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. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of
Speaker 1: the Curious Cast podcast network. Follow us on Twitter or
Speaker 1: Instagram or Facebook for more in the way of kind
Speaker 1: words and cozy ideas. Now let's get ready to sleep.
Speaker 1: I'll read you a story. It's a place to rest
Speaker 1: your mind, like an upturned leaf resting on the surface
Speaker 1: of a river. Your mind will follow along with the
Speaker 1: moving current of my voice and our story, and before
Speaker 1: you know it, it will ease you into deep sleep.
Speaker 1: I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: slower on the second read. If you wake in the night,
Speaker 1: take yourself back into the story, thinking back through any
Speaker 1: bit you can remember. This interrupts your brain's tendency to
Speaker 1: cycle through thought, and we'll put you right back into
Speaker 1: sleep mode. It is brain training, and it might take
Speaker 1: a bit of practice, so be patient if you are
Speaker 1: new to this. Now it's time to switch off the
Speaker 1: light set aside anything you've been looking at or working on.
Speaker 1: You've looked at a screen for the last time today.
Speaker 1: Adjust your pillows and your comforter until you feel completely
Speaker 1: at ease. If you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep,
Speaker 1: try resting the tip of your tongue at the place
Speaker 1: where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside.
Speaker 1: That will help to keep your jaw relaxed. Now, take
Speaker 1: a deep breath in through your nose and sigh out
Speaker 1: through the mouth. Again, breathe in and let it out good.
Speaker 1: Our story tonight is called the Front Door and the
Speaker 1: back Door, and it's a story about a bit of
Speaker 1: spring cleaning inside and outside the house. It's also about
Speaker 1: butterflies drawn in chalk on the sidewalk, a message arriving
Speaker 1: at just the right moment, and seedlings waiting for their
Speaker 1: chance to grow. The front door and the back door
Speaker 1: the air was fresh when the day was sunny. The
Speaker 1: temperature had been sneaking up a few degrees at a
Speaker 1: time for the last week or so, and finally today
Speaker 1: there was a real warmth in the air. I started
Speaker 1: inside by drawing aside curtains and opening windows. I stood
Speaker 1: at the kitchen sink, washing up after tea and oatmeal,
Speaker 1: and smiling at the feel of the fresh air circling
Speaker 1: around me. Through the window, I could hear the movements
Speaker 1: of birds and squirrels, and beyond them, a soft spring
Speaker 1: wind coming to dry up mud puddles. I could hear
Speaker 1: a lawnmower in the next block over being coaxed to life,
Speaker 1: and my neighbor's dog barking through the fence. I'd dried
Speaker 1: my cup and bowl and put them back on their shelf.
Speaker 1: Often i'd have turned on music or a radio show
Speaker 1: to follow me through my chores, but it was nice
Speaker 1: to do my work with nothing but the sounds from
Speaker 1: outside keeping company. I hung the dish towel from its
Speaker 1: hook beside the sink and moved into the living room,
Speaker 1: opening more windows as I went. There was a jumble
Speaker 1: of books and blankets spread over the sofa, and as
Speaker 1: I folded and tidied, I stopped to read a few
Speaker 1: lines from one of the books. There was a book
Speaker 1: about Zen, with a few poems and meditations. The page
Speaker 1: I opened to just said, opened the front door and
Speaker 1: opened the back door. Let thoughts move through, Just don't
Speaker 1: offer them a cup of tea. I smiled down at
Speaker 1: the words, has that happened to you? You read just
Speaker 1: the right thing, at just the right moment, not in
Speaker 1: that false way where you have to force a match,
Speaker 1: but where there is just a flash of serendipitous harmony.
Speaker 1: It feels like being winked at, but you're not sure
Speaker 1: by who. I tucked the book under one arm and
Speaker 1: went to the front door and drew back the bolt.
Speaker 1: I opened it wide and let sunshine into the front hall.
Speaker 1: Through the screen door, I saw the kids in the
Speaker 1: yard across the street. They were writing their names and
Speaker 1: drawing butterflies and caterpillars and pastel chalk across their sidewalks.
Speaker 1: I went straight to the back door, a sliding glass
Speaker 1: door that gave out to the back patio, and opened
Speaker 1: it as wide as it would go. Dried hydrangea blooms
Speaker 1: from last year or shifting in the breeze, I felt
Speaker 1: like I could practically see the grass growing. I read
Speaker 1: the line in the book again and dog yeared the
Speaker 1: page before closing it up and sliding it back onto
Speaker 1: its shelf. With a dust cloth in hand, I worked
Speaker 1: my way around the room, shining up the tops of
Speaker 1: tables and the faces and picture frames in the front
Speaker 1: hall beside the open door. I stepped into my shoes
Speaker 1: and took the dust cloth out to shake over the
Speaker 1: edge of the front porch. My neighbor's doors were open, too,
Speaker 1: and I thought a bit more about the line in
Speaker 1: the book. I shook the dust cloth and watched the
Speaker 1: particles catching in the sunlight as they fell. I went
Speaker 1: back inside to drop the cloth in the laundry basket
Speaker 1: and wash my hands. Some people, I thought, have their
Speaker 1: front door closed nothing gets in, they feel unreachable. And
Speaker 1: some people have their front door open, but the back
Speaker 1: door is closed. Everything gets in and nothing gets out.
Speaker 1: Letting things come and go, thoughts rise up and move
Speaker 1: on without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging
Speaker 1: or ruminating. It was a tricky skill, and one I
Speaker 1: guessed we could all use some practice with. I thought
Speaker 1: of people I knew who had doors closed, and reminded
Speaker 1: myself that it's always easier to see these things and others,
Speaker 1: and that likely we were all both types of people.
Speaker 1: Many times every day, all we could do was try
Speaker 1: to open the places that had been shut, to turn
Speaker 1: on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to
Speaker 1: let things come and let them go with a house
Speaker 1: and order. I was eager to get out into the yard.
Speaker 1: There were hours left on this sunny day, so I
Speaker 1: rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening gloves
Speaker 1: started to work my way through the beds. I hadn't
Speaker 1: cut much back in the autumn, as the falling leaves
Speaker 1: and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to the little
Speaker 1: creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd read that
Speaker 1: pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought, and
Speaker 1: spring was a better time for that. So now there
Speaker 1: was quite a bit too clear those dried Hydrangea blossoms
Speaker 1: and last year's broad pale hasta leaves and twigs and
Speaker 1: pine needles. I worked my way around the house and
Speaker 1: into the back yard, where I had a few raised
Speaker 1: I'd built the year before. The soil inside was dark
Speaker 1: and fortified with compost. I turned it over with my
Speaker 1: trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a helicopter seed
Speaker 1: from the maple overhead that was already sprouting roots. I'd
Speaker 1: been growing seedlings for the last month on an upstairs
Speaker 1: window sill, and soon, maybe in another week or so,
Speaker 1: they'd be ready to go into the beds. I'd spent
Speaker 1: a few dreary winter days carefully reading through seed catalogs
Speaker 1: and making charts of germination periods and hours of likely sunlight.
Speaker 1: I crossed my fingers thinking about the seeds I'd picked.
Speaker 1: I'd be a bit adventurous, figuring I could buy carrots
Speaker 1: and tomatoes and beans at the farmer's market, so I'd
Speaker 1: give my bit of space over to more exotic eats.
Speaker 1: Up on the sill, several varieties of chilies were sprouting.
Speaker 1: Perhaps it had been the cold of the winter that
Speaker 1: made me crave spice. I'd also planted cantalope seeds and
Speaker 1: watermelon radish, and tiger nuts and mouse melons, because why not,
Speaker 1: I thought the planting could be away from me to practice,
Speaker 1: keeping my doors open and my tea to myself. I'd
Speaker 1: do my work, then step back and let whatever happened
Speaker 1: next happen. The front door and the back door. The
Speaker 1: air was fresh and the day was sunny. The temperature
Speaker 1: had been sneaking up a few degrees at a time
Speaker 1: for the last week or so, and finally today there
Speaker 1: was a real warmth in the air. I started inside
Speaker 1: by drawing aside curtains and opening windows. I stood at
Speaker 1: the kitchen sink, washing up after tea and oatmeal, and
Speaker 1: smiling at the feel of the fresh air circling around me.
Speaker 1: Through the window, I could hear the movement of birds
Speaker 1: and squirrels, and beyond them a soft spring wind coming
Speaker 1: to dry up mud puddles. I could hear a lawnmower
Speaker 1: in the next block over being coaxed to life, and
Speaker 1: my neighbor's dog barking through the fence. I dried my
Speaker 1: cup and bowl and put them back on their shelf.
Speaker 1: Often I'd have turned on music or a radio show
Speaker 1: to follow me through my chores, but it was so
Speaker 1: nice to do my work with nothing but the sounds
Speaker 1: from outside keeping me company. I hung the dish towel
Speaker 1: from its hook beside the sink and moved into the
Speaker 1: living room, opening more windows as I went. There was
Speaker 1: a jumble of books and blankets spread over the sofa,
Speaker 1: and as I folded and tidied, I stopped to read
Speaker 1: a few lines from one of the books. It was
Speaker 1: a book about Zen, with a few poems and meditations.
Speaker 1: The page I opened to just said open the front door.
Speaker 1: And opened the back door. Let thoughts move through, just
Speaker 1: don't offer them a cup of tea. I smiled down
Speaker 1: at the words, Has that happened to you? That you
Speaker 1: read just the right thing at just the right moment,
Speaker 1: Not in that false way where you have to force
Speaker 1: a match, but where there is just a flash of
Speaker 1: serendipitous harmony. It feels like being winked at, but you're
Speaker 1: not sure by who. I tucked the book under one
Speaker 1: arm and went to the front door and drew back
Speaker 1: the bolt. I opened it wide and let sunshine into
Speaker 1: the front hall. Through the screen door, I saw the
Speaker 1: kids in the yard across the street. They were writing
Speaker 1: their names and drawing butterflies and caterpillars and pastel chalk
Speaker 1: across their sidewalks. I went straight to the back door,
Speaker 1: a sliding glass door that gave out to the back patio,
Speaker 1: and opened it as wide as it would go. Dried
Speaker 1: hydrangea blooms from last year were shifting in the breeze.
Speaker 1: I felt like I could practically see the grass growing.
Speaker 1: I read the line in the book again and dog
Speaker 1: yeared the page before closing it up and sliding it
Speaker 1: back onto its shelf. With a dust cloth in hand,
Speaker 1: I worked my way around the room, shining up the
Speaker 1: tops of tables and the faces in picture frames. In
Speaker 1: the front hall, beside the open door, I stepped into
Speaker 1: my shoes and took the dust cloth out to shake
Speaker 1: over the edge of the front porch. My neighbor's doors
Speaker 1: were opened too. When I thought a bit more about
Speaker 1: the line in the book, I shook the dust cloth
Speaker 1: and watched the particles catching in the sunlight as they fell.
Speaker 1: I went back inside to drop the cloth in the
Speaker 1: laundry basket and wash my hands. Some people, I thought,
Speaker 1: have their front door closed nothing gets in, they feel unreachable.
Speaker 1: And some people have their front door open, but the
Speaker 1: back door is closed. Everything gets in and nothing gets out.
Speaker 1: Letting things come and go, thoughts rise up and move
Speaker 1: on without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging
Speaker 1: or ruminating. It was a tricky skill, and one I
Speaker 1: guessed we could all use some practice with. I thought
Speaker 1: of people I knew who had doors closed, and reminded
Speaker 1: myself that it's always easier to see these things and others.
Speaker 1: I'm that likely we were all both types of people.
Speaker 1: Many times every day. All we could do was to
Speaker 1: open up the places that had been shot to turn
Speaker 1: on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to
Speaker 1: let things come and let them go with the house
Speaker 1: and order. I was eager to get out into the yard.
Speaker 1: There were hours left on this sunny day, so I
Speaker 1: rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening gloves
Speaker 1: and started to work my way through the beds. I
Speaker 1: hadn't cut much back in the autumn, as the falling
Speaker 1: leaves and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to the
Speaker 1: little creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd read
Speaker 1: that pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought,
Speaker 1: and spring was a better time for that. So now
Speaker 1: there was quite a bit too clear those dried Hydrangea
Speaker 1: blossoms and last year's broad, pale, hostile leaves and twigs
Speaker 1: and pine needles. I worked my way around the house
Speaker 1: and into the back yard, where I had a few
Speaker 1: raised beds i'd built the year before. The soil inside
Speaker 1: was dark and fortified with compost. I turned it over
Speaker 1: with my trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a
Speaker 1: helicopter seed from the maple overhead that was already sprouting roots.
Speaker 1: I'd been growing seed leans for the last month on
Speaker 1: an upstairs window sill, and soon, maybe in another week
Speaker 1: or so, they'd be ready to go into the beds.
Speaker 1: I'd spent a few dreary winter days carefully reading through
Speaker 1: seed catalogs and making charts of germination periods and hours
Speaker 1: of likely sunlight. I crossed my fingers thinking about the
Speaker 1: seeds i'd pick'd out. I'd been a bit adventurous, figuring
Speaker 1: I could buy carrots and tomatoes and beans at the
Speaker 1: farmer's market, so I'd give my bit of space over
Speaker 1: to more exotic eats. Up on the sill, several varieties
Speaker 1: of chilies were sprouting. Perhaps it had been the cold
Speaker 1: of the winter that made me crave spice. I'd also
Speaker 1: planted cantaloupe seeds and watermelon radish, and tiger nuts and
Speaker 1: mouse melons, because why not. I thought the planting could
Speaker 1: be away from me, to practice keeping my doors open
Speaker 1: and my tea to myself. I'd do my work, then
Speaker 1: step back and let whatever happened next happen. Sweet dreams