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 write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. You can hear bonus and add free episodes
Speaker 1: of this podcast by subscribing to our Premium or Premium
Speaker 1: Plus feeds. Learn more at Nothing Much Happens dot Com.
Speaker 1: Now I have a story to tell you, and listening
Speaker 1: to it will help you relax and fall asleep. Our
Speaker 1: minds wander. That's just their nature, and if we don't
Speaker 1: give them a path to stick to, they can wander
Speaker 1: all night. The story keeps your thinking mind occupied and
Speaker 1: lets your body drift off to sleep. I'll tell it twice,
Speaker 1: and I'll go a little slower on the second telling.
Speaker 1: If you wake again later, you can listen again or
Speaker 1: just think back to any part of the story you can. Remember.
Speaker 1: You're working on some brain training as you do this,
Speaker 1: so know that your sleep habits will improve. You'll drift
Speaker 1: off sooner and get back to sleep more easily over time.
Speaker 1: Now reach out and switch off the light. Snuggle down
Speaker 1: into your sheets, and pull the blanket up over your shoulder. Listen,
Speaker 1: you have done enough for the day. Whatever it was,
Speaker 1: it was enough. And now it's time to feel your
Speaker 1: body dropping heavy and relaxed into your sheets, settled and calm,
Speaker 1: eyes closed. But stick a deep breath in through the
Speaker 1: nose and out through the mouth. Nice one more, please,
Speaker 1: in and out good. Our story to night is called
Speaker 1: Harvest Moon, and it's a story about a night around
Speaker 1: the bonfire under a full moon. It's also about resetting
Speaker 1: when your mind gets jumbled up with details the best
Speaker 1: way to cut chives and the arrival of the welcome
Speaker 1: autumn harvest moon. We were ready for it. We had
Speaker 1: a wheelbarrow full of split wood and gathered kindling, small
Speaker 1: scraps that had fallen over the summer from the oaks
Speaker 1: in the backyard, piled high. We had sweaters pulled from
Speaker 1: the bottom drawers that hadn't seen use in months to
Speaker 1: keep away the chill and ault to cuddle under when
Speaker 1: the sun went down, and it was going down a
Speaker 1: bit sooner each night. There are times of year when
Speaker 1: I lose track a bit of sunrise and sunset. But
Speaker 1: the end of the summer and likewise the end of
Speaker 1: the winter or not. Those times at the end of
Speaker 1: the winter, when the days were gaining a minute and
Speaker 1: then two with each rise and set, I'd noticed my
Speaker 1: morning drive was just a little brighter, my evening walk
Speaker 1: could go a block further, And each of those small
Speaker 1: additions felt like encouragement. Somehow, When the days retreated at
Speaker 1: the end of the summer, it felt the same way,
Speaker 1: still affirming, even still energizing, but just in the other
Speaker 1: direction to go in instead about So, instead of a
Speaker 1: long walk tonight, we'd light the bonfire and watched the
Speaker 1: moon in the kitchen. While the light was fading, I
Speaker 1: took two big russet potatoes from the basket in the
Speaker 1: pantry and pricked them all over with the tines of
Speaker 1: a fork, and rubbed them with olive oil, dusted them
Speaker 1: with salt and pepper, and wrapped them well and foil.
Speaker 1: When the fire was lit, we'd settle them in the
Speaker 1: embers and let them cook through for a late night snack.
Speaker 1: I carried the kitchen scissors out to the garden and
Speaker 1: found a clump of chives still growing and flowering by
Speaker 1: the edge of the garage. Chive flowers are edible and
Speaker 1: a pretty bright purple. I caught a handful of the
Speaker 1: herbs and flowers and carried it all back in. Already
Speaker 1: the kitchen was deeper and shadow when I had to
Speaker 1: turn on the light over the sink to see. Years ago,
Speaker 1: my grandmother had found me in the kitchen with a
Speaker 1: cutting board full of chives, trying to awkwardly dice them
Speaker 1: into tiny rounds with a chef's knife. She cleared her throat,
Speaker 1: taken the scissors from the drawer, held the stems neatly
Speaker 1: in one hand, and snipped them into perfect pieces with
Speaker 1: the other. She'd handed them back to me, fitted the
Speaker 1: scissors into my grip, and taken away the knife, all
Speaker 1: without saying a word. I'd snipped ever since. Out in
Speaker 1: the yard, I heard the breaking of a few more twigs,
Speaker 1: and peered out the window to see sparks igniting in
Speaker 1: the fire pit. I smiled to myself. I could take
Speaker 1: my time with our potatoes and drinks. This would take
Speaker 1: a few minutes. The trickiest part of the fire was
Speaker 1: getting it started. I suppose that was true in quite
Speaker 1: a few instances, getting a new routine, rolling, building a
Speaker 1: new habit. Once the fire was lit, I could burn
Speaker 1: for a while, and then it was just a matter
Speaker 1: of feeding it, but getting it to catch to sustain
Speaker 1: itself that took the most effort. It reminded me to
Speaker 1: be a bit more patient with myself than with others.
Speaker 1: For better or for worse, we all felt the pole
Speaker 1: of momentum. I laid the potatoes into a bowl and
Speaker 1: poured two tall glasses of cold mineral water, and carried
Speaker 1: them all out to the fire. The flames were still small,
Speaker 1: being fed with scraps of dry grass and pine needles,
Speaker 1: blown on periodically with great puffs of air, and then
Speaker 1: watched to see if they had found purchase in the kindling.
Speaker 1: I chuckled to myself and went back in for the blanket.
Speaker 1: By the time I was nestled under it on the
Speaker 1: long bench outside, the fire had caught and was cracking.
Speaker 1: I shared my blanket, and an arm went around my shoulders.
Speaker 1: We propped our feet up on a log in front
Speaker 1: of us and sat in the quiet together. We hadn't
Speaker 1: had many fires this summer. The few times we did,
Speaker 1: we barely had time to enjoy them before the bugs
Speaker 1: chased us inside. But now that the evenings were getting cooler,
Speaker 1: there was no pesky buzzing to swat at. In fact,
Speaker 1: the night was very quiet. The fire crackled and the
Speaker 1: breeze blew softly through the trees. We stayed quiet, too,
Speaker 1: not needing to say much, just taking turns occasionally to
Speaker 1: add more logs to the fire and to turn the
Speaker 1: potatoes as they roasted. Have you ever felt your heart
Speaker 1: brim in a simple moment, a sudden awareness of all
Speaker 1: that you have and how glad you are for it.
Speaker 1: That's how I felt in the quiet of the backyard,
Speaker 1: snuggled together under the quilt, waiting for the clouds to
Speaker 1: move aside to show us the moon. Sometimes I got
Speaker 1: caught in the weeds in my mind, bogged down with
Speaker 1: things that didn't actually matter, but somehow got mislabeled as
Speaker 1: urgent an essential. Moments like these set me back on
Speaker 1: solid ground. There was a patchy cloud covering the moon,
Speaker 1: thin with ragged edges, like a scrap of old fabric,
Speaker 1: floating in a dark pond. It moved in eerie slow motion,
Speaker 1: the glow of the moon behind it, making an orangish
Speaker 1: halo in the air. A shiver ran up my spine,
Speaker 1: and I found myself looking forward to a bit of
Speaker 1: spookiness in the next month. It pairs so well with
Speaker 1: chilly days and spiced air and falling leaves. The arm
Speaker 1: around my shoulders tightened, and we both looked up together
Speaker 1: to see the moon in all her autumn glory making
Speaker 1: her appearance. The harvest moon, my father had taught me,
Speaker 1: was the full moon closest to the autumnal equinox. It
Speaker 1: rises close to the sunset and reflects the last rays,
Speaker 1: making it glow with orange light. I liked the names
Speaker 1: of the different moons. A blue moon which wasn't blue
Speaker 1: at all, but rare, the Hare moon in May, the
Speaker 1: mead moon in June, the corn moon in August. Of course,
Speaker 1: it was all the same moon, the same one my
Speaker 1: great great great grandparents had swum under on hot summer nights.
Speaker 1: The same one friends on the other side of the
Speaker 1: planet would go to sleep under in another twelve hours,
Speaker 1: The same one that rose and fell over every famous
Speaker 1: person and great figure in history, and every dog that
Speaker 1: had ever lived. The same one that strangers all over
Speaker 1: the world spied from their windows calling out to someone
Speaker 1: to say, have you seen the moon tonight? I could
Speaker 1: smell the potatoes, they must be almost ready. The fire
Speaker 1: popped and the air smelled of good wood smoke. I
Speaker 1: breathed it in deeply and let it out. Welcome autumn
Speaker 1: harvest moon. We were ready for it. We had a
Speaker 1: wheelbarrow full of split wood, and gathered kindling, small scraps
Speaker 1: that had fallen over the summer from the oaks in
Speaker 1: the back yard. Piled high. We had sweaters pulled from
Speaker 1: the bottom drawers that hadn't seen use in months, to
Speaker 1: keep away the chill and to quilt, to cuddle under
Speaker 1: when the sun went down, and it was going down
Speaker 1: a bit sooner each night. There are times of year
Speaker 1: when I lose track a bit of the sunrise and
Speaker 1: the sunset, But the end of the summer and likewise
Speaker 1: the end of the winter, are not those times. At
Speaker 1: the end of the winter, when the days were gaining
Speaker 1: a minute and then two with each rise and set,
Speaker 1: I'd notice my morning drive was just a little brighter,
Speaker 1: my evening walk could go a block further, and each
Speaker 1: those small additions felt like encouragement. Somehow. When the days
Speaker 1: retreated at the end of the summer, it felt the
Speaker 1: same way, still affirming, even still energizing, but just in
Speaker 1: the other direction. To go in instead of out, so
Speaker 1: instead of a long walk tonight, we'd light the bonfire
Speaker 1: and watch the moon in the kitchen. While the light
Speaker 1: was fading, I took two big russet potatoes from the
Speaker 1: basket in the pantry. I pricked them all over with
Speaker 1: the tines of a fork and rubbed them with olive oil,
Speaker 1: dusted them with salt and pepper, and wrapped them well
Speaker 1: in foil. When the fire was lit, we'd settle them
Speaker 1: in the embers and let them cook through for a
Speaker 1: late night snack. I carried the kitchen scissors out to
Speaker 1: the garden and found a clump of chives still growing
Speaker 1: and flowering by the edge of the garage. Chive flowers
Speaker 1: are edible and a pretty bright purple. I cut a
Speaker 1: handful of the herbs and flowers and carried it all
Speaker 1: back in. Already the kitchen was deeper in shadow, and
Speaker 1: I had to turn on the light over the sink
Speaker 1: to see. Years ago, my grandmother had found me in
Speaker 1: the kitchen with a cutting board full of chives, trying
Speaker 1: awkwardly to dice them into tiny rounds a chef's knife.
Speaker 1: She cleared her throat, taken the scissors from the drawer,
Speaker 1: held the stems neatly in one hand and snipped them
Speaker 1: into perfect pieces with the other. She'd handed them back
Speaker 1: to me, fitted the scissors into my grip, and taken
Speaker 1: away the knife, all without saying a word. I'd snipped
Speaker 1: ever since. Out in the yard, I heard the breaking
Speaker 1: of a few more twigs and peered out the window
Speaker 1: to see sparks igniting in the fire pit. I smiled
Speaker 1: to myself, I could take my time with our potatoes
Speaker 1: and drinks. This would take a few minutes. The trickiest
Speaker 1: part of the fire was getting it started. I suppose
Speaker 1: that was true, and quite a few instances getting a
Speaker 1: new routine rolling. We're building a new habit. Once the
Speaker 1: fire was lit, it could burn for a while, and
Speaker 1: then it was just a matter of feeding it. But
Speaker 1: getting it to catch, to sustain itself, that took the
Speaker 1: most effort. It reminded me to be a bit more
Speaker 1: patient with myself and with others. For better or for worse,
Speaker 1: we all feel the poll of momentum. I laid the
Speaker 1: potatoes into a bowl and poured two tall glasses of
Speaker 1: cold mineral water and carried them out to the fire.
Speaker 1: The flames were still small, being fed with scraps of
Speaker 1: dry grass and pine needles blown on periodically with great
Speaker 1: puffs of air, and then watched to see if they
Speaker 1: had found purchase in the kindling. I chuckled to myself
Speaker 1: and went back in for the blanket. By the time
Speaker 1: I was nestled under it on the long bench outside,
Speaker 1: the fire had caught and was crackling. I shared my blanket,
Speaker 1: and an arm went around my shoulders. We propped our
Speaker 1: feet up on a log in front of us and
Speaker 1: sat in the quiet together. We hadn't had many fires
Speaker 1: this summer. A few times we did, we'd barely had
Speaker 1: time to enjoy them before the bugs chased us inside.
Speaker 1: But now that the evenings were getting cooler, there was
Speaker 1: no pesky buzzing to swat at. In fact, the night
Speaker 1: was very quiet. The fire crackled and the breeze blew
Speaker 1: softly through the trees. We stayed quiet too, not needing
Speaker 1: to say much, just taking turns occasionally to add more
Speaker 1: logs to the fire and to turn the potatoes as
Speaker 1: they roasted. Have you ever felt your heart brim in
Speaker 1: a simple moment, a sudden awareness of all that you
Speaker 1: have and how glad you are for it. That's how
Speaker 1: I felt and the quiet of the back yard, snuggled
Speaker 1: together under the quilt, waiting for the clouds to move
Speaker 1: aside to show us the moon. Sometimes I got caught
Speaker 1: in the weeds, my mind bogged down with things that
Speaker 1: didn't actually matter, but somehow got mislabeled as urgent an essential.
Speaker 1: Moments like these set me back on solid ground. There
Speaker 1: was a patchy cloud covering the moon, thin with ragged edges,
Speaker 1: like a scrap of old fabric, floating in a dark pond.
Speaker 1: It moved in eerie slow motion, the glow of the
Speaker 1: moon behind it, making an orangish halo in the air.
Speaker 1: A shiver ran up my spine, and I found myself
Speaker 1: looking forward to a bit of spookiness in the next month.
Speaker 1: It pairs so well with chilly days and spiced air
Speaker 1: and falling leaves. The arm around my shoulders tightened, and
Speaker 1: we both looked up together to see the moon in
Speaker 1: all her autumnal glory making her appearance. The harvest moon,
Speaker 1: my father had taught me, was the full moon closest
Speaker 1: to the autumnal equinox. It rises close to the sunset
Speaker 1: and reflects the last rays, making it glow with orange light.
Speaker 1: I like the names of the different moons. A blue
Speaker 1: moon which wasn't blue at all, but rare, the hair
Speaker 1: moon in May, the mead moon in June, the corn
Speaker 1: moon in August. Of course, it was all the same moon,
Speaker 1: the same one my great great great grandparents had swum
Speaker 1: under on hot summer nights. The same one of friends
Speaker 1: on the other side of the planet would go to
Speaker 1: sleep under in another twelve hours. The same one that
Speaker 1: rose and fell over every famous person and great figure
Speaker 1: in history, and every dog that had ever lived. The
Speaker 1: same one that strangers all over the world spied from
Speaker 1: their windows calling out to some one to say, have
Speaker 1: you seen the moon? To night? I could smell the potatoes,
Speaker 1: they must be almost ready. The fire popped, and the
Speaker 1: air smelled of good wood smoke. I breathed it in
Speaker 1: deeply and let it out. Welcome Autumn, Sweet dreams,