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 subscribe to our ad free and
Speaker 1: bonus episodes by merch and my book all at Nothing
Speaker 1: Much Happens dot com. Every episode is someone's first, so
Speaker 1: I like to explain how this podcast works. I'm going
Speaker 1: to tell you a story to help you relax and
Speaker 1: drop off into sleep. I'll tell it twice, and I'll
Speaker 1: go a little bit slower the second time through. The
Speaker 1: story is like a landing pad for your mind, a
Speaker 1: soft place for it to rest. If you find yourself
Speaker 1: still awake at the end of the first or the
Speaker 1: second telling, don't worry. Take your mind back to the
Speaker 1: beginning of the story and walk yourself back through the
Speaker 1: details that you remember, especially any bit that felt particularly cozy.
Speaker 1: By doing this, you train your brain and body to
Speaker 1: wind down, and the more often you do it, the
Speaker 1: faster you will fall asleep. So have a little patience
Speaker 1: at the beginning. Now, lights out, campers, it's time to
Speaker 1: snuggle yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find.
Speaker 1: Notice how your sheets feel, how good it is to
Speaker 1: be in your bed and about to fall asleep. I'll
Speaker 1: be right here keeping watch with my voice, So please
Speaker 1: let go relax. Let's take a slow, deep breath in
Speaker 1: through the nose and sigh through your mouth. Nice one
Speaker 1: more like that, breathe in and out good. Our story
Speaker 1: tonight is called aud Langsyne, and it's a story about
Speaker 1: daybreak on a new year. It's also about a little
Speaker 1: book with a page missing, what we let go of
Speaker 1: and what we keep, and the scent of wood smoke
Speaker 1: on a January morning, auld Langsyne. I hummed the melody
Speaker 1: under my breath. I had been for a few days
Speaker 1: since we'd all sung it, stumbling over some of the
Speaker 1: words around the bonfire as the sun came up. I'd
Speaker 1: always loved that song, which at first puzzled me with
Speaker 1: its lyrics, though it's undercurrent had always been perfectly clear,
Speaker 1: should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
Speaker 1: It was a song often sung by friends at the
Speaker 1: end of the year, so it felt like a resounding
Speaker 1: no should follow that line. The answer came in the
Speaker 1: chorus if you knew the translation for old lang syne,
Speaker 1: my dear, for old time's sake. It was about reminiscences,
Speaker 1: about things shared and not forgot less, maybe the things
Speaker 1: we needed to let go of. That was what that
Speaker 1: morning had been about. We'd sat in the pre dawn
Speaker 1: light on logs and patio chairs that had had the
Speaker 1: snow swept off of them. We were bundled in our coats,
Speaker 1: and the fire lit our faces. I could smell the
Speaker 1: earthy spice of the smoke, and under it the cold,
Speaker 1: clean scent of snow. We'd each brought a little note
Speaker 1: book or journal and something to write with. I'd brought
Speaker 1: a favorite of mine, small, just about the size of
Speaker 1: my palm, and covered in simple brown paper. I'd been
Speaker 1: given it a year or so ago, a gift from
Speaker 1: a friend who'd seen it in a craft fair and
Speaker 1: thought of me. At first glance, it was too plain,
Speaker 1: and I had been on the verge of being insulted
Speaker 1: that such a bare, boring object had brought me to mind.
Speaker 1: But when I opened it, I found that each page
Speaker 1: was a different color. Some had outlines of flowers and
Speaker 1: insects printed on them, other showed the shapes of continents
Speaker 1: and boats on the ocean. Some were lined for riding,
Speaker 1: and others held a network of squares for drawing. The
Speaker 1: shades ran the gamut from pale pastels to rich dark
Speaker 1: ruby red and velvet green. For those pages, I used
Speaker 1: pens with silver or gold ink. My treasure dead because
Speaker 1: it was first a beautiful object all by itself, and
Speaker 1: then because my friend had recognized me in it, simple,
Speaker 1: unassuming on the outside, full of secret magic when you
Speaker 1: looked closer, and that felt very good. Along with my
Speaker 1: favorite journal I'd brought my favorite pen. Well. Honestly, I
Speaker 1: have a few favorites there, some for their color or
Speaker 1: the way the ink flows when I'm writing. But I
Speaker 1: loved this one for its short, brass body and the long,
Speaker 1: pretty feather attached to the end. It was a fake feather, certainly,
Speaker 1: and dyed in a swirl of pretty colors. I liked
Speaker 1: to pause as I journaled and let the plume brush
Speaker 1: over my cheek or drag it between my fingers. I
Speaker 1: guessed that writers who'd used real quills when those were
Speaker 1: the tools of the day had done the same. Eased
Speaker 1: a moment of writer's block with the soft distraction of
Speaker 1: fluffy barbules against an upper lip by the fire. We'd
Speaker 1: each of us bent our heads down to our paper
Speaker 1: and written while the logs crackled and snapped. What was
Speaker 1: I letting go of what didn't need to follow me
Speaker 1: into the new year. I looked around the circle of
Speaker 1: friends who were pondering the same thing. A couple were
Speaker 1: writing feverishly whole paragraphs that clearly had a bit of
Speaker 1: force behind them. Another who'd forgotten to bring a note
Speaker 1: book and had been handed a stack of sticky notes
Speaker 1: from the junk drawer, wrote one word, folded the sheet
Speaker 1: in half, and sat back in her chair, waiting for
Speaker 1: us all to finish. I closed my eyes, listened to
Speaker 1: the fire and the sound of my own breath. I
Speaker 1: felt my booted feet resting on the patio stones, and
Speaker 1: noticed the touch of my scarf against my neck. I
Speaker 1: did this sometimes when I wanted to focus, when my
Speaker 1: mind felt like water rushing through a colander, drifting in
Speaker 1: a hundred small streams rather than one potent current. I
Speaker 1: spent a few breaths just clewing back into what my
Speaker 1: senses were picking up. Then, with my eyes still closed,
Speaker 1: I opened up a sort of question mark space in
Speaker 1: my mind and heart and waited. It didn't take long.
Speaker 1: Within a second or two, a thought stepped forward and
Speaker 1: raised its hand to suggest what should be written on
Speaker 1: the paper. And I felt the transference of weight from
Speaker 1: my shoulders to somewhere outside of my body as I
Speaker 1: wrote In fact, I sat taller after and rolled my
Speaker 1: shoulders down my back and let out a slow sigh.
Speaker 1: I didn't like the idea of ripping paper from my journal.
Speaker 1: I didn't like the jagged edge of a torn sheet
Speaker 1: among my pretty flowers and sailing ships. So I'd written
Speaker 1: my words on the center page that was held in
Speaker 1: place with a couple of metal brads. I eased up
Speaker 1: their fasteners and slid the whole page out. I tucked
Speaker 1: my feathered pen into the book and closed it back up.
Speaker 1: Around the circle, my friends were folding up their papers,
Speaker 1: tucking journals into pockets, and sip coffee from travel mugs.
Speaker 1: Somebody cleared their throat and asked, are we ready? We
Speaker 1: nodded at each other across the fire. The sky was
Speaker 1: turning a pale orange, and the day was about to break.
Speaker 1: One of my friends had folded his paper into an airplane,
Speaker 1: and he sent it sailing into the fire. It made
Speaker 1: us all laugh and broke the serious feeling into something
Speaker 1: more manageable. Someone else crumpled their page into a ball
Speaker 1: and tossed it, as if sinking a basket on the
Speaker 1: court into the flames. Next went the sticky note and
Speaker 1: my folded sheet. One of my friends bent over his
Speaker 1: book and tore out the whole lot of pages. We
Speaker 1: laughed again as he dumped them into the fire. We
Speaker 1: stood up, stomping our feet to bring the blood flowing
Speaker 1: back into our chilled toes, and watched the pages curl
Speaker 1: and turned to ash. The fire was doused and the
Speaker 1: air steamed with the last bits of what we'd let
Speaker 1: go of. We smiled at each other, not really knowing
Speaker 1: what to say, but for my part, I felt less
Speaker 1: bogged down and more at ease. That made me think
Speaker 1: that as helpful as it is to let old things go,
Speaker 1: it is also smart to plant new and useful things
Speaker 1: in their place. We shouldn't just shed, we should sew.
Speaker 1: So I thought about what I'd like to see more of,
Speaker 1: do more of, taste more of, feel more of in
Speaker 1: the new year, and pull those hopes and plans into
Speaker 1: me with deep breaths. Then I raised my mug and
Speaker 1: toast to my friends and the new year, and sang,
Speaker 1: in a small but unafraid voice, should old acquaintance be
Speaker 1: forgot and never brought to mind? And they generously joined
Speaker 1: in with me. We only knew the one verse and
Speaker 1: the chorus, but we sang it through twice as we
Speaker 1: trailed out through the yard and into the street to
Speaker 1: walk to town for breakfast. We'll take a cup of
Speaker 1: kindness yet for Old Langsyne, Old lang Syne, I hummed
Speaker 1: the melody under my breath. I had been for a
Speaker 1: few days since we'd all sung it, stumbling over some
Speaker 1: of the words round the bonfire as the sun came up.
Speaker 1: I'd always loved that song, which at first puzzled me
Speaker 1: with its lyrics, though its feeling. It's undercurrent had always
Speaker 1: been perfectly clear, Should old acquaintance be forgot and never
Speaker 1: brought to mind? It was a song often sung by
Speaker 1: friends at the end of the year, so it felt
Speaker 1: like a resounding no should follow that line. The answer
Speaker 1: came in the chorus. If you knew the translation for
Speaker 1: Old lang Syne, my dear for old time's sake, It's
Speaker 1: about reminiscences about things share but not forgot less. Maybe
Speaker 1: the things we needed to let go of. That was
Speaker 1: what that morning had been about. We'd sat in the
Speaker 1: pre dawn light on logs and patio chairs that had
Speaker 1: had the snow swept off of them. We were bundled
Speaker 1: in our coats, and the fire lit our faces. I
Speaker 1: could smell the earthy spice of the smoke, and under
Speaker 1: it the cold, clean scent of snow. We'd each brought
Speaker 1: a little notebook or journal and something to write with.
Speaker 1: I'd brought a favorite of mine, small, just about the
Speaker 1: size of my palm, and covered in simple brown paper.
Speaker 1: I'd been given it a year or so ago, a
Speaker 1: gift from a friend who'd seen it at a craft
Speaker 1: fair and thought of me at first glance. It was
Speaker 1: two Plaine, and I'd been on the verge of being
Speaker 1: insulted that such a bare, boring object had brought me
Speaker 1: to mind. But when I opened it, I found that
Speaker 1: each page was a different color. Some had outlines of
Speaker 1: flowers and insects printed on them, Others showed the shapes
Speaker 1: of continents and boats on the ocean. Some were lined
Speaker 1: for riding, and others held a network of squares for drawing.
Speaker 1: The shades ran the gamut from pale pastels to rich
Speaker 1: dark ruby red and velvet green. For those pages, I
Speaker 1: used pens with silver or gold ink. I treasured it
Speaker 1: because it was first a beautiful object all by itself,
Speaker 1: and then because my friend had recognized me in it, simple,
Speaker 1: unassuming on the outside, full of secret magic when you
Speaker 1: looked closer. When that felt very good. Along with my
Speaker 1: favorite journal, I brought my favorite pen. Well, honestly, I
Speaker 1: have a few favorites there, some for their color or
Speaker 1: the way the ink flows when I'm writing. But I
Speaker 1: loved this one for its short, brass body and the
Speaker 1: long pretty feather attached to the end. It was a
Speaker 1: fake feather, certainly, and dyed in a swirl of pretty colors.
Speaker 1: I liked to pause as I journald and let the
Speaker 1: plume brush over my cheek or drag it between my fingers.
Speaker 1: I guessed that writer's who used real quills when those
Speaker 1: were the tools of the day, had done the same.
Speaker 1: Eased a moment of writer's block with the soft distraction
Speaker 1: a fluffy barbules against an upper lip. By the fire,
Speaker 1: we'd each of us bent our heads down to our
Speaker 1: paper and written while the logs crackled and snapped. What
Speaker 1: was I letting go of what didn't need to follow
Speaker 1: me into the new year. I looked around the circle
Speaker 1: of friends who were pondering the same thing. A couple
Speaker 1: were writing feverishly whole paragraphs that clearly had a bit
Speaker 1: of force behind them. Another who'd forgotten to bring a
Speaker 1: note book and been handed a stack of sticky notes
Speaker 1: from the junk drawer, wrote one word, folded the sheet
Speaker 1: in half, and sat back in her chair, waiting for
Speaker 1: us all to finish. I closed my eyes, listened to
Speaker 1: the fire and the sound of my own breath. I
Speaker 1: felt my booted feet resting on the patio stones, and
Speaker 1: noticed the touch of my scarf against my neck. I
Speaker 1: did this sometimes when I wanted to focus, when my
Speaker 1: mind felt like water rushing through a colander, drifting in
Speaker 1: a hundred small streams rather than one potent current. I
Speaker 1: spent a few breaths just clewing back in to what
Speaker 1: my senses were picking up. Then, with eyes still closed,
Speaker 1: I opened up m a sort of question mark space
Speaker 1: in my mind and heart and waited. It didn't take long.
Speaker 1: Within a second or two, a thought stepped forward and
Speaker 1: raised its hand to suggest what should be written on
Speaker 1: the paper, And I felt the transference of weight from
Speaker 1: my shoulders to somewhere outside of my body as I
Speaker 1: wrote In fact, I sat taller after and rolled my
Speaker 1: shoulders down my back and let out a slow sigh.
Speaker 1: I didn't like the idea of ripping paper from my journal.
Speaker 1: I didn't like the jagged edge of a torn sheet
Speaker 1: among my pretty flowers and sailing ships. So I had
Speaker 1: written my words on the center page that was held
Speaker 1: in place with a couple of metal brads. I eased
Speaker 1: up their fasteners and slid the whole page out. I
Speaker 1: tucked my feathered pen into the book and closed it
Speaker 1: back up. Around the circle, my friends were folding up
Speaker 1: their papers, tucking journals into pockets, and sipping coffee from
Speaker 1: travel mugs. Somebody cleared their throat and asked, are we ready?
Speaker 1: We nodded at each other. Across the fire, the sky
Speaker 1: was turning a pale orange and the day was about
Speaker 1: to break. One of my friends had folded his paper
Speaker 1: into an airplane, and he sent it sailing into the fire.
Speaker 1: It made us all laugh and broke the serious feeling
Speaker 1: into something more manageable. Someone else crumpled their page into
Speaker 1: a ball and tossed it as if sinking a basket
Speaker 1: on the court into the flames. Next went the sticky
Speaker 1: note and my folded sheet. One of my friends bent
Speaker 1: over his book and tore out the whole lot of pages.
Speaker 1: We laughed again as he dumped them into the fire.
Speaker 1: We stood up, stomping our feet to bring the blood
Speaker 1: flowing back into our chilled toes, and watched the pages
Speaker 1: curl and turned to ash. The fire was doused and
Speaker 1: the air steamed with the last bits of what we'd
Speaker 1: let go of. We smiled at each other, not really
Speaker 1: knowing what to say, but for my part, I felt
Speaker 1: less bogged down and more at ease. That made me
Speaker 1: think that as helpful as it is to let old
Speaker 1: things go, it is also smart to plant new and
Speaker 1: useful things in their place. We shouldn't just shed We
Speaker 1: should so so I've thought about what I'd like to
Speaker 1: see more of, do more of, taste more of, feel
Speaker 1: more of in the new year, and pold those hopes
Speaker 1: and plans into me with deep breaths. Then I raised
Speaker 1: my mug in toast to my friends and the new year,
Speaker 1: and sang in a small but unafraid voice should old
Speaker 1: acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind. And they
Speaker 1: generously joined in with me. We only knew the one
Speaker 1: verse and the chorus, but we sang it through twice
Speaker 1: as we trailed out through the yard and into the
Speaker 1: street to walk to town for breakfast. Will take a
Speaker 1: cup of kindness yet for old lang Syne sweet trains