0:01

Welcome to Bedtime Stories

0:03

for grown ups, in

0:06

which nothing much happens,

0:09

you feel good, and then

0:12

you fall asleep. All

0:16

stories are written and read by

0:18

me, Catherine Nikolay, with

0:21

audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim.

0:26

Nothing Much Happens is a proud number of the

0:28

Curious Cast podcast network.

0:32

If you enjoy our stories, please

0:36

share them any way you can with

0:38

anyone you know who likes relaxation

0:42

and good sleep, and

0:45

follow us on Facebook and Instagram

0:47

for some extra coziness.

0:53

I'm about to tell you a bedtime story,

0:57

and the story is a place to rest your

1:00

mind so that it doesn't wander

1:02

and race and keep you up.

1:07

All you need to do is listen and

1:10

let the simple details catch you. I'll

1:15

tell the story twice, and

1:17

I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If

1:22

you find that you are still awake at

1:24

the end of the second telling, not

1:26

to worry. That's just

1:29

fine. You could listen again

1:32

or just walk yourself back through any of

1:34

the details that you remember, and

1:37

before you know it, you'll be sinking

1:40

down into deep and RESTful

1:42

sleep. This

1:46

is a kind of brain training, and

1:48

the more you do it, the more

1:50

your sleep will improve. So

1:52

be patient. If you are new at this.

1:59

Now it's time to switch off the light, set

2:03

aside anything you've been working on playing

2:06

with, and

2:08

settle your body into the most comfortable

2:10

position that you can find. Take

2:16

a slow, deep breath in

2:18

through your nose and

2:23

out through your mouth. Do

2:29

that one more time. Breathe in

2:35

and out. Good.

2:44

Our story tonight is called first

2:46

This, then that, and

2:50

it's a story about a bit of spring cleaning

2:53

on a sunny day. It's

2:56

also about watching birds at their feet, are

2:59

share carrying things with your neighbors, on

3:03

the joy of finding something forgotten

3:06

in an old coat pocket.

3:11

First this, then that.

3:17

Years ago, a friend had

3:19

offered me a useful piece of advice.

3:23

I was rushing, overwhelmed,

3:26

with too much on my plate, and starting

3:28

to grasp and sputter and

3:30

run out of steam. She

3:34

reached out and touched my arm, looked

3:37

into my eyes and said, first

3:39

this, then that. We

3:45

took a breath together, and I laughed.

3:50

Her simple suggestion felt like sun

3:52

breaking through gloom.

3:56

Of course, I was letting

3:58

my mind race ahead, and

4:00

it rightfully felt overwhelmed. Instead,

4:06

I needed to do one thing at a time

4:09

to find my way from where I was to

4:12

where I meant to be. It

4:16

was something I still said to myself when

4:19

I had a lot of work to get through, but

4:22

also when I had something to enjoy.

4:26

It had become a mental touchstone,

4:30

a method of simply slowing down

4:34

so that whatever I was doing could

4:36

be intentional instead of

4:38

accidental. I

4:42

set it to myself this morning, as

4:44

I pushed aside curtains and lifted

4:47

blinds in one window after another.

4:52

The early spring sun was warm and

4:54

bright, and somehow

4:56

of a completely different quality than

4:59

the winter sun of just the week

5:01

before. I

5:04

couldn't open the windows yet to let the fresh

5:07

air in. It was still a

5:09

bit too cold, but

5:12

I could let the light in, and

5:14

I did every

5:17

window in every room,

5:20

and as I walked from one to another, I

5:23

let the sun dazzle my eyes. I

5:28

stood in the slanting light and

5:30

thought first this, then

5:34

that the

5:38

house felt different, filled

5:41

with bright daylight, and

5:44

it made me want to clear out the remnants of

5:46

winter with a day of spring cleaning. Not

5:51

everyone looks forward to days like that,

5:54

but I do. And

5:56

I like putting things in their place, tidying

6:00

and organizing, and stepping

6:02

back at the end to see how neatly things

6:04

could stand. I'd

6:08

learned a long time ago, but when

6:10

my rooms were disorganized and cluttered,

6:13

my mind seemed to feel the same way.

6:18

When things were in their place, I felt

6:20

energized and clear headed. So

6:24

I was happy to roll up my sleeves

6:26

and set my house to rights. I'd

6:32

filled the bird feeders early in the morning,

6:35

I noticed my coat rack on the way back in.

6:40

It was covered with scarves and heavy coats

6:43

and hats, with mittens and gloves

6:45

hanging from pockets, and a pile

6:47

of boots at its foot. I

6:52

stood in front of it with hands on hips

6:55

and said, first this.

7:00

I went through the pile, moved

7:03

coats into the back of the closet, folded

7:06

away the scarves into a basket, and

7:09

sorted out the rest. I

7:13

made peace with the fact that I had

7:15

indeed lost one of my favorite mittens,

7:18

and let go of its lone sister. I

7:22

felt into pockets and tossed out

7:25

movie stubs and creased notes, and

7:28

in the very last pocket pulled

7:30

out a crisp ten dollar bill. Yes,

7:35

I laughed aloud at how the feeling

7:38

of finding money in a forgotten

7:40

pocket never becomes

7:42

less joyous. It

7:46

is as sweet at ten as

7:49

it is at thirty or

7:52

I hoped at eighty. Next,

7:57

I moved through kitchen cupboards, consolidating

8:01

near empty boxes of tea

8:04

and pulling down cook books

8:07

that would be better enjoyed by some one else.

8:12

We had a neighborhood drop off for such

8:14

things, a tiny

8:16

pantry to leave a book you'd finished

8:18

with, the walk

8:21

you'd meant to learn to cook with but never had,

8:25

or a sweater that still had a lot of

8:27

love to give but just didn't

8:29

fit like it used to. Last

8:34

week, I'd popped in on a walk and

8:36

found a little book of poetry by

8:39

writers i'd never heard of. It

8:43

was just the size to slip into the pocket

8:45

of my spring jacket, and

8:48

I'd been opening it that bus stops and

8:50

the line of the coffee shop and

8:53

reading a few verses. After

8:57

all, summer

8:59

is from me, autumn

9:01

for books, the winter

9:04

is for films, and spring

9:07

sprang is for poetry. I

9:13

had been filling a handlebag as I worked

9:15

my way through closets and cupboards, and

9:18

now had a little collection of things

9:20

ready to find another home. I

9:25

set it at the back door, thinking that if

9:27

the sun lasted a bit longer, I

9:29

could walk it down to the pantry before the day

9:32

was over. My

9:36

work was nearly done. My

9:38

rooms were fresh and clean and

9:41

wanting to be lived in. I

9:46

set the kettle on the stove and lit the

9:48

flame. While

9:51

the water heated, I picked through

9:53

a bunch of flowers in an old ceramic

9:55

face on the counter. I'd

10:00

them at the corner grocery a few days

10:02

before, heavy

10:04

stems of lilies with some greenery

10:06

tucked in around them. They

10:09

were just starting to open, and

10:12

I pinched away the filament and anther.

10:17

The pollen stained my fingers,

10:19

and I rinsed them under the tap, thinking

10:23

of the sleeping bulbs about

10:25

to wake in my garden, the

10:29

birds building nests in

10:31

the still naked branches, the

10:35

underground burrows of rabbits

10:37

growing their families. I

10:42

thought that spring in Italian was

10:44

prima vera,

10:47

prima meaning first,

10:50

and vera meaning

10:53

true or real. Yes,

10:58

the year was a few months old by now, but

11:02

the spring was the first real moment.

11:09

I took my cup to a chair facing

11:11

the full bird feeder. There

11:14

were cardinals and morning doves

11:17

and gray jay's picking

11:19

through seeds and hopping in the black

11:21

dirt. We

11:25

were all putting our houses in order to

11:28

day The

11:31

afternoon light was warm on my skin.

11:35

As I stretched out in the chair. I

11:40

let my hand reach for a book, thinking

11:43

that I might read a page or two, but

11:47

the sunlight on my face was irresistibly

11:49

pushing down my lids. I

11:53

leaned my head back into the cushion with

11:55

a slow sigh.

11:59

My work was done. Now

12:03

I could rest.

12:09

First this, then

12:12

that, years

12:17

ago, a friend had offered

12:19

me a useful piece of advice. I

12:24

was rushing, overwhelmed,

12:28

with too much on my plate and

12:31

starting to grasp and sputter

12:35

and run out of steam. She'd

12:40

reached out and touched

12:42

my arm, looked

12:45

into my eyes and said,

12:49

first this, then

12:52

that. We

12:57

took a breath together, and

13:00

I laughed. Her

13:04

simple suggestion felt

13:06

like sun breaking through gloom.

13:11

Of course, I

13:15

was letting my mind raise ahead,

13:19

and it rightfully felt overwhelmed.

13:25

Instead, I

13:27

needed to do one thing at a time to

13:31

find my way from where I was to

13:35

where I meant to be. It

13:40

was something I still said to myself when

13:44

I had a lot of work to get through, but

13:47

also when I had something to enjoy.

13:53

It had become a mental touchstone,

13:59

a method of simply slowing down

14:02

so that whatever I was doing could

14:05

be intentional instead

14:07

of accidental. I

14:13

set it to myself this morning, as

14:16

I pushed aside curtains and lifted

14:18

blinds in one window after

14:21

another. The

14:25

early spring sun was

14:28

warm and bright,

14:32

and somehow of a completely different

14:34

quality than

14:36

the winter sun of just

14:38

the week before. I

14:44

couldn't open the windows yet to

14:46

let the fresh air in. It

14:51

was still too cold, but

14:55

I could let the light in, and

14:57

I did

15:01

every window in every

15:03

room, and

15:05

as I walked from one to another, I

15:09

let the sun dazzle my eyes.

15:15

I stood in the slanting light. One

15:18

thought first

15:20

this then

15:23

that the

15:29

house felt different, filled

15:31

with bright daylight, and

15:35

it made me want to clear out the remnants

15:37

of winter with

15:40

a day of spring cleaning. Not

15:45

every one looks forward to

15:48

days like that, but

15:51

I do. I

15:56

like putting things in their place, tidying

16:02

and organizing, and

16:05

stepping back at the end to

16:09

see how neatly things could stand.

16:15

I'd learned a long time ago that

16:19

when my rooms were disorganized

16:21

and cluttered, my

16:24

mind seemed to feel the same way. When

16:31

things were in their place, I

16:33

felt energized and

16:36

clear headed. So

16:40

I was happy to roll up my sleeves and

16:43

set my house to rights.

16:51

I'd filled the bird feeders early in

16:53

the morning and

16:56

noticed my coat rack on the way back

16:58

in. It

17:02

was covered with scarves and heavy

17:04

coats and hats, with

17:06

mittens and gloves hanging from

17:08

the pockets, and

17:11

a pile of boots at its foot. I

17:16

stood in front of it with hands on hips

17:19

and said, first

17:23

this. I

17:27

went through the pile, moved

17:30

coats into the back of the closet, folded

17:34

away the scarves into a basket, and

17:38

sorted out the rest. I

17:42

made peace with the fact that I had

17:45

indeed lost one of my favorite

17:47

mittens,

17:50

and let go of its lone sister. I

17:55

felt into pockets and tossed

17:57

out movie stubs and

17:59

creased notes, and

18:02

in the very last pocket pulled

18:05

out a crisp ten dollar bill.

18:09

Yes, I

18:11

laughed aloud at

18:13

how the feeling of finding money

18:16

in a forgotten pocket never

18:19

becomes less joyous.

18:23

It is as sweet at ten as

18:26

it is at thirty, or

18:29

I hoped at eighty.

18:35

Next, I moved through kitchen cupboards,

18:39

consolidating mere empty boxes

18:42

of tea and pulling

18:44

down cookbooks that would be

18:46

better enjoyed by someone else. We

18:52

had a neighborhood drop off for such

18:54

things, a

18:57

tiny pantry to leave, a

18:59

book you'd finish

19:02

the walk you'd meant to learn to cook

19:04

with but never had, or

19:08

a sweater that still had

19:10

a lot of love to give, but

19:13

just didn't fit like it used to. Last

19:20

week, I'd popped in on

19:22

a walk and found a little

19:24

book of poetry by

19:27

writers i'd never heard of. It

19:33

was just the right size to slip

19:35

into the pocket of my spring jacket, and

19:39

i'd been opening it up I

19:42

bust stops on the line

19:44

at the coffee shop and

19:47

reading a few verses. After

19:51

all, summer

19:54

is for music, autumn

19:57

for books, winter

20:00

is for films, and

20:02

spring spring

20:05

is for poetry.

20:11

I'd been filling a handlebag as

20:13

I worked my way through closets

20:16

and cupboards, and

20:19

now had a little collection of things

20:22

ready to find another home. I

20:28

set it at the back door, thinking

20:32

that if the sun lasted a

20:34

bit longer, I

20:37

could walk it down to the pantry. Before

20:40

the day was over, my

20:45

work was nearly done, My

20:49

rooms were fresh and clean

20:52

and wanting to be lived in. I

20:57

set the kettle on the stove and

20:59

the flame while

21:04

the water heated, I picked

21:06

through a bunch of flowers in

21:08

an old ceramic vase on the counter.

21:14

I bought them at the corner grocery a

21:17

few days before, heavy

21:20

stems of lilies with

21:23

some greenery tucked in around

21:25

them. They

21:30

were just starting to open, and

21:33

I pinched away the filament an

21:35

anther. The

21:39

pollen stained my fingers

21:41

and I rinsed them under the tap, thinking

21:45

of the sleeping bulbs about

21:47

to wake in my garden, the

21:52

birds building nests

21:55

in the still naked branches, the

22:01

underground burrows of rabbits

22:03

growing their families. I

22:07

thought that spring in Italian was

22:12

prima vera,

22:15

prima meaning first,

22:18

and vera meaning

22:20

true or real. Yes,

22:27

the year was a few months old by now,

22:30

but the spring was the first real

22:33

moment. I

22:37

took my cup to a chair facing

22:40

the full bird feeder. There

22:44

were cardinals and mourning

22:46

doves and gray jays

22:49

picking through seeds and hopping

22:51

in the black dirt. We

22:56

were all putting our houses in order

22:58

to day.

23:02

The afternoon light was warm on my skin

23:06

as I stretched out in the chair.

23:12

I let my hand reach for a book, thinking

23:16

that I might read a page or two.

23:21

But the sunlight on my face was

23:24

irresistibly pushing down my lids,

23:29

and I leaned my head back into the cushion

23:33

with a slow sigh.

23:39

My work was done. Now

23:44

I could rest, sweet

23:48

dreams