0:01

Welcome to bedtime

0:03

stories for grown ups

0:07

in which nothing much happens,

0:11

you feel good, and

0:13

then you fall asleep. I'm

0:17

Catherine Nikolay. I

0:20

read and write all the stories you hear

0:23

on Nothing Much Happens

0:26

Audio Engineering is by Bob

0:28

Wittersheim. Nothing

0:31

Much Happens is a proud member of

0:33

the Curious Cast podcast network.

0:38

Follow us on Twitter or

0:40

Instagram or Facebook for

0:43

more in the way of kind words and cozy

0:45

ideas. Now

0:50

let's get ready to sleep. I'll

0:53

read you a story.

0:56

It's a place to rest your mind, like

0:58

an upturned leaf resting on the surface

1:01

of a river. Your

1:04

mind will follow along with the

1:06

moving current of my voice and our

1:08

story, and

1:11

before you know it, it

1:13

will ease you into deep sleep. I'll

1:17

read the story twice, and

1:20

I'll go a little slower on the second

1:22

read. If

1:25

you wake in the night, take

1:27

yourself back into the story, thinking

1:30

back through any bit you can remember.

1:35

This interrupts your brain's tendency

1:37

to cycle through thought, and

1:41

we'll put you right back into sleep

1:43

mode. It

1:45

is brain training, and it might

1:47

take a bit of practice, so

1:50

be patient if you are new to this. Now

1:54

it's time to switch off the light set

1:58

aside anything you've been looking at or

2:00

working on. You've

2:03

looked at a screen for the last

2:06

time today.

2:08

Adjust your pillows and your comforter until

2:11

you feel completely at ease.

2:16

If you sometimes clench your jaw as

2:18

you sleep, try resting

2:21

the tip of your tongue at

2:23

the place where your upper teeth meet

2:25

the gums on the inside. That

2:29

will help to keep your jaw relaxed. Now,

2:34

take a deep breath in through your nose

2:40

and sigh out through the mouth. Again,

2:46

breathe in and

2:51

let it out good.

2:59

Our story tonight is called the

3:01

Front Door and the back Door, and

3:06

it's a story about a bit of spring

3:08

cleaning inside and outside

3:10

the house. It's

3:13

also about butterflies drawn in

3:15

chalk on the sidewalk, a

3:18

message arriving at just the right

3:20

moment, and

3:22

seedlings waiting for their chance

3:25

to grow. The

3:28

front door and the back door

3:34

the air was fresh when the day

3:36

was sunny. The

3:39

temperature had been sneaking up a

3:41

few degrees at a time for the last week

3:43

or so, and

3:46

finally today there

3:48

was a real warmth in the air. I

3:54

started inside by

3:57

drawing aside curtains and opening

3:59

windows. I

4:03

stood at the kitchen sink, washing

4:06

up after tea and oatmeal, and

4:10

smiling at the feel of the fresh air

4:12

circling around me. Through

4:17

the window, I could hear the movements

4:19

of birds and squirrels, and

4:22

beyond them, a soft spring wind

4:25

coming to dry up mud puddles.

4:29

I could hear a lawnmower in the next

4:32

block over being coaxed

4:34

to life, and my neighbor's dog

4:36

barking through the fence. I'd

4:40

dried my cup and bowl and

4:43

put them back on their shelf. Often

4:48

i'd have turned on music or a

4:50

radio show to follow me through my

4:52

chores, but

4:55

it was nice to do my work with

4:57

nothing but the sounds from outside

4:59

keeping company.

5:03

I hung the dish towel from its hook beside

5:05

the sink and moved into the

5:07

living room, opening more

5:09

windows as I went. There

5:14

was a jumble of books and blankets spread

5:16

over the sofa, and

5:20

as I folded and tidied, I

5:23

stopped to read a few lines from one of the

5:25

books. There

5:28

was a book about Zen, with a

5:30

few poems and meditations.

5:35

The page I opened to just said, opened

5:39

the front door and opened the

5:41

back door. Let

5:44

thoughts move through, Just

5:47

don't offer them a cup of tea.

5:52

I smiled down at the words, has

5:57

that happened to you? You

6:00

read just the right thing, at

6:03

just the right moment, not

6:06

in that false way where

6:09

you have to force a match, but

6:12

where there is just a flash

6:15

of serendipitous harmony. It

6:20

feels like being winked at, but

6:23

you're not sure by who. I

6:28

tucked the book under one arm

6:30

and went to the front door and

6:32

drew back the bolt. I

6:37

opened it wide and let sunshine

6:39

into the front hall. Through

6:44

the screen door, I saw the kids

6:46

in the yard across the street. They

6:50

were writing their names and drawing

6:52

butterflies and caterpillars and

6:54

pastel chalk across their sidewalks.

6:59

I went straight to the back door, a

7:02

sliding glass door that gave out to

7:04

the back patio, and opened

7:06

it as wide as it would go. Dried

7:11

hydrangea blooms from last year or

7:13

shifting in the breeze, I

7:17

felt like I could practically see the grass

7:19

growing. I

7:23

read the line in the book again and

7:25

dog yeared the page before closing it

7:27

up and sliding it back onto its shelf.

7:33

With a dust cloth in hand, I

7:35

worked my way around the room,

7:38

shining up the tops of tables

7:41

and the faces and picture frames in

7:46

the front hall beside

7:48

the open door. I stepped

7:50

into my shoes and took

7:52

the dust cloth out to shake over

7:54

the edge of the front porch. My

7:58

neighbor's doors were open, too, and

8:02

I thought a bit more about the line

8:04

in the book. I

8:08

shook the dust cloth and watched the particles

8:10

catching in the sunlight as they fell. I

8:15

went back inside to drop the cloth in

8:17

the laundry basket and wash my hands.

8:23

Some people, I thought, have

8:25

their front door closed nothing

8:28

gets in, they

8:31

feel unreachable. And

8:36

some people have their front door open, but

8:39

the back door is closed. Everything

8:43

gets in and nothing gets out.

8:48

Letting things come and go, thoughts

8:53

rise up and move on without

8:57

pouring them a cup of tea,

9:00

without clinging or ruminating.

9:04

It was a tricky skill, and

9:08

one I guessed we could all use some practice

9:10

with. I

9:14

thought of people I knew who had doors

9:16

closed, and reminded myself

9:19

that it's always easier to

9:21

see these things and others,

9:24

and that likely we were all both

9:27

types of people. Many times

9:29

every day, all

9:33

we could do was try to open the places

9:35

that had been shut, to

9:39

turn on the lights once we'd realized

9:42

they were spent, to

9:45

let things come and let

9:47

them go with

9:51

a house and order. I was

9:53

eager to get out into the yard. There

9:58

were hours left on this sunny day,

10:01

so I rummaged in the garage until

10:04

I found my gardening gloves started

10:08

to work my way through the beds. I

10:12

hadn't cut much back in the autumn, as

10:15

the falling leaves and drying stalks

10:17

of plants gave shelter to the little

10:19

creatures that shared the garden.

10:24

And because I'd read that pruning

10:26

stimulates growth, tell

10:29

me about it, I thought, and

10:32

spring was a better time for that. So

10:38

now there was quite a bit too clear those

10:42

dried Hydrangea blossoms and

10:45

last year's broad pale hasta

10:47

leaves and twigs and pine

10:50

needles. I

10:53

worked my way around the house and

10:56

into the back yard, where

10:58

I had a few raised I'd

11:00

built the year before. The

11:05

soil inside was dark and

11:07

fortified with compost. I

11:11

turned it over with my trowel and

11:13

pulled out stray leaves and

11:16

a helicopter seed from the maple overhead

11:20

that was already sprouting roots. I'd

11:25

been growing seedlings for the last month

11:28

on an upstairs window sill, and

11:32

soon, maybe in another

11:34

week or so, they'd

11:36

be ready to go into the beds. I'd

11:41

spent a few dreary winter days

11:44

carefully reading through seed catalogs

11:47

and making charts of germination periods

11:50

and hours of likely sunlight. I

11:55

crossed my fingers thinking about

11:57

the seeds I'd picked. I'd

12:00

be a bit adventurous,

12:04

figuring I could buy carrots and tomatoes

12:06

and beans at the farmer's market, so

12:10

I'd give my bit of space over

12:13

to more exotic eats.

12:17

Up on the sill, several varieties

12:20

of chilies were sprouting. Perhaps

12:23

it had been the cold of the winter that

12:25

made me crave spice. I'd

12:30

also planted cantalope seeds

12:33

and watermelon radish,

12:37

and tiger nuts and mouse

12:39

melons, because why

12:42

not, I

12:46

thought the planting could be away from

12:48

me to practice, keeping my doors

12:50

open and my tea to

12:53

myself. I'd

12:56

do my work, then

12:59

step back and

13:02

let whatever happened next happen.

13:10

The front door and the back

13:12

door. The

13:16

air was fresh and the

13:18

day was sunny. The

13:22

temperature had been sneaking up

13:25

a few degrees at a time for

13:28

the last week or so, and

13:32

finally today

13:36

there was a real warmth in the air.

13:42

I started inside by

13:46

drawing aside curtains

13:49

and opening windows.

13:54

I stood at the kitchen sink, washing

13:58

up after tea and oatmeal, and

14:02

smiling at the feel of the fresh air

14:04

circling around me. Through

14:09

the window, I could

14:12

hear the movement of birds

14:14

and squirrels, and

14:17

beyond them a soft spring

14:20

wind coming to dry

14:22

up mud puddles. I

14:27

could hear a lawnmower in

14:30

the next block over being

14:33

coaxed to life, and

14:37

my neighbor's dog barking through

14:39

the fence. I

14:44

dried my cup and bowl and

14:47

put them back on their shelf. Often

14:55

I'd have turned on music or

14:58

a radio show to

15:01

follow me through my chores, but

15:05

it was so nice to do my work

15:08

with nothing but the sounds from outside

15:12

keeping me company. I

15:17

hung the dish towel from its hook beside

15:19

the sink and moved

15:22

into the living room, opening

15:25

more windows as I went. There

15:31

was a jumble of books and blankets

15:34

spread over the sofa,

15:38

and as I folded and tidied, I

15:42

stopped to read a few lines

15:44

from one of the books. It

15:50

was a book about Zen, with

15:53

a few poems and meditations.

16:00

The page I opened to just said open

16:03

the front door. And

16:06

opened the back door. Let

16:10

thoughts move through, just

16:15

don't offer them a cup of tea.

16:21

I smiled down at the words, Has

16:25

that happened to you? That

16:29

you read just the right thing

16:32

at just the right moment, Not

16:39

in that false way where

16:42

you have to force a match, but

16:47

where there is just a flash

16:50

of serendipitous harmony. It

16:56

feels like being winked at,

17:01

but you're not sure by who. I

17:07

tucked the book under one arm

17:10

and went to the front door and

17:14

drew back the bolt. I

17:19

opened it wide and

17:22

let sunshine into the front

17:24

hall. Through

17:29

the screen door, I

17:31

saw the kids in the yard across

17:33

the street. They

17:38

were writing their names and

17:40

drawing butterflies and

17:42

caterpillars and

17:45

pastel chalk across their sidewalks.

17:52

I went straight to the back door, a

17:57

sliding glass door that

17:59

gave out to the back patio, and

18:04

opened it as wide as it would go.

18:10

Dried hydrangea blooms from last

18:13

year were shifting

18:15

in the breeze. I

18:20

felt like I could practically see the

18:22

grass growing. I

18:27

read the line in the book again and

18:31

dog yeared the page before

18:34

closing it up and

18:37

sliding it back onto its shelf. With

18:44

a dust cloth in hand, I

18:46

worked my way around the room,

18:50

shining up the tops of tables and

18:54

the faces in picture frames. In

19:01

the front hall, beside

19:03

the open door, I

19:07

stepped into my shoes and

19:11

took the dust cloth out to

19:14

shake over the edge of the front porch.

19:19

My neighbor's doors were opened too.

19:23

When I thought a bit more about the

19:26

line in the book, I

19:31

shook the dust cloth and

19:34

watched the particles catching in

19:36

the sunlight as they fell. I

19:41

went back inside to drop

19:43

the cloth in the laundry basket and

19:46

wash my hands. Some

19:51

people, I thought, have their

19:54

front door closed nothing

19:57

gets in, they

20:00

feel unreachable. And

20:05

some people have their front

20:07

door open, but

20:09

the back door is closed. Everything

20:13

gets in and

20:15

nothing gets out. Letting

20:21

things come and go, thoughts

20:26

rise up and move

20:28

on without

20:33

pouring them a cup of tea,

20:38

without clinging or

20:41

ruminating. It

20:45

was a tricky skill, and

20:50

one I guessed we could

20:52

all use some practice with. I

20:58

thought of people I knew who

21:00

had doors closed, and

21:04

reminded myself that

21:07

it's always easier to

21:09

see these things and others. I'm

21:12

that likely we

21:14

were all both types of people.

21:17

Many times every day. All

21:23

we could do was

21:25

to open up the places that had

21:28

been shot to

21:31

turn on the lights once we'd

21:33

realized they were spent, to

21:38

let things come and

21:40

let them go with

21:45

the house and order. I

21:48

was eager to get out into the yard. There

21:52

were hours left on this sunny day,

21:56

so I rummaged in the garage until

22:00

I found my gardening gloves and

22:03

started to work my way through the beds.

22:10

I hadn't cut much back in the

22:12

autumn, as

22:14

the falling leaves and drying

22:16

stalks of plants gave

22:19

shelter to the little creatures

22:21

that shared the garden. And

22:25

because I'd read that pruning

22:28

stimulates growth, tell

22:32

me about it, I thought, and

22:35

spring was a better time for that. So

22:42

now there was quite a bit

22:44

too clear those

22:47

dried Hydrangea blossoms and

22:51

last year's broad, pale,

22:53

hostile leaves and

22:56

twigs and pine needles.

23:03

I worked my way around the house and

23:07

into the back yard, where

23:11

I had a few raised beds

23:13

i'd built the year before. The

23:19

soil inside was dark and fortified

23:21

with compost. I

23:25

turned it over with my trowel and

23:28

pulled out stray leaves

23:31

and a helicopter seed from

23:34

the maple overhead that

23:37

was already sprouting roots.

23:42

I'd been growing seed leans for

23:44

the last month on

23:47

an upstairs window sill, and

23:50

soon, maybe

23:53

in another week or so, they'd

23:55

be ready to go into

23:58

the beds. I'd

24:02

spent a few dreary winter days

24:06

carefully reading through seed

24:08

catalogs and

24:11

making charts of germination

24:13

periods and hours

24:16

of likely sunlight. I

24:20

crossed my fingers thinking

24:23

about the seeds i'd pick'd out. I'd

24:29

been a bit adventurous, figuring

24:33

I could buy carrots and tomatoes

24:36

and beans at the

24:38

farmer's market, so

24:42

I'd give my bit of space over

24:46

to more exotic eats.

24:52

Up on the sill, several

24:54

varieties of chilies were

24:56

sprouting. Perhaps

25:01

it had been the cold of the winter that

25:04

made me crave spice. I'd

25:08

also planted cantaloupe seeds

25:11

and watermelon radish,

25:15

and tiger nuts

25:17

and mouse melons, because

25:20

why not. I

25:24

thought the planting could be away from

25:26

me, to practice keeping

25:30

my doors open and my

25:32

tea to myself. I'd

25:37

do my work, then

25:40

step back and

25:45

let whatever happened next

25:47

happen. Sweet

25:52

dreams