cinder and the
5:04
springtime.
5:08
Last spring, I
5:10
noticed a nest coming
5:13
together outside
5:15
my bathroom window. I'd
5:20
been hearing the call of
5:23
mourning doves and
5:26
even spotted one or two
5:29
in the side yard when
5:33
I'd stepped out of the house. They
5:38
flew off whenever they saw me,
5:42
but I hoped they were checking out
5:44
the neighborhood and
5:48
would put down roots somewhere close.
5:54
Then I found that pile
5:56
of twigs and torn
5:58
leaves on the window, and
6:02
I couldn't believe my luck. I
6:07
would have a front row seat
6:11
for the spring squabs.
6:15
Day by day they'd
6:18
worked on the nest, hopping
6:21
to the sill with
6:24
pine needles or
6:26
bits of hay in their beaks
6:30
and laying them down. I
6:34
marveled at the concise construction,
6:39
to watch it be built up in layers,
6:44
to see how the scraps were
6:46
woven together, building
6:50
materials tried and
6:52
rejected, then replaced.
6:57
It was a fascinating glimpse into
7:00
their lives and instincts.
7:06
They had gotten used to me passing
7:10
by the window, and
7:14
though they frequently froze
7:16
for a few seconds staring
7:20
with their liquid black eyes, when
7:25
I turned away to brush my teeth
7:27
at the sink, they
7:30
likewise turned
7:32
back to their work. My
7:36
gray cat, Cinder knew
7:39
they were there, but
7:42
kept away from the window so
7:45
that they wouldn't feel threatened.
7:51
You may not believe
7:53
that
7:55
that a cat would understand
7:57
the situation and
8:00
act in that way, But
8:04
she was not like other cats.
8:08
She was like an ante, but
8:10
in animal form. She
8:15
found the strays, the
8:18
orphans, the lonely
8:20
little ones, and
8:24
matched them up with human counterparts
8:26
who needed them, needed
8:30
a soul to
8:32
bring light into their home, some
8:37
one to catch all the love
8:39
they needed to give. That
8:44
is frequently the cause of heartache,
8:48
love with no one to give it to. So
8:53
Cinder and I play match maker
8:56
among our neighbors and friends
9:00
and the creatures she finds.
9:04
Unbelieve it or not, she
9:07
wouldn't have wanted to scare those
9:09
doves any more
9:11
than she would have left
9:13
a lost bunny out in the
9:15
cold. So
9:19
last spring, the
9:21
doves had raised a little
9:24
clutch of two eggs, and
9:29
when the babies grew big enough and
9:33
learned to fly, they
9:35
started again with two more.
9:40
The collective noun for mourning
9:43
doves, at
9:45
least the one that stood out because
9:49
of how ill suited it felt
9:52
was piteousness, a
9:56
piteousness of mourning
9:58
doves. No,
10:01
that wasn't right at all. It
10:06
had been a jubilance of doves, as
10:09
far as I could tell. And
10:13
when the jubilants flew south
10:16
for the winter, the
10:19
little nest sat empty and
10:24
had filled with snow. It
10:28
lasted, though they'd
10:31
built it so well that even
10:34
after the spring melt
10:38
and the strong winds blew, it
10:41
sat sturdily on the sill. Then
10:48
this morning, as
10:50
I groggily washed my face
10:52
at the basin, I
10:56
heard a coup, that
10:59
unmistakable call of a
11:01
dove, and
11:04
I quickly pressed a towel to
11:06
my face and
11:09
edged over to the window. There
11:14
on the sill, a
11:16
fresh twig in her beak was
11:19
my friend. She
11:22
was patching up the family
11:25
estate. I
11:28
stood there with a
11:31
towel under my chin, a
11:34
huge smile on my face, feeling
11:40
the cool tile under
11:42
my feet, but
11:45
the warmth of the spring sun through
11:47
the window. And
11:51
how good it was to
11:53
share my home with souls
11:56
like Cinder and
11:59
this family doves.
12:03
It made me think of something my
12:06
grandmother would do in the springtime,
12:11
as birds and animals returned
12:14
to her own yard. She'd
12:19
gather nesting materials
12:23
and spread them around the garden, leave
12:27
them at the base of her bird bath and
12:31
near the black oil sunflower
12:33
feeder. It
12:37
was a spring offering, and
12:40
one that really helped. I'd
12:45
read a note in her handwriting in
12:49
a margin of her grimoire that
12:54
if a rite or ritual didn't
12:59
actually accomplish something
13:01
useful or good, well,
13:05
then she didn't
13:07
much see the point, and
13:11
I found that her
13:14
type of practical magic suited
13:18
me best as well. Some
13:23
people liked to offer up
13:25
the hair from their brushes and
13:27
combs for birds
13:29
to use, but
13:33
Grandma had written that if
13:36
the hair was longer than an inch,
13:40
it could actually harm birds much
13:43
more than help them, So
13:47
better to look for moss and
13:49
lichen, pine
13:52
needles, and perhaps
13:55
witchiest of all, cobwebs.
14:01
So Cinder and I started indoors,
14:06
winding the duster into
14:09
the corners of the ceilings
14:12
and shaking the webs out over
14:14
the back porch. When
14:20
I reached for my sweater and bike
14:22
helmet, Cinder
14:25
meowed at my ankles. I'd
14:30
had a special basket installed
14:32
for her at the bicycle
14:35
shop in the Alley downtown.
14:40
It had a cushioned bottom
14:43
and a seat belt that attached
14:45
to her harness so
14:48
we could ride together. Are
14:53
you up for a ride, I
14:55
asked, and
14:58
leaned down to stroke her back. She
15:02
pressed her head into my hand and
15:05
purred softly. A
15:09
few minutes later we were buckled
15:11
into place, rolling
15:14
down the street toward
15:16
the dirt roads a few blocks
15:18
over. Cinder
15:22
sat comfortably in her basket,
15:27
her whiskers flickering
15:29
in the breeze as I pedaled. When
15:34
we turned down a dirt road
15:37
where a stretch of woods extended
15:40
along beside us, I
15:43
slowed down, first
15:47
to avoid the ruts that
15:50
the spring rain had deepened,
15:54
and second to listen and
15:57
smell and feel
15:59
for the things we were looking for. At
16:04
a certain point, like
16:07
a compass arrow pulled toward
16:10
north, or
16:12
a dowsing rod drawn
16:15
to a vein of water. The
16:19
handlebars turned toward
16:21
the verge,
16:24
and I found a spot to stop
16:28
an unbuckle Cinder from her basket.
16:33
She jumped up onto my shoulder, where
16:36
she liked to sit like
16:38
a queen, and
16:41
we walked into the woods. I
16:46
had a small tote bag with me,
16:50
and we wandered along, pausing
16:54
to fill it with handfuls of pine
16:56
needles and milkweed fluff.
17:02
I found some saven leaved club
17:04
moss, but the clump
17:07
was so paltry I
17:09
hesitated to take any. I
17:14
thought that if it had been further
17:16
into the warm weather a
17:19
few weeks into June,
17:22
when the cottonwood flies, I
17:25
could have taken that I'd
17:29
have had enough to stuff
17:31
pillows. Then
17:36
Cinder and I turned our heads
17:38
in unison toward
17:40
a brighter corner of the wood, intuition
17:45
calling us over ah
17:50
a broad patch of
17:53
mossy stone crop sometimes
17:57
called golden sedum.
18:02
As I plucked handfuls to take
18:04
home for the birds to
18:07
weave into their nests,
18:10
Cinder walked through the soft
18:12
carpet. Do
18:16
mourning doves like
18:18
sedum? I asked her.
18:23
Her tail flicked lazily, as
18:25
if to say, I suppose
18:28
we shall see
18:32
if they did. I thought i'd
18:34
write it into the Grimoire, an
18:39
idea for a rite of spring some
18:42
descendant might read about one day
18:47
recognizing my handwriting
18:50
like I recognized grands,
18:54
and being encouraged to
18:58
step out into the garden an
19:02
offer up some gift to
19:05
the birds. Cinder
19:12
and the springtime. Last
19:18
spring, I noticed
19:21
a nest coming together
19:25
outside my bathroom window.
19:31
I'd been hearing the call of
19:34
mourning doves and
19:37
even spotted one or two
19:41
in the side yard when
19:43
I'd stepped out of the house. They
19:49
flew off whenever they saw me,
19:53
but I hoped they were checking out
19:55
the neighborhood and
19:58
would put down somewhere
20:01
close. Then
20:07
I found that pile of twigs
20:10
and torn leaves on the
20:12
window sill and
20:15
couldn't believe my luck. I
20:20
would have a front row
20:22
seat for the spring
20:25
squabs. Day
20:30
by day they'd
20:33
worked on the nest, hopping
20:37
to the sill with pine needles
20:41
or bits of hay in their beaks
20:45
and laying them down. I
20:51
marveled at the concise construction,
20:56
to watch it be built up in layers,
21:02
to see how the scraps
21:04
were woven together, building
21:09
materials tried and
21:11
rejected, then
21:14
replaced. It
21:19
was a fascinating glimpse into
21:22
their lives and instincts.
21:28
They had gotten used to me passing
21:32
by the window, and
21:35
though they frequently froze
21:38
for a few seconds staring
21:43
with their liquid black eyes,
21:47
when I turned away to brush
21:49
my teeth at the sink, they
21:53
likewise turned
21:55
back to their work. My
22:01
gray cat, Cinder knew
22:04
they were there, but
22:07
kept away from the window so
22:12
that they wouldn't feel threatened.
22:18
You may not believe
22:20
that
22:23
that a cat would understand
22:25
the situation and
22:29
act in that way, but
22:33
she was not like other cats.
22:40
She was like an
22:42
auntie, but
22:45
in animal form. She
22:49
found the strays, the
22:52
orphans, the
22:54
lonely little ones, and
22:58
matched them up with human counterparts
23:01
who needed them, needed
23:05
a soul to bring light into
23:08
their home, someone
23:12
to catch all the love they
23:15
needed to give. That
23:20
is frequently the cause
23:23
of heartache,
23:25
love with no one to
23:27
give it to. So
23:31
Cinder and I play
23:34
matchmaker among our
23:36
neighbors and friends
23:39
and the creatures she finds,
23:43
And believe it or not, she
23:46
wouldn't have wanted to scare those
23:49
doves any
23:51
more than she would
23:53
have left a lost bunny out
23:57
in the cold. So
24:02
last spring the
24:04
doves had raised a little
24:06
clutch of two eggs,
24:12
and when the babies grew big
24:14
enough and learned to fly, they
24:17
started again with two more.
24:23
The collective noun for
24:26
mourning doves, at
24:29
least the one that stood
24:32
out because of how
24:34
ill suited it felt, was
24:38
piteousness.
24:42
A piteousness of mourning
24:44
doves, No
24:47
that wasn't right at all. It
24:51
had been a jubilance of doves,
24:55
as far as I could tell, And
25:01
when the jubilants flew south
25:04
for the winter, the
25:06
little nest sat
25:10
empty and
25:12
had filled with snow. Still
25:18
it lasted. They'd
25:23
built it so well that
25:26
even after the spring melt
25:30
and the strong winds blew, it
25:34
sat sturdily on the sill. Then
25:41
this morning, as
25:43
I groggily washed my face
25:45
at the basin, I
25:49
heard a coup, that
25:53
unmistakable call of
25:56
a dove, and
25:59
I quickly pressed a towel
26:01
to my face and
26:04
edged over to the window. There
26:11
on the sill, a
26:14
fresh twig in her beak was
26:17
my friend, and
26:20
she was patching up the family
26:22
estate. I
26:27
stood there with the towel
26:29
at my chin, a
26:33
huge smile on my face, feeling
26:38
the cool tile under
26:40
my feet, but
26:43
the warmth of the spring
26:45
sun through the window, and
26:49
how good it was to
26:52
share my home with souls
26:54
like Cinder and
26:57
this family of day.
27:04
It made me think of something my
27:07
grandmother would do in
27:09
the springtime, as
27:12
birds and animals
27:15
returned to her own yard. She'd
27:21
gather nesting materials
27:25
and spread them around the garden, leave
27:30
them at the base of her bird
27:32
bath and
27:35
near the black oil sunflower
27:38
feeder. It
27:41
was a spring offering, and
27:45
one that really helped.
27:49
I'd read a note in her handwriting
27:53
in a margin of her grimoire that
27:58
if a right or ritual
28:03
didn't actually accomplish
28:05
something useful or good,
28:10
well, she didn't much
28:12
see the point when
28:16
I found that her type of practical
28:19
magic best
28:21
suited me as well. Some
28:27
people liked to offer up
28:29
the hair from their brushes and combs
28:33
for birds to use, but
28:37
Grandma had written that if hair was
28:40
longer than an inch, it
28:43
could actually harm birds much
28:46
more than help them, So
28:50
better to look for moss and
28:52
lichen, pine
28:56
needles, and perhaps
29:00
witchiest of all, cobwebs.
29:06
So Cinder and I started indoors,
29:10
winding the duster into
29:13
the corners of the ceiling and
29:16
shaking all the webs out over
29:20
the back porch. When
29:25
I reached for my sweater and bike
29:27
helmet, Cinder
29:30
meowed at my ankles.
29:35
I'd had a special basket installed
29:38
for her at the
29:40
bicycle shop in the Alley
29:43
down town. It
29:46
had a cushioned bottom and
29:49
a seat belt that attached
29:52
to her harness so
29:55
we could ride together. Are
30:01
you up for a ride, I
30:03
asked, and
30:05
leaned down to stroke her back.
30:12
She pressed her head into my hand
30:15
and purred softly. A
30:21
few minutes later we were buckled
30:23
into place, rolling
30:27
down the street toward
30:30
the dirt roads. A few blocks over.
30:36
Cinder sat comfortably in her
30:38
basket, her
30:41
whiskers flickering in
30:43
the breeze as I peddled. When
30:48
we turned down a dirt road
30:51
where a stretch of woods
30:53
extended along beside
30:56
us, I
30:59
slowed down, first
31:03
to avoid the ruts
31:06
that the spring rain had deepened,
31:11
and second to listen
31:14
and smell and
31:17
feel for the things we were looking
31:19
for. At
31:24
a certain point, like
31:27
a compass arrow pulled
31:30
toward north, or
31:33
a dowsing rod drawn
31:36
to a vein of water. The
31:40
handlebars turned toward
31:43
the verge,
31:47
and I found a spot to stop
31:50
an unbuckle Cinder from her basket.
31:55
She jumped up onto
31:58
my shoulder, where
32:01
she liked to sit like a queen,
32:06
and we walked into the woods. I
32:10
had a small tote bag with me,
32:15
and we wandered along, pausing
32:19
to fill it with handfuls
32:22
of pine needle and
32:25
milkweed fluff. I
32:30
found some saven leaved club
32:32
moss, but
32:35
the clump was so paltry I
32:39
hesitated to take any
32:43
I thought that if it had been
32:46
further into
32:48
the warm weather a
32:52
few weeks into June,
32:55
when the cottonwood flies, I
33:00
could have taken that I'd
33:04
have had enough to stuff pillows.
33:11
Then Cinder and
33:13
I turned our heads in unison
33:17
toward a bright corner of the wood,
33:21
intuition calling us over ah
33:30
a broad patch of
33:32
mossy stone crop sometimes
33:38
called golden sedum.
33:44
As I plucked handfuls to
33:47
take home for the birds to
33:50
weave into their nests,
33:56
Cinder walked through the soft
33:58
carpet
34:02
to mourning doves like Sedom.
34:05
I asked her
34:09
her taale flicked lazily, as
34:12
if to say, I
34:14
suppose we shall see
34:20
if they did. I thought
34:22
I'd write it into the Grimoire,
34:27
an idea for a rite of spring.
34:30
Some descendant might
34:33
read about one day, recognizing
34:37
my handwriting like
34:40
I'd recognized grants, and
34:45
be encouraged to
34:47
step out into a garden and
34:53
offer up some gift to the birds.
35:00
Sweet dreams,
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