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,