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. People often tell me that they wish they
Speaker 1: could live in the village of Nothing Much. And while
Speaker 1: I can't send you exact coordinates, I can offer you
Speaker 1: a few more places where you may be able to
Speaker 1: find your way into the streets and shops and gardens.
Speaker 1: My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, has beautiful illustrations
Speaker 1: windows into the world, as well as stories you'll never
Speaker 1: hear on the podcast. It's available all over the world
Speaker 1: in lots of formats, so check your favorite bookseller. You
Speaker 1: can also hear bonus episodes of n MH through our
Speaker 1: ad free premium plus feed. Learn more at Nothing Much
Speaker 1: Happens dot com. Let me say a little about how
Speaker 1: to use this podcast. Your brain needs a job to do,
Speaker 1: and without one, it will wander off and likely get
Speaker 1: into trouble. But the job we have for it is
Speaker 1: easy and such a pleasure. I'll tell you a story.
Speaker 1: In fact, I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a
Speaker 1: little slower the second time through. Your job is just
Speaker 1: to listen and pull the details of it around you
Speaker 1: like a blanket. If you wake in the middle of
Speaker 1: the night, you could listen again, or just walk yourself
Speaker 1: back through any part of it that you can remember.
Speaker 1: This trains the brain over time to shift out of
Speaker 1: its wandering default mode and into the RESTful response that
Speaker 1: happens in task mode. It's brain training, and it gets
Speaker 1: easier and more automatic over time, so have some patience
Speaker 1: if you're new at this. Now it's time to turn
Speaker 1: off the light and put away anything you've been playing
Speaker 1: with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your
Speaker 1: body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right
Speaker 1: pillow in the right spot, and let everything relax. If
Speaker 1: you tend to clench your jaw when you sleep, place
Speaker 1: the tip of your tongue at the spot where your
Speaker 1: top teeth meet the gums on the inside and sort
Speaker 1: of flatten your tongue across your upper palette. This will
Speaker 1: keep your jaw relaxed. Now, let's take a deep breath
Speaker 1: in through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice,
Speaker 1: do one more in and out. Good. Our story tonight
Speaker 1: is called Summer Storm, and it's a story about a cool,
Speaker 1: cloudy day enjoyed from a favorite spot. It's also about
Speaker 1: a simmering pot of soup on the stove, taking a
Speaker 1: day for pure rest, and an old friend to learn
Speaker 1: lessons With 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 felt like the
Speaker 1: moment when you realize you've been hunching your shoulders and
Speaker 1: you suddenly release them and feel the space around your
Speaker 1: heart open up. The windows were open all over the house.
Speaker 1: I had been keeping them closed against the heat most
Speaker 1: days this summer, opening them up only late at night
Speaker 1: and early in the morning, when the temperature outside finally
Speaker 1: dropped lower than inside. But the cloudy day had been
Speaker 1: cooler from the start. I'd lit candles against the gloom
Speaker 1: and put fresh sheet on my bed and played a
Speaker 1: favorite album on repeat for most of the day. When
Speaker 1: the notes fell into my rather limited range, I'd lean
Speaker 1: into them, belting out and knowing every word. It reminded
Speaker 1: me of being twenty in my first car, singing at
Speaker 1: the top of my lungs along winding country roads. I
Speaker 1: still felt as carefree and ready for adventure as my
Speaker 1: twenty year old self, even in my socks and with
Speaker 1: a mug of chemomile tea held under my chin. They
Speaker 1: don't tell you this about growing up. You don't lose
Speaker 1: 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 two little yews,
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 blanket, 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 scoot 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 fawn 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 hat 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 pain 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 today's dowsing. The sound of the
Speaker 1: falling rain rang through the house, steady and drumming on
Speaker 1: the roof, racing along the eaves, and cascading through the downspouts.
Speaker 1: My water barrel would be full again in the morning.
Speaker 1: I broke bits of bread off, and she chewed them
Speaker 1: slowly 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 sometime in the
Speaker 1: middle of the night. I think I'd sat up in
Speaker 1: 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 walk.
Speaker 1: This morning, we had another day of school summer storm.
Speaker 1: The rain didn't start until the evening, but the whole
Speaker 1: day had been dim and overcast, and while sunshine lifted
Speaker 1: my spirits, there was something soothing about a cloudy day.
Speaker 1: It felt like a suggestion from nature to be quiet
Speaker 1: and do less. It had felt like the moment when
Speaker 1: you realize you've been hunching your shoulders and you suddenly
Speaker 1: release them and feel the space around your heart open up.
Speaker 1: The windows were open all over the house. I'd been
Speaker 1: keeping them closed against the heat most days this summer,
Speaker 1: opening them up only late at night and early in
Speaker 1: the morning when the temperature outside finally dropped lower than inside.
Speaker 1: But the cloudy day had been cooler from the start.
Speaker 1: I'd lit candles against the gloom and put fresh sheets
Speaker 1: on my bed, and played a favorite album on repeat
Speaker 1: for most of the day. When the notes fell into
Speaker 1: my rather limited range, I'd lean into them, belting out
Speaker 1: and knowing every word. It reminded me of being twenty
Speaker 1: in my first car, singing at the top of my
Speaker 1: lungs along winding country roads. I still felt as care
Speaker 1: free and ready for adventure as my twenty year old self,
Speaker 1: even in my socks and with a mug of camemel
Speaker 1: held under my chin. They don't tell you this about
Speaker 1: growing up. You don't lose your younger selves as you age.
Speaker 1: They aren't left behind. They just get added into the
Speaker 1: older versions, like cards shuffled together in a progressively fuller deck,
Speaker 1: a more true understanding of yourself in the world. I
Speaker 1: had a friend who called this Earth School, and I
Speaker 1: liked thinking of it that way. What I learned, what
Speaker 1: lessons I had to go back and take over again,
Speaker 1: and the realization that there was no graduating, just moving
Speaker 1: on to other subjects and skills and interests. In the afternoon,
Speaker 1: the clouds got thicker and the shadows in the house
Speaker 1: were deep. I'd had a burst of energy in the
Speaker 1: morning and made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, a
Speaker 1: long simmering pot of black bean soup, and a crusty
Speaker 1: cottage loaf. I'd been nibbling at all three here and
Speaker 1: there whenever my stomach grumbled, and once the mixing bowls
Speaker 1: and cookie sheets were washed and put away, I'd felt
Speaker 1: ready to spend the remainder of the day, doing very
Speaker 1: little and resting a lot. Rest is one of those
Speaker 1: too little used, but very effective forms of gentle medicine.
Speaker 1: I learned a long time ago to think of it
Speaker 1: as I might think of drinking water if I was thirsty.
Speaker 1: I didn't hesitate to take a drink. I didn't try
Speaker 1: to get through the day first, or then get by
Speaker 1: on as little as possible, And I certainly didn't feel
Speaker 1: guilty about taking as much as I needed. When I
Speaker 1: started to think of rest in the same way, it
Speaker 1: got easier to feel for when I needed it, and
Speaker 1: to give it to myself without as a patian. So
Speaker 1: I'd made a nest on the sofa, a big fluffy blanket,
Speaker 1: soft pillows, my book, my tea, and my dog, who
Speaker 1: bless her, in her senior years, had managed to sleep
Speaker 1: through all my singing. She was an old gray faced
Speaker 1: beagle whose long, floppy ears were as soft as velvet,
Speaker 1: And though she didn't follow me around the house anymore,
Speaker 1: she did wait till I sat down somewhere, and then
Speaker 1: scooted up into the spot beside me. I'd finally turned
Speaker 1: off my music and just listened to the steady sound
Speaker 1: of her breathing. She had fawn speckles across her white
Speaker 1: and brown back and a stripe across the ankles of
Speaker 1: her back feet. I unclipped her collar and massaged her neck.
Speaker 1: As we snuggled on the couch. She let out sleepy,
Speaker 1: old dog grunts, and I thought back to our early
Speaker 1: days when we'd run down the sidewalks together, her nose
Speaker 1: to the concrete, sniffing out the trails of every person
Speaker 1: an animal who had passed by in the whole week before.
Speaker 1: She didn't feel much like running these days, but her
Speaker 1: nose was still sharp, and most mornings I could get
Speaker 1: her to play a favorite game. While she was out
Speaker 1: in the back yard attending to her doggy business. I'd
Speaker 1: take one of her favorite cookies and walk it through
Speaker 1: the house, setting it here and there, and finally leaving
Speaker 1: it somewhere she could reach. When I let her back in,
Speaker 1: I'd pat her back and tell her to find the cookie.
Speaker 1: She'd start sniffing and snuffling along the floors, and her
Speaker 1: nose would go everywhere the biscuit had from one room
Speaker 1: to the other, until she found it and snatched it
Speaker 1: up with her teeth. From the seat of a chair,
Speaker 1: in the dining room, or the edge of a stair
Speaker 1: in the landing, or the inside of my 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, and I thought
Speaker 1: of how green the grass would be within a week
Speaker 1: from to night's drowsing. The sound of the falling rain
Speaker 1: rang through the house, steady and drumming on the roof,
Speaker 1: racing along the eaves, and cascading through the downspouts. 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 the 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 sometime in the
Speaker 1: middle of the night. I think I'd sat up in
Speaker 1: 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,