Speaker 1: Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens,
Speaker 1: you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
Speaker 1: I create everything you hear and nothing much happens with
Speaker 1: audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Our team is on vacation
Speaker 1: this week and we want to remind you about the
Speaker 1: importance of rest and relaxation. So we are replaying a
Speaker 1: favorite episode from season eight. It encourages you to think
Speaker 1: of rest like you think of drinking water when you
Speaker 1: need it. You don't try to get by on as
Speaker 1: little as possible. You don't feel guilty for feeling thirsty.
Speaker 1: You just take what you need. We'll be back with
Speaker 1: a new episode next week. We also want to let
Speaker 1: you know that you'll soon be able to subscribe to
Speaker 1: our premium ad free feed right through Apple Podcasts, and
Speaker 1: we'll have more about that on our socials and on
Speaker 1: our website. Let me say a little about how to
Speaker 1: use this podcast. Your brain needs a job to do,
Speaker 1: and without one, it will wander off, unlikely get into trouble.
Speaker 1: But the job we have for it is easy and
Speaker 1: such a pleasure. I'll tell you a story. In fact,
Speaker 1: I'll tell it twice and I'll go a little slower
Speaker 1: the second time through. Your job is just to listen
Speaker 1: and pull the details of it around you like a blanket.
Speaker 1: If you wake in the middle of the night, you
Speaker 1: could listen again, or just walk yourself back through any
Speaker 1: part of it that you can remember. This trains the
Speaker 1: brain over time to shift out of its wandering default
Speaker 1: mode and into the RESTful response that happens in task mode.
Speaker 1: It's brain training, and it gets easier and more automatic
Speaker 1: over time, So have some patience if you're new at this.
Speaker 1: Now it's time to turn off the light and put
Speaker 1: away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take
Speaker 1: some time to cozy your body down into your preferred
Speaker 1: sleeping position, Get the right pillow in the right spot,
Speaker 1: and let everything relax. If you tend to clench your
Speaker 1: jaw when you sleep, place the tip of your tongue
Speaker 1: at the spot where your top teeth meet the gums
Speaker 1: on the inside and sort of flatten your tongue across
Speaker 1: your upper palate. This will keep your jaw relaxed. Now,
Speaker 1: let's take a deep breath in through the nose and
Speaker 1: out through the mouth. Nice, do one more in and out. Good.
Speaker 1: Our story tonight is called Summer Storm, and it's a
Speaker 1: story about a cool, cloudy day enjoyed from a favorite spot.
Speaker 1: It's also about a simmering pot of soup on the stove,
Speaker 1: taking a day for pure rest, and an old friend
Speaker 1: to learn lessons. With Summer Storm. The rain didn't start
Speaker 1: until the evening, but the whole day had been dim
Speaker 1: an overcast, and while sunshine lifted my spirits, there was
Speaker 1: something soothing about a cloudy day. It felt like a
Speaker 1: suggestion from nature to be quiet, do less. It felt
Speaker 1: like the moment when you realize you've been hunching your
Speaker 1: shoulders and you suddenly release them and feel the space
Speaker 1: around your heart open up. The windows were open all
Speaker 1: over the house. I'd been keeping them closed against the
Speaker 1: heat most days this summer, opening them up only late
Speaker 1: at night and early in the morning, when the temperature
Speaker 1: outside finally dropped lower than inside. But the cloudy day
Speaker 1: had been cooler from the start. I'd lit candles against
Speaker 1: the gloom and put fresh sheets on my bed, and
Speaker 1: played a favor album on repeat for most of the day.
Speaker 1: When the notes fell into my rather limited range, I'd
Speaker 1: lean into them, belting out and knowing every word. It
Speaker 1: reminded me of being twenty in my first car, singing
Speaker 1: at the top of my lungs along winding country roads.
Speaker 1: I still felt as care free and ready for adventure
Speaker 1: as my twenty year old self, even in my socks
Speaker 1: and with a mug of camomeal tea held under my chin.
Speaker 1: They don't tell you this about growing up. You don't
Speaker 1: lose your younger selves as you age. They aren't left behind.
Speaker 1: They just get added into the older versions, like cards
Speaker 1: shuffled together in a progressively fuller deck, a more true
Speaker 1: understanding of yourself and the world. I had a friend
Speaker 1: who called this Earth School, and I liked thinking of
Speaker 1: it that way. What I learned, what lessons I had
Speaker 1: to go back and take over again, and the realization
Speaker 1: that there was no graduating, just moving on to other
Speaker 1: subjects and skills and interests. In the afternoon, the clouds
Speaker 1: got thicker and the shadows in the house were deep.
Speaker 1: I'd had a burst of energy in the morning and
Speaker 1: made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, a long simmering
Speaker 1: pot of black bean soup, and a crusty cottage loaf.
Speaker 1: I'd been nibbling at all three here and there whenever
Speaker 1: my stomach grumbled, and once the mixing bowls and cookie
Speaker 1: sheets were washed and put away, I'd felt ready to
Speaker 1: spend the remainder of the day doing very little and
Speaker 1: resting a lot. Breast is one of those too little used,
Speaker 1: but very effective forms of gentle medicine. I'd learned a
Speaker 1: long time ago to think of it as I might
Speaker 1: think of drinking water if I was thirsty. I didn't
Speaker 1: hesitate to take a drink. I didn't try to get
Speaker 1: through the day first, or get by on as little
Speaker 1: as possible, and I certainly didn't feel guilty about taking
Speaker 1: as much as I needed. When I started to think
Speaker 1: of rest in the same way, it got easier to
Speaker 1: feel for when I needed it, to give it to
Speaker 1: myself without hesitation. So I'd made a nest on the sofa,
Speaker 1: a big fluffy blank, it, soft pillows, my book, my tea,
Speaker 1: and my dog, who, bless her, in her senior years,
Speaker 1: had managed to sleep through all my singing. She was
Speaker 1: an old gray faced beagle whose long, floppy ears were
Speaker 1: as soft as velvet, And though she didn't follow me
Speaker 1: around the house any more, she did wait till I
Speaker 1: sat down somewhere, and then scooted it up into the
Speaker 1: seat beside me. I'd finally turned off my music and
Speaker 1: just listened to the steady sound of her breathing. She
Speaker 1: had fond speckles across her white and brown back and
Speaker 1: a stripe across the ankles of her back feet. I
Speaker 1: unclipped her collar and massaged her neck as we snuggled
Speaker 1: on the couch. She let out sleepy old dog grunts,
Speaker 1: and I thought back to our early days when we'd
Speaker 1: run down the sidewalks together, her nose to the concrete,
Speaker 1: sniffing out the trails of every person an animal who'd
Speaker 1: passed by in the whole week before. She didn't feel
Speaker 1: much like running these days, but her nose was still sharp,
Speaker 1: and most mornings I could get her to play a
Speaker 1: favorite game. While she was out in the backyard attending
Speaker 1: to her doggy business. I'd take one of her favorite
Speaker 1: cookies and walk it through the house, setting it here
Speaker 1: and there, and finally leaving it somewhere she could reach.
Speaker 1: When I let her back in, i'd pat her back
Speaker 1: and tell her to find the cookie. She'd start sniffing
Speaker 1: and snuffling along the floors, and her nose would go everywhere.
Speaker 1: The biscuit had from one room to the other until
Speaker 1: she found it and snatched it up with her teeth.
Speaker 1: From the seat of a chair in the dining room,
Speaker 1: or the edge of a stair in the landing, or
Speaker 1: the inside of my shoe at the door. She was
Speaker 1: doing her own bit of earth school. We lay together
Speaker 1: as the afternoon turned to evening. I took turns between
Speaker 1: reading my book and letting it fall onto my chest
Speaker 1: as I dipped into sleep. At some point I got
Speaker 1: up to warm the soup, and as I stood by
Speaker 1: the kitchen window, tiny rain drops struck the pane, like
Speaker 1: droplets of paint flung from the end of a brush.
Speaker 1: The rain that we'd been expecting all day was finally falling.
Speaker 1: I nudged the window shut where the rain was coming in,
Speaker 1: and spooned up a bowl of soup. I caught a
Speaker 1: slice of bread and carried it all back to our nest.
Speaker 1: I settled back into my spot, and my dog hitched
Speaker 1: herself up a bit and laid her front paws over
Speaker 1: my leg. I didn't know how much she could hear
Speaker 1: or see. Maybe she was smelling it, but she lifted
Speaker 1: her head and seemed to watch the rain come down.
Speaker 1: It went from mist to full round heavy rain drops,
Speaker 1: and I thought of how green the grass would be
Speaker 1: within a week from to day's dowsing. The sound of
Speaker 1: the falling rain rang through the house, steady and drumming
Speaker 1: on the roof, racing along the eaves, and cascading through
Speaker 1: the down spouts. My water barrel would be full again
Speaker 1: in the morning. I broke bits of bread off, and
Speaker 1: she chewed them slowly as we watched the rain outside
Speaker 1: dinner and a show. I said to her it had
Speaker 1: rained all night, and when we finally moved from the
Speaker 1: couch to the bed, we slept like rocks till the
Speaker 1: morning light broke through our curtains. I was vaguely aware
Speaker 1: that there had been lightning and thunder crashing in a
Speaker 1: distance some time in the middle of the night. I
Speaker 1: think I'd sat up in bed to make sure she
Speaker 1: wasn't startled by the noise, but she lay at my feet,
Speaker 1: snoring soundly. When I opened the back door and we
Speaker 1: stepped outside, me still happily in my pajamas, a bright, blue,
Speaker 1: cloudless sky stretched above us, and the very best smell
Speaker 1: was coming up from the ground that deep after the
Speaker 1: storm rain smell It filled me back up with energy,
Speaker 1: and after our day of rest, I thought we might
Speaker 1: just try a walk. This morning, we had another day
Speaker 1: of school summer storm. The rain didn't start until the evening,
Speaker 1: but the whole day had been dim and overcast, and
Speaker 1: while sunshine lifted my spirits, there was something soothing about
Speaker 1: a cloudy day. It felt like a suggestion from nature
Speaker 1: to be quiet and do less. It had felt like
Speaker 1: the moment when you realize you've been hunching your shoulders
Speaker 1: and you suddenly release them and feel the space around
Speaker 1: your heart open up. The windows were open all over
Speaker 1: the house. I'd been keeping them closed against the heat
Speaker 1: most days this summer, opening them up only late at
Speaker 1: night and early in the morning when the temperature outside
Speaker 1: finally dropped lower than inside. But the cloudy day had
Speaker 1: been cooler from the start. I'd lit candles against the
Speaker 1: gloom and put fresh sheets on my bed, and played
Speaker 1: a favorite album on repeat for most of the day.
Speaker 1: When the notes fell into my rather limited range, I'd
Speaker 1: lean into them, belting out and knowing every word. It
Speaker 1: reminded me of being twenty and my first car, singing
Speaker 1: at the top of my lungs along winding country roads.
Speaker 1: I still felt as care free and ready for adventure
Speaker 1: as my twenty year old self, even in my socks
Speaker 1: and with a mug of Camo meal held under my chin.
Speaker 1: They don't tell you this about growing up. You don't
Speaker 1: lose your younger selves as you age. They aren't left behind.
Speaker 1: They just get added into the older versions, like cards
Speaker 1: shuffled together in a progressively fuller deck, a more true
Speaker 1: understanding of yourself in the world. I had a friend
Speaker 1: who called this Earth School, and I liked thinking of
Speaker 1: it that way. What I learned, what lessons I had
Speaker 1: to go back and take over again, and the realization
Speaker 1: that there was no graduating, just moving on to other
Speaker 1: subjects and skills and interests. In the afternoon, the clouds
Speaker 1: got thicker and the shadows in the house were deep.
Speaker 1: I'd had a burst of energy in the morning and
Speaker 1: made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, a long simmering
Speaker 1: pot of black bean soup, and a crusty cottage loaf.
Speaker 1: I'd been nibbling at all three here and there whenever
Speaker 1: my stomach grumbled, and once the mixing bowls and cookie
Speaker 1: sheets were washed and put away, I'd felt ready to
Speaker 1: spend the remainder of the day, doing very little and
Speaker 1: resting a lot. Rest is one of those too little used,
Speaker 1: but very effective forms of gentle medicine. I learned a
Speaker 1: long time ago to think of it as I might
Speaker 1: think of drinking water if I was thirsty. I didn't
Speaker 1: hesitate to take a drink. I didn't try to get
Speaker 1: through the day first, or then get by on as
Speaker 1: little as possible, And I certainly didn't feel guilty about
Speaker 1: taking as much as I needed. When I started to
Speaker 1: think of rest in the same way, it got easier
Speaker 1: to feel for when I needed it and to give
Speaker 1: it to myself without hesitation. So I'd made a nest
Speaker 1: on the sofa, a big fluffy blanket, soft pillows, my book,
Speaker 1: my tea, and my dog, who bless her, in her
Speaker 1: senior years, had managed to sleep through all my singing.
Speaker 1: She was an old gray faced beagle whose long, floppy
Speaker 1: ears were as soft as velvet, And though she didn't
Speaker 1: follow me around the house anymore, she did wait till
Speaker 1: I sat down somewhere, and then scooted it up into
Speaker 1: the spot beside me. I'd finally turned off my music
Speaker 1: and just listened to the steady sound of her breathing.
Speaker 1: She had fond speckles across her white and brown back
Speaker 1: and a stripe across the ankles of her back feet.
Speaker 1: I unclipped her collar and massaged her neck. As we
Speaker 1: snuggled on the couch. She let out sleepy, old dog grunts,
Speaker 1: and I thought back to our early day when we'd
Speaker 1: run down the sidewalks together, her nose to the concrete,
Speaker 1: sniffing out the trails of every person an animal who
Speaker 1: had passed by in the whole week before. She didn't
Speaker 1: feel much like running these days, but her nose was
Speaker 1: still sharp, and most mornings I could get her to
Speaker 1: play a favorite game. While she was out in the
Speaker 1: backyard attending to her doggy business. I'd take one of
Speaker 1: her favorite cookies and walk it through the house, setting
Speaker 1: it here and there, and finally leaving it somewhere she
Speaker 1: could reach. When I let her back in, I'd pat
Speaker 1: her back and tell her to find the cookie. She'd
Speaker 1: start sniffing and snuffling along the floors, and her nose
Speaker 1: would go everywhere the biscuit had from one room to
Speaker 1: the other, until she found it and snatched it up
Speaker 1: with her teeth. From the seat of a chair, in
Speaker 1: the dining room, or the edge of a stair in
Speaker 1: the landing, or the inside of my sh shoe at
Speaker 1: the door. She was doing her own bit of earth school.
Speaker 1: We lay together as the afternoon turned to evening. I
Speaker 1: took turns between reading my book and letting it fall
Speaker 1: onto my chest as I dipped into sleep. At some
Speaker 1: point I got up to warm the soup, and as
Speaker 1: I stood by the kitchen window, tiny rain drops struck
Speaker 1: the pane, like droplets of paint flung from the end
Speaker 1: of a brush. The rain that we'd been expecting all
Speaker 1: day was finally falling. I nudged the windows shut where
Speaker 1: the rain was coming in, and spooned up a bowl
Speaker 1: of soup. I cut a slice of bread and carried
Speaker 1: it all back to our nest. I settled back into
Speaker 1: my spot, and my dog hitched herself up a bit
Speaker 1: and laid her front paws over my leg. I didn't
Speaker 1: know how much she could hear or see, but maybe
Speaker 1: she was smelling it, but she lifted her head and
Speaker 1: seemed to watch the rain come down. It went from
Speaker 1: mist to full round heavy rain drops. How I thought
Speaker 1: of how green the grass would be within a week
Speaker 1: from tonight's dousing. The sound of the falling rain rang
Speaker 1: through the house, steady and drumming on the roof, racing
Speaker 1: along the eaves, and cascading through the down spouts. My
Speaker 1: water barrel would be full again in the morning. I
Speaker 1: broke bits of bread off and she chewed them slowly
Speaker 1: as we watched the rain outside dinner and a show.
Speaker 1: I said to her it had rained all night, and
Speaker 1: when we finally moved from the couch to the bed,
Speaker 1: we slept like rocks till the morning light broke through
Speaker 1: our curtains. I was vaguely aware that there had been
Speaker 1: lightning and thunder crashing in the distance some time in
Speaker 1: the middle of the night. I think I'd sat up
Speaker 1: in bed to make sure she wasn't startled by the noise,
Speaker 1: but she lay at my feet, snoring soundly. When I
Speaker 1: opened the back door and we stepped outside, me still
Speaker 1: happily in my pajamas, a bright, blue, cloudless sky stretched
Speaker 1: above us, and the very best smell was coming up
Speaker 1: from the ground that deep after the storm rain smell.
Speaker 1: It filled me back up with energy, and after our
Speaker 1: day of rest, I thought we might just try a
Speaker 1: walk this morning. We had another day of school sweet dreams,