0:01

Welcome to Bedtime Stories

0:04

for everyone,

0:07

in which nothing

0:09

much happens, you

0:11

feel good, and then

0:14

you fall asleep. I'm

0:18

Catherine Nikolay. I

0:21

read and write all

0:23

the stories you hear on

0:25

Nothing Much Happens. Audio

0:29

Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

0:33

Today marks six years

0:36

of telling you bedtime stories, which

0:40

has become the most

0:42

exciting gentle adventure

0:45

of my life.

0:48

And it seems fitting that today

0:52

I can share something I've been working on

0:54

for quite a while, something

0:56

created just for you, bring

1:00

a piece of the village into

1:02

your homes and

1:04

to guide you into healthy wind

1:07

down routines that will feel

1:09

so good. This

1:12

month, we are releasing but

1:15

Nothing Much Happens wind Down

1:17

Box, a wellness box

1:19

of hand selected products

1:22

that I personally use and

1:25

that I love, along

1:28

with a few exclusive stories

1:31

to round out your cozy routines.

1:35

Each box features products

1:38

specially selected for your relaxation,

1:41

from Everescio Wellness's Chill

1:44

Now, a high potency

1:47

organic certified Raschi mushroom

1:49

extract to nutri

1:51

Champs tart cherry gummies great

1:54

for sleep and reducing inflammation,

1:57

and they taste great. There's

2:01

a lavender candle to

2:03

mark your moment of calm from

2:06

our favorite small batch candle

2:08

maker's Vella box. A

2:12

meditative activity for you

2:14

by way of a Brighter Year's

2:17

mini coloring book, a

2:20

fantastic way to disconnect

2:22

from your screen and tap

2:24

into your creative self before bed.

2:29

Then more mushrooms, this time in

2:31

chocolate specially formulated

2:33

for sleep, from the lovely

2:36

team behind Alice Mushrooms. And

2:39

some delicious essential oils

2:42

to rub on your wrists and neck from

2:45

our friends at Woolsey's. And

2:47

of course some melatonin for those

2:50

who need an extra helping hand to rest

2:53

by way of new strips. Place

2:55

it on your tongue and it dissolves

2:58

in seconds.

3:01

Like everything in this village,

3:04

we took our time to create this for

3:06

you. It's

3:08

such a pleasure to be able to

3:11

help so many of you, to

3:13

tuck you in at night and

3:16

to keep watched till the morning. And

3:19

I'm excited to help create comfort

3:22

in new ways with our first

3:24

ever wind down Box. Head

3:28

over to Nothing Much Happens dot

3:30

Com for more information. Now

3:36

here's how this podcast works.

3:40

I'm going to tell you a story and

3:44

it has just enough in it to

3:47

catch your busy mind

3:50

and hold it still for a bit. So

3:53

that you can peacefully fall asleep. All

3:58

you need to do is listen. I'll

4:02

tell the story twice, and

4:04

I'll go a little slower on

4:06

the second telling. If

4:09

you wake later in the night, don't

4:12

hesitate to start the story over.

4:16

We are training your brain to

4:19

fall asleep and return to sleep

4:21

quickly, and

4:24

with a bit of practice, it'll

4:26

begin to happen within seconds.

4:31

Our story tonight is

4:33

called Dandelions and may

4:35

Apple's, and

4:38

it's a story about a trip down

4:40

to the creek on a spring

4:42

afternoon. It's

4:45

also about a bench on the bank where

4:48

the sound of the water echoes rhododendrons

4:54

and stone steps, and

4:57

giving yourself grace to

4:59

ebb and flow. Now,

5:07

switch off your light, snuggle

5:10

down into your favorite sleeping

5:13

position, and

5:16

let your whole body soften.

5:20

You are being held by

5:23

the earth right now, when

5:25

you are safe,

5:28

and I am here to watch over until

5:30

you wake. Take

5:33

a deep breath in through your

5:35

nose and

5:40

let it out with a soft sigh.

5:47

One more, please in and

5:52

out. Good

6:02

Dandelions and

6:04

may apples. A

6:08

week or two ago, I'd

6:11

spotted them down by the creek.

6:16

There, yellow heads visible

6:19

among the bright green new grass,

6:23

even from a ways away. On

6:27

the day i'd seen them,

6:30

it had snowed again, just

6:33

a flurry of flakes

6:38

that seemed to melt before

6:41

they made it all the way to the ground.

6:47

But among the budding trees and

6:49

Forsythia branches it

6:53

had felt like a prank,

6:56

a cruel joke, after

6:59

warm days in which we'd

7:02

all cautiously started to believe

7:06

that winter was finally over. And

7:11

I guess it was not

7:14

just because the

7:16

sun had come out the

7:18

very next day, and

7:21

the warmth and sweet

7:24

air along with it, but

7:28

because nature and

7:30

the seasons,

7:33

just like most everything else, don't

7:37

go in a straight line.

7:41

Just because Spring had

7:44

pivoted on her heel for a moment,

7:48

it didn't mean anything wasn't

7:51

as it should be. Spring

7:55

has a bit of winter in her after

7:57

all. I

8:01

think of this a lot of

8:04

how nature spirals, pivots,

8:09

retreats, and begins again, and

8:13

how often we forget that

8:16

we are meant to do the same. How

8:20

we would never look at the sky or

8:24

at a formation of rock and earth

8:27

and think, well,

8:29

that's not right. It

8:32

just is, and

8:34

so am I and

8:37

so are you. So

8:41

when the clouds had finished dropping

8:44

their last snowflakes at

8:47

least for a while, and

8:50

the sun was out again. I

8:53

peered through the window in

8:56

my room at the top of the house

9:00

and spied the dandelions,

9:02

still yellow and

9:04

blooming, beside the creek. I

9:09

have a lovely view from

9:11

this window, and

9:14

it was changing seemingly

9:17

by the minute,

9:20

as the trees budded and

9:23

flowers emerged. I

9:27

pushed it up by the sash, and

9:30

the air that rolled in was

9:33

warm and fresh smelling.

9:38

What was I doing up here, I

9:41

asked myself. I

9:44

could be out there,

9:49

so I raced down the stairs

9:53

until I was at the back door, stepping

9:57

into my shoes anon

10:01

to the patio. I

10:05

hadn't planted anything yet,

10:09

besides one small

10:11

pot of pansies that

10:15

stood beside the door, and

10:18

I stopped to admire them, purple

10:23

and yellow and white with

10:25

green leaves. I

10:30

picked up the watering can where

10:33

I had left it a day or two

10:35

ago, and

10:38

gave them a quick drink. On

10:43

the patio stones were

10:45

long black marks,

10:49

and I remembered watching a deer

10:52

from my window scraping

10:56

her hoofs along the stones.

11:01

I imagined her using them as

11:03

I used an emery board on my

11:06

nails. Was

11:09

glad the dough had gotten some self

11:13

care Sunday, I thought

11:15

with a chuckle. Beyond

11:19

the edge of the patio were

11:22

stairs made of flat stones

11:26

wedged into the earth. Then

11:29

I stepped on to them cautiously. They

11:34

felt solid and secure,

11:39

but I hadn't climbed them since

11:41

last autumn, so

11:44

I went slowly, checking

11:47

that each one was

11:50

without wiggle as I went.

11:55

When we'd first moved in, these

11:58

steps weren't even visible

12:01

from the house, and

12:04

I could only guess how

12:06

old they were. It

12:10

had been such a

12:12

treat to find them.

12:16

When we were exploring the yard

12:19

that first summer, we

12:23

cleared out some brush

12:26

and cut away an invasive vine

12:31

to find what had

12:33

felt like a secret garden.

12:38

Beyond the steps was

12:41

another surprise, a

12:45

bench, cast

12:47

iron and still with

12:49

a few flakes of white paint

12:52

clinging to its seat and back. I

12:58

remembered finding it that day

13:01

and going to sit on it.

13:06

It was in the shade of a giant

13:08

maple, and

13:11

near enough the creek to

13:14

enjoy the sound, but

13:17

far back enough that when

13:20

she overran her banks each

13:22

spring, your

13:24

toes wouldn't get wet. Sitting

13:29

there, I'd been struck with the

13:31

thought of

13:33

someone sitting in the exact

13:36

same spot, many

13:40

many years before, having

13:44

their picture taken, shading

13:48

their eyes against

13:50

the bright glint of the sunshine

13:55

and smiling at the camera. Had

14:00

I just stepped into some one

14:02

else's memory or

14:07

was it just a fanciful thought born

14:10

of the romance of the spot and

14:13

the warm air I

14:18

hadn't known, but hoped

14:20

that somewhere

14:22

up in my attic i'd

14:26

one day find an old box

14:30

with the photo I'd just imagined

14:33

waiting inside it. The

14:37

sound of the creek pulled

14:40

me over and

14:42

I peered down into it. Clear

14:48

water flowed over stones,

14:51

and the sandy bottom scored with ripples

14:57

up stream. The creek curved

15:00

when the water rushed and ran, and

15:05

I walked closer, wanting

15:07

to bottle the sound of it and

15:11

to carry it around with me in my pocket.

15:16

I stood there for a bit, just

15:20

watching it flow, thinking

15:24

about how the stones

15:27

in the creek bed were

15:30

sometimes exposed when

15:33

the water was low, and

15:36

how you could use them as a bridge

15:39

to step across. But

15:42

now they were submerged, and

15:46

though I knew they didn't,

15:49

I imagined them sighing

15:53

as the cool water flowed

15:55

over them. I

15:58

kept walking, following

16:02

the creek up stream, the

16:07

trees were only just budding

16:09

out, so

16:12

even in the deeper woods the

16:15

light was bright. Along

16:19

with the dandelions, growing from

16:22

every patch of green were

16:24

daffodils, some

16:28

all yellow and

16:31

others with a yellow cup of

16:33

petals inside

16:36

and an outer ring of bright white

16:39

petals around them. On

16:43

the far side of the creek was

16:46

a rhododendron with

16:49

long, shiny leaves.

16:53

It was a giant, ranging

16:56

along the water for yards

17:00

and up toward the thick branch of

17:02

a beech tree almost as

17:04

far. It

17:08

must have been planted a

17:10

hundred years ago to

17:12

grow this big.

17:15

And round its roots were

17:17

dozens of may apples.

17:22

I recognized them by their shape.

17:26

They were tiny, only

17:28

five or six inches tall, but

17:32

shaped like little umbrellas.

17:36

As they grew over the summer, the

17:40

umbrellas would open up and

17:43

their leaves would stand out rather

17:46

than droop down. Eventually

17:52

they would grow small, green,

17:55

lemon shaped fruits, which

17:58

were edible but didn't

18:00

have much flavor. Luckily,

18:05

wild life, turtles and others

18:08

liked them just fine,

18:11

and they would make for good meals when

18:14

the time was right. On

18:18

my way back toward home, toward

18:21

the stone steps and the patio. I

18:25

reached out and touched

18:27

trees along the path. I

18:32

bent down near the stream and

18:35

let my fingers trail through the cold

18:37

water. The

18:41

dandelions were all yellow,

18:44

none had turned to fluff, yet,

18:48

ready for a wish to be made,

18:51

but mine had already been

18:53

granted. The

18:56

static in my head had

18:58

quieted, replaced

19:01

by the sound of the creek. I

19:05

was calm, unhappy,

19:09

and restored dandelions

19:15

and may apples. A

19:19

week or two ago, I'd

19:22

spotted them down

19:25

by the creek, their

19:28

yellow heads visible

19:31

among the bright green new

19:34

grass even

19:37

from a ways away. On

19:42

the day i'd seen them, it

19:44

had snowed again, just

19:49

a flurry of flakes that

19:52

seemed to melt

19:54

before they made it all the way to

19:57

the ground. But

20:01

among the budding trees and

20:04

for Cynthia branches, it

20:08

had felt like a prank, a

20:12

cruel joke, after

20:14

warm days in

20:17

which we'd all cautiously

20:20

started to believe that

20:23

winter was fully over. And

20:29

I guess it was not

20:34

just because the sun had come

20:36

out the very next day,

20:40

and the warmth and sweet

20:43

air along with it, but

20:48

because nature and

20:50

the seasons, just

20:53

like most everything else, don't

20:57

go in a straight line.

21:03

Just because Spring had pivoted

21:06

on her heel for a moment, it

21:11

didn't mean anything

21:14

wasn't as it should be.

21:17

Spring has a bit of winter

21:20

in her after all. I

21:24

think of this a lot of

21:28

how nature spirals, pivots,

21:33

retreats, and begins again, and

21:38

how often we forget that

21:41

we are meant to do the same. How

21:46

we would never look at the sky or

21:50

out a formation of rock and earth

21:53

and think, well,

21:55

that's not right. It

21:59

just is, and

22:02

so am I and

22:04

so are you. So

22:08

when the clouds had finished

22:10

dropping their last

22:13

snowflakes for a while at least,

22:17

and the sun was out again, I

22:20

peered through the window in

22:24

my room at the top of the house

22:28

and spied the dandelions, still

22:31

yellow and

22:34

blooming beside the creek. I

22:39

have a lovely view from

22:41

my window, and

22:45

it was changing seemingly

22:47

by the minute,

22:51

as the trees budded and

22:54

flowers emerged. I

22:58

pushed it up by the sash sh and

23:02

the air that rolled in was

23:05

warm and fresh

23:07

smelling. What

23:12

was I doing up here, i

23:15

asked myself. I

23:18

could be out there.

23:23

So I raced down

23:25

the stairs until

23:28

I was at the back door, stepping

23:31

into my shoes and

23:34

onto the patio. I

23:38

hadn't planted anything yet

23:42

besides one small

23:45

pot of pansies that

23:48

stood beside the door, and

23:53

I stopped to admire them, purple

23:58

and yellow and white

24:02

with green leaves. I

24:06

picked up the watering can where

24:09

I had left it a

24:12

day or two ago,

24:15

and gave them a quick drink. On

24:20

the patio stones were

24:23

long black marks,

24:28

and I remembered watching a deer

24:30

from my window scraping

24:33

her hoofs along the stones.

24:40

I imagined her using them as

24:43

I used an emery board on

24:45

my nails. Glad

24:49

the dough had gotten her

24:52

own self care sunday,

24:55

I thought, with a chuckle. Beyond

25:00

the edge of the patio were

25:03

stairs made of flat

25:06

stones wedged

25:09

into the earth, and

25:12

I stepped on to them cautiously.

25:18

They felt solid and

25:21

secure,

25:24

but I hadn't climbed them since

25:26

last autumn, so

25:30

I went slowly, checking

25:33

that each one was

25:36

without wiggle as

25:38

I went. When

25:42

we'd first moved in, these

25:45

steps warn't even visible

25:47

from the house, and

25:51

I could only guess how old they were,

25:56

but had been such a

25:58

treat to find

26:01

them when

26:03

we were exploring the yard that

26:06

first summer we'd

26:11

cleared out some brush and

26:15

cut away an invasive vine

26:19

to find what had

26:21

felt like a secret

26:23

garden. Beyond

26:28

the steps was another surprise,

26:33

a bench, cast

26:36

iron and

26:39

still with a few flakes of white

26:41

paint clinging to its

26:43

seat and back. I

26:49

remembered finding it that day,

26:52

going to sit on it.

26:57

It was in the shade of a giant

26:59

maple, and

27:03

near enough the creek to

27:06

enjoy the sound, but

27:10

far back enough that

27:13

when she overran her banks

27:15

each spring, your

27:18

toes wouldn't get wet.

27:23

Sitting there, I'd been

27:25

struck with thought

27:29

of someone else sitting

27:32

in the exact same spot,

27:36

many many years before, having

27:40

their picture taken, shading

27:45

their eyes against

27:47

the bright glint of the sunshine

27:52

and smiling at the camera. Had

27:58

I just stepped into

28:01

some one else's memory? Or

28:06

was it just a fanciful thought

28:10

born of the romance of the spot

28:14

and the warm air I

28:18

hadn't known, but

28:21

hoped that somewhere

28:24

up in my attic I'd

28:28

one day find an old box

28:31

with the photo I'd just

28:33

imagined waiting inside

28:36

it. The

28:40

sound of the creek pulled

28:42

me over, and

28:45

I peered down into it. Clear

28:52

water flowed over stones,

28:56

and a sandy bottom scored

28:58

with ripples.

29:02

Upstream, the creek curved

29:06

and the water rushed and ran,

29:11

and I walked closer, wanting

29:15

to bottle the sound of it, and

29:19

to carry it around with me in

29:21

my pocket. I

29:26

stood there for a bit, just

29:29

watching it flow, thinking

29:34

about how the stones in

29:37

the creek bed were

29:39

sometimes exposed when

29:42

the water was low, and

29:46

how you could use them as a bridge

29:49

to step across. But

29:54

now they were submerged. Though

29:58

I know they didn't, I

30:01

imagined them sighing as

30:05

the cool water flowed over them. I

30:10

kept walking, following

30:13

the creek up stream. The

30:18

trees were only just

30:20

budding out, so

30:24

even in the deeper woods

30:27

the light was bright. Along

30:32

with the dandelions growing

30:35

from every patch of green were

30:39

daffodils, some

30:43

all yellow and

30:46

others with a

30:48

yellow cup of petals inside

30:52

and an outer ring of bright

30:54

white petals around them.

31:00

On the far side of the creek

31:03

was a rhododendron with

31:06

long, shiny leaves.

31:10

There was a giant ranging

31:13

along the water for yards

31:17

and up toward the thick branch

31:20

of a beech tree nearly

31:22

as far. It

31:27

must have been planted a

31:29

hundred years ago to

31:33

grow this big, and

31:37

around its roots were dozens

31:41

of may apples. I

31:47

recognized them by

31:49

their shape.

31:54

They were tiny, only

31:57

five or six inches all,

32:02

but shaped like little umbrellas.

32:08

As they grew over the summer, the

32:12

umbrellas would open up

32:16

and their leaves would stand out

32:20

rather than droop down. Eventually

32:28

they would grow small, green,

32:32

lemon shaped fruits,

32:35

which were edible but

32:39

didn't have much flavor. Luckily,

32:47

wild life, turtles

32:49

and others liked

32:51

them just fine,

32:54

and they would make for good meals. When

32:57

the time was right. On

33:02

my way back toward home,

33:06

toward the stone steps and

33:09

the patio, I

33:12

reached out and touched

33:15

trees along the path.

33:21

I bent down near the stream

33:25

and let my fingers trail

33:29

through the cold water. The

33:34

dandelions were all yellow,

33:39

none had turned to fluff

33:41

yet, ready

33:44

for a wish to

33:46

be made,

33:49

But mine had already been granted.

33:55

The static in my head had quieted,

34:00

replaced by the sound of the creek. I

34:05

was calm, unhappy,

34:09

unrestored, sweet

34:15

dreams