Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime Stories for grown ups, in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. I read and write all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening and for sharing our
Speaker 1: stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep.
Speaker 1: You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook and
Speaker 1: Twitter for a bit of extra cosiness. So I'm about
Speaker 1: to tell you a bedtime story, and the story is
Speaker 1: like a soft landing spot for your mind. Rather than
Speaker 1: letting your brain race through the same thoughts you've been
Speaker 1: chasing all day, we are going to take a detour
Speaker 1: to a calm and cozy place. I'll tell the story twice,
Speaker 1: and I'll go a bit slower the second time through.
Speaker 1: If you wake again in the middle of the night,
Speaker 1: just walk yourself back through any of the details that
Speaker 1: you remember and you'll drop right back off. We get
Speaker 1: better at what we do habitually, so be patient. If
Speaker 1: you are new to this, your sleep will improve with
Speaker 1: time and practice. Now it's time to turn off the light,
Speaker 1: take one last sip of water, and snuggle down into
Speaker 1: your favorite sleeping position, get your pillow in the perfect spot,
Speaker 1: and take a slow, deep breath in through your nose
Speaker 1: and out through your mouth. Nice, Do that one more time,
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called
Speaker 1: all Day at Home, and it's a story about tucking
Speaker 1: yourself away from the world for a bit. It's also
Speaker 1: about watching winter from a window seat, red pepper flakes
Speaker 1: from the Italian coast, and the joy minding one's own
Speaker 1: business all day at home. It wasn't the weather that
Speaker 1: kept me home today, though there were certainly still drifts
Speaker 1: of snow banked beside the front door and a low
Speaker 1: gray sky that hinted it more to come. It was
Speaker 1: just that feeling when I woke, the feeling of being
Speaker 1: a bit overexposed to the world, of needing a day
Speaker 1: of quiet to myself, that helped me make up my mind.
Speaker 1: As I stirred my morning cup of coffee. I decided
Speaker 1: to stay home all day, to not go out unless
Speaker 1: it was to feed the birds or bring in firewood,
Speaker 1: or to stand for a few moments in the cool
Speaker 1: air and breathe in the smell of well winter air
Speaker 1: really smells like the absence of of growing green things,
Speaker 1: of movement and doing. I guess winter air smells like
Speaker 1: quiet and stillness and repose, and that matched my needs
Speaker 1: perfectly today. Once I'd decided that today was a day
Speaker 1: for retreat, I'd taken my nearly full journal from my
Speaker 1: drawer and my pen blanket and went to the window
Speaker 1: seat that looked down into the small sloping valley at
Speaker 1: the edge of my back yard. In the summer, when
Speaker 1: I would sit here with the window open and let
Speaker 1: the bird song and the warm breeze in, I could
Speaker 1: imagine myself in a treehouse, as all I could see
Speaker 1: were layers and layers of leaves. These were old trees,
Speaker 1: their toes dug deep into the rich low land, and
Speaker 1: their tops level with my window. Now I looked out
Speaker 1: at their bare branches spread like reaching fingers across the sky,
Speaker 1: nests from last summer, or suddenly as dark clumps, and
Speaker 1: the joints of those fingers, and I wondered where their
Speaker 1: former residence were at this moment, spreading their wings in
Speaker 1: bright sunlight, splashing in a friendly bird bath in a
Speaker 1: southerly backyard, or sleeping with a wing tucked over a
Speaker 1: head and a new nest somewhere warm. I spent a
Speaker 1: while sitting there, writing in my journal and looking out
Speaker 1: the window. I wrote about small things from the week,
Speaker 1: some that I wanted to remember and some that I
Speaker 1: was ready to forget, and putting them down on the
Speaker 1: paper helped me to do that. It gave them a
Speaker 1: place to live that wasn't my head. Eventually I set
Speaker 1: the book aside and pulled the blanket closer around me.
Speaker 1: Sometimes from this spot I could see deer browsing through
Speaker 1: the trunks of trees, dipping their heads and nosing the snow,
Speaker 1: aside from a mouthful of berries. But to day all
Speaker 1: was still, everyone was staying home. Eventually I slipped my
Speaker 1: feet back into my slippers and padded down into the kitchen.
Speaker 1: It was a bit past lunch time, nearly too, in fact,
Speaker 1: and that made me think of the Italian way of
Speaker 1: eating a good sized meal at this time of day,
Speaker 1: something that would stay with you and nourish you for
Speaker 1: a good long while. I went to my cupboard and
Speaker 1: pulled down a jar of green lentils, a tiny can
Speaker 1: of tomato paste, and a box of pasta pasta con lentichio.
Speaker 1: Today a comforting pasta soup that was simple to make
Speaker 1: and delicious and satisfying. I tipped the lentils into a
Speaker 1: colander to rinse them, and as they ran over my fingers,
Speaker 1: I had a sudden memory of being very young, maybe
Speaker 1: four years old, in a classroom with a paint smeared
Speaker 1: smock tied around me. There are bins of rice and grain,
Speaker 1: and we could dip our tiny hands into them and
Speaker 1: feel them tickle over our skin as all the kernels
Speaker 1: and seeds collided. I remembered that I had liked the
Speaker 1: way it felt, and had happily stayed there, just sliding
Speaker 1: my hands through the bins and quietly humming to myself.
Speaker 1: I supposed I hadn't changed that much in the years,
Speaker 1: since I still liked the pleasure of my own company
Speaker 1: and could easily entertain myself with simple, enjoyable things. I
Speaker 1: took a small pot from a shelf and set it
Speaker 1: on the stove. I measured in water and olive oil,
Speaker 1: a clove of garlic, and a spoonful of the tomato paste.
Speaker 1: I added the rinsed lentils and turned on the hob.
Speaker 1: As the water warmed and came to a boil, the
Speaker 1: smell of the tomato and garlic filled my little kitchen.
Speaker 1: I turned it a bit lower and let it simmer
Speaker 1: away for a bit to let the lentils soften. I
Speaker 1: liked a small pasta noodle for this, like titali, which
Speaker 1: are short tubes and whose name meant thimble. I liked
Speaker 1: that thimble soup on a cold day. The broth had
Speaker 1: become a bit thicker as the lentils cooked, and was
Speaker 1: a rich, reddish brown. I tipped in the pasta and
Speaker 1: gave it a stir as it cooked. I set a
Speaker 1: place for myself at the table, a glass of mineral water,
Speaker 1: a napkin salt and pepper, and a tiny dish of
Speaker 1: red pepper flakes. I was rationing them, and had been
Speaker 1: doling them out in tiny increments for a while. Now
Speaker 1: you can buy them anywhere, but these particular pepperoncini had
Speaker 1: been bought in a little shop in Myoti by a friend,
Speaker 1: and therefore had a special flavor that probably had more
Speaker 1: to do with sentiment than taste. Buds. I imagined her
Speaker 1: on her summer vacation, with a floppy hat and giant sunglasses,
Speaker 1: stepping out of the bright Mediterranean sun into a shop
Speaker 1: with packets of spices strung on a hook by the door,
Speaker 1: and remembering how much I'd like to add these to
Speaker 1: my soups and sauces, taking one down for me. When
Speaker 1: the pasta was cooked, I ladled it out into a
Speaker 1: bowl and carried it to my place. I pinched a
Speaker 1: few flakes of pepperin and stirred it through. The lentils
Speaker 1: had nearly dissolved and the surface of the broth was
Speaker 1: speckled with olive oil. The clove of garlic had gone
Speaker 1: soft and sweet as it cooked, and I spooned it
Speaker 1: into my first bite, with a few pasta thimbles and
Speaker 1: a good bit of the tomato stock. This day, this meal,
Speaker 1: the time at the window with my book and pen,
Speaker 1: they were restoring me. It's easy these days to feel
Speaker 1: like you're under a microscope, over examined or scrutinized, and
Speaker 1: then to feel like you need a bit of time
Speaker 1: to be invisible to the rest of the world, and
Speaker 1: with a lot of care and tenderness, to simply mind
Speaker 1: your own business. That's what I would continue to do today,
Speaker 1: tend to myself and let the world revolve without me
Speaker 1: for a bit. All day at home, it wasn't the
Speaker 1: weather that kept me home today, though there were certainly
Speaker 1: still drifts of snow banked beside the front door in
Speaker 1: the low gray sky that hinted at more to come.
Speaker 1: It was just that feeling when I woke, the feeling
Speaker 1: of being a bit over exposed to the world, of
Speaker 1: needing a day of quiet to myself, that helped me
Speaker 1: to make up my mind. As I stirred my morning
Speaker 1: cup of coffee, I decided to stay home all day,
Speaker 1: to not go out unless it was to feed the birds,
Speaker 1: or to bring in firewood, or to stand for a
Speaker 1: few moments in the cool air and breathe in the
Speaker 1: smell of well, winter air really smells like the absence
Speaker 1: of of growing, green things, of movement and doing. I
Speaker 1: guess winter air smells like quiet and stillness and repose,
Speaker 1: and that matched my needs perfectly today. Once I'd decided
Speaker 1: that today was a day for retreat, I had taken
Speaker 1: my nearly full journal from my drawer and my pen
Speaker 1: and my blanket and went to the window seat that
Speaker 1: looked down into the small sloping valley at the edge
Speaker 1: of my back yard. In the summer, when I would
Speaker 1: sit here with the window open and let the bird
Speaker 1: song and the warm breeze in. I could imagine myself
Speaker 1: in a tree house, as all I could see were
Speaker 1: layers and layers of leaves. These were old trees, their
Speaker 1: toes dug deep into the rich low land, and their
Speaker 1: tops level with my window. Now I looked out at
Speaker 1: their bare branches spread like reaching fingers across the sky.
Speaker 1: Nests from last summer were suddenly visible as dark clumps
Speaker 1: and the joints of those fingers, and I wondered where
Speaker 1: their former residence were at this moment, spreading their wings
Speaker 1: in bright sunlight, splashing in a friendly bird bath in
Speaker 1: a southerly back yard, or sleeping with a wing tucked
Speaker 1: over a head in a new nest somewhere warm. I
Speaker 1: spent a while sitting there, writing in my journal and
Speaker 1: looking out the window. I wrote about small things from
Speaker 1: the week, some that I wanted to remember and some
Speaker 1: that I was ready to forget, and putting them down
Speaker 1: on the paper helped me to do that and gave
Speaker 1: them a place to live. There wasn't my head. Eventually
Speaker 1: I set the book aside, and I pulled the blanket
Speaker 1: closer around me. Sometimes from this spot I could see
Speaker 1: deer browsing through the trunks of the trees, dipping their
Speaker 1: heads and nosing the snow aside from a mouthful of berries.
Speaker 1: But today all was still, everyone was staying home. Eventually
Speaker 1: I slipped my feet back into my slippers and padded
Speaker 1: down into the kitchen. It was a bit past lunch time,
Speaker 1: nearly two in fact, and that made me think of
Speaker 1: the Italian way of eating a good sized meal at
Speaker 1: this time of the day, something that would stay with
Speaker 1: you and nourish you for a good long while. I
Speaker 1: went to my cupboard and pulled down a jar of
Speaker 1: green lentils, a tiny can of tomato paste, and a
Speaker 1: box of pasta pasta con lentiqio today comforting pasta soup
Speaker 1: that was simple to make and delicious and satisfying. I
Speaker 1: tipped the lentils into a calendar to rinse them, and
Speaker 1: as they ran over my fingers, I had a sudden
Speaker 1: memory of being very young, maybe four years old, in
Speaker 1: a classroom with a paint smeared smock tied around me.
Speaker 1: There were bins of rice and grains, and we could
Speaker 1: dip our tiny hands into them and feel the tickle
Speaker 1: over our skin as all the kernels and seeds collided.
Speaker 1: I remembered that I had liked the way it felt,
Speaker 1: and had happily stayed there, just sliding my hands through
Speaker 1: the bins and quietly humming to myself. I supposed I
Speaker 1: hadn't changed that much in the years, since I still
Speaker 1: liked the pleasure of my own company and could easily
Speaker 1: entertain myself with simple, enjoyable things. I took a small
Speaker 1: pot from a shelf and set it on the stove.
Speaker 1: I measured in water and olive oil, a clove of garlic,
Speaker 1: and a spoonful of tomato paste. I added the rinsed
Speaker 1: lentils and turned on the hob. As the water warmed
Speaker 1: and came to a boil, the smell of the tomato
Speaker 1: and garlic filled my little kitchen. I turned it a
Speaker 1: bit lower and let it simmer away for a bit
Speaker 1: to let the lentils soften. I liked a small pasta
Speaker 1: noodle for this. Likeditali, which are short tubes and whose
Speaker 1: name meant thimble. I liked that thimble soup on a
Speaker 1: cold day. The broth had become a bit thicker as
Speaker 1: the lentils cooked, and was a rich, reddish brown. I
Speaker 1: tipped in the pasta and gave it a stir. As
Speaker 1: it cooked, I set a place for myself at the table,
Speaker 1: a glass of mineral water, a napkin salt and pepper,
Speaker 1: and a tiny dish of red pepper flakes. I was
Speaker 1: rationing them, and had been doling them out in tiny
Speaker 1: increments for a while. Now you can buy them anywhere,
Speaker 1: but these particular pepperoncini had been bought in a little
Speaker 1: shop in Myori by a friend, and therefore had a
Speaker 1: special flavor that probably had more to do with sentiment
Speaker 1: than taste. Buds. I imagined her on her summer vacation
Speaker 1: with a floppy hat and giant sunglasses, stepping out of
Speaker 1: the bright Mediterranean sun into a shop with packets of
Speaker 1: spices strung on a hook by the door, remembering how
Speaker 1: much I liked to add these to my soups and sauces,
Speaker 1: and taking one down for me. When the pasta was cooked,
Speaker 1: I ladled it out into a bowl and carried it
Speaker 1: to my place. I pinched a few flakes of pepper
Speaker 1: in and stirred it through. The lentils had nearly dissolved,
Speaker 1: and the surface of the broth was speckled with olive oil.
Speaker 1: The clove of garlic had gone soft and sweet as
Speaker 1: I cooked, and I spooned it into my first bite
Speaker 1: with a few pasta thimbles and a good bit of
Speaker 1: the tomato stock. The day, this meal, the time at
Speaker 1: the window with my book and pen, they were restoring me.
Speaker 1: It's easy these days to feel like you are under
Speaker 1: the microscope, over examined or scrutinized, and then to feel
Speaker 1: like you need a bit of time to be invisible
Speaker 1: to the rest of the world, and with a lot
Speaker 1: of care and tenderness to simply mind your own business.
Speaker 1: That's what I would continue to do to day, tend
Speaker 1: to myself and let the world revolve without me for
Speaker 1: a bit. Sweet dreams.