Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens,
Speaker 1: you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
Speaker 1: I read and write all the stories you hear on
Speaker 1: nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Thanks
Speaker 1: to your support, we give to a different charity each week.
Speaker 1: This week we are giving to International Justice Mission at
Speaker 1: IJM dot org. Their mission is to protect people in
Speaker 1: poverty from violence and injustice. Look for more information about
Speaker 1: them in our show notes. Just by listening to my
Speaker 1: voice and follow me along with the general shape of
Speaker 1: the story, you'll be able to create a reliable response
Speaker 1: in your brain and nervous system, so that when you
Speaker 1: lie in bed at night when it's time to sleep,
Speaker 1: you just will. The more you practice it, the stronger
Speaker 1: the response will become. I'll tell the story twice, and
Speaker 1: I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If
Speaker 1: you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn
Speaker 1: this or another story right back on, or just think
Speaker 1: through any detail that you can remember. Okay, lights out, campers,
Speaker 1: it's time set everything down and prioritize your own comfort.
Speaker 1: How do you need to arrange yourself to feel the
Speaker 1: most relaxed. Whatever you did today, it was enough. Enough
Speaker 1: has been done. So take those last lingering thoughts, Let
Speaker 1: them go. They only have the power you give them. Now.
Speaker 1: Slow breath in and sigh again, In through the nose,
Speaker 1: out through the mouth. Good. Our story tonight is called
Speaker 1: winter Views, and it's a story about some different things
Speaker 1: to enjoy or look forward to in the winter. Also
Speaker 1: about a cardinal singing from the branches, a jar of
Speaker 1: huckleberry jam, and the extra minutes of light that come
Speaker 1: with each day after the solstice. Winter Views. Winter isn't
Speaker 1: just one thing, one feeling, one temperature, one scent, And
Speaker 1: that was something I always forgot from the distance of July.
Speaker 1: But if I thought of it, then all I could
Speaker 1: come up with was bitter cold, a memory of icy
Speaker 1: air stinging my nostrils, one shade of white coating everything.
Speaker 1: And so when I was actually there, moving through midwinter,
Speaker 1: it was always a sweet surprise when the morning air
Speaker 1: didn't sting, but instead made me feel awake and alive,
Speaker 1: and I gulped it down in deep, greedy breaths, just
Speaker 1: as I had the scent of lilacs in the spring
Speaker 1: or summer. Tomato vines yes, the light was sometimes gray,
Speaker 1: the day's shorter. But there's something special that happens at
Speaker 1: sunset in the winter that is uplifting and affirming right
Speaker 1: when you need it most. As the sun and drops
Speaker 1: in the sky right before it sets fully, it dips
Speaker 1: below the cloudy haze that blocked it for much of
Speaker 1: the day, and the sky actually gets brighter for a
Speaker 1: wonderful half hour or so. The orange light cuts through
Speaker 1: the windows. It will find you where you sit with
Speaker 1: your cheek propped in your hand, listless from the winter monotony,
Speaker 1: and it will dazzle you, make you sit up straight
Speaker 1: and come to the window and look out. You might
Speaker 1: even put on your coat and boots and step outside
Speaker 1: and let it shine on your face for a minute
Speaker 1: or so. And as long as you're out there, might
Speaker 1: not take a brisk walk around the block, flush your
Speaker 1: lungs out, and fill yourself up with fresh air. These
Speaker 1: are the bits of winter I forgot about through the
Speaker 1: rest of the year that made me glad to be
Speaker 1: in this season. As it progressed, the snow had melted
Speaker 1: for a few days, and the sidewalks had run with water,
Speaker 1: the hard ground not able to keep up with how
Speaker 1: fast things had changed that first day out. My boots
Speaker 1: had gotten muddy and sodden, though I barely noticed. I
Speaker 1: was looking up spotting nests and abandoned hives in the
Speaker 1: tree tops. A cardinal sat chirping in the branches, and
Speaker 1: they laughed, wondering if he ever looked down at us
Speaker 1: and sing out ooh, a human. Fair enough few of
Speaker 1: us could sing like he did. In another day or so,
Speaker 1: the pavement had dried up, and every one was out
Speaker 1: taking advantage of the break in the weather. Dogs and sweaters,
Speaker 1: children on bikes they've gotten for Christmas or Hanukkah. And
Speaker 1: I felt that this, too, was something I forgot about
Speaker 1: when I thought of winter. It breathes a sort of fellowship.
Speaker 1: We were all feeling the same things as we waved
Speaker 1: from different sides of the street. We all tipped our
Speaker 1: faces up to the sun and sighed with the relief
Speaker 1: of it. We'd gained about thirty minutes of daylight since
Speaker 1: the solstice, and it felt like such a gift. At
Speaker 1: the end of the day. It gave me a bit
Speaker 1: of a lift just to be able to see out
Speaker 1: to the pines at the back of my yard for
Speaker 1: a little longer each day. I often felt that as
Speaker 1: soon as the sun went down, well so was I.
Speaker 1: It made me rush through dinner and often had me
Speaker 1: yawning and blinking by seven. Now, just to have a
Speaker 1: little extra time it inspired me. I slowed down. I
Speaker 1: thumbed through a cookbook, or watered my plants, or brood
Speaker 1: a cup of tea and sipped it from the sofa.
Speaker 1: Our bodies have clockwork tuned up to the seasons and sun,
Speaker 1: don't they. Those early nights to bed had been needed.
Speaker 1: The week of doing less were restorative, And now things
Speaker 1: were turning subtly and slowly but surely. And I thought
Speaker 1: about what I might do with a bit of winter
Speaker 1: that remained. It wasn't done snowing, that was for sure.
Speaker 1: These breaks in the weather came and went, and we
Speaker 1: still had plenty of snow days left. There was a
Speaker 1: skating rink downtown. I thought it must be absolutely beautiful
Speaker 1: to skate in the warmth of the late afternoon, to
Speaker 1: stay on the ice as the twinkle lights came on,
Speaker 1: and to go somewhere for a hot coco after your
Speaker 1: legs were tired out. And there was a film festival
Speaker 1: at the movie Theater I'd seen it advertised in the paper.
Speaker 1: On one screen, they were showing the full filmography of
Speaker 1: some director whose work had been mostly ignored at the
Speaker 1: time but seemed prescient and current and now was appreciated.
Speaker 1: On another screen, there were short films, some comic and
Speaker 1: some serious, and in this category there were even a
Speaker 1: few local entries. There was a way I'd never spent
Speaker 1: Saturday all day at the theater voting on films, seeing
Speaker 1: things I knew nothing about beforehand. Well, maybe that was
Speaker 1: what made it an excellent idea. There were also seeds
Speaker 1: to start. Packs of them had come in the mail
Speaker 1: the week before, and a garden club of which I'd
Speaker 1: become a member last spring, had sent out a newsletter
Speaker 1: with instructions for making starting pots from recycled newspaper. I
Speaker 1: could see myself clearing off the counters and rolling up
Speaker 1: my sleeves. I'd make a bit of a mess, and
Speaker 1: it would no doubt take longer than I had anticipated,
Speaker 1: but eventually all my little seeds would be tucked into
Speaker 1: their soil beds and waiting to sprout under the lamps
Speaker 1: the sear I was growing dahlias and nothing else, just dahlias.
Speaker 1: But I would crack their code and grow the biggest
Speaker 1: double blooms the neighborhood had ever seen. What else? What
Speaker 1: else could I look forward to? This winter? I'd been
Speaker 1: gifted a membership in the jam of the Month club
Speaker 1: and thought I could make some thumb print cookies with
Speaker 1: the first jar that had come. It was deep purple huckleberry,
Speaker 1: and I bet they would go perfectly with a cup
Speaker 1: of coffee in the morning, puzzles and old movies, a
Speaker 1: hike up the crow's nest path in the snow, watching
Speaker 1: the sun come up a little earlier each morning, paper
Speaker 1: whites budding on the sill. Winter came with so many gifts,
Speaker 1: a hundred different views over the horizon. It wasn't one thing.
Speaker 1: There was many winter views. Winter isn't just one thing,
Speaker 1: one feeling, one temperature, one scent. And that was something
Speaker 1: I always forgot from the distance of July. If I
Speaker 1: thought of it, then all I could come up with
Speaker 1: was the bitter cold memory of icy air stinging my nostrils,
Speaker 1: one shade of white coating everything. And so when I
Speaker 1: was actually there, moving through midwinter, it was always a
Speaker 1: sweet surprise when the morning air didn't sting, but instead
Speaker 1: made me feel awake and alive. I gulped it down
Speaker 1: in deep, greedy breaths, just as I had the scent
Speaker 1: of lilacs in the spring or summer tomato vines. Yes,
Speaker 1: the light was sometimes gray, the days shorter. But there
Speaker 1: is something special that happens at sunset in the winter
Speaker 1: that is uplifting and affirming right when you need it most.
Speaker 1: As the sun drops in the sky right before it
Speaker 1: fully sets, it dips below the cloudy haze that blocked
Speaker 1: it for much of the day, and the sky actually
Speaker 1: gets brighter for a wonderful half hour or so. The
Speaker 1: orange light cuts through the windows. It will find you
Speaker 1: where you sit with your cheek propped in your hand,
Speaker 1: listless from the winter monotony and dazzle you make you
Speaker 1: sit up straight and come to the window and look out.
Speaker 1: You might even put on your coat and boots and
Speaker 1: step outside and let it shine on your face for
Speaker 1: a minute or so. And as long as you're out there, well,
Speaker 1: why not take a brisk walk around the block, flush
Speaker 1: your lungs out, and fill yourself up with fresh air.
Speaker 1: These are the bits of winter I forget about through
Speaker 1: the rest of the year that made me so glad
Speaker 1: to be in this season. As it progressed, the snow
Speaker 1: had melted for a few days, and the sidewalks had
Speaker 1: run with water, the hard ground not able to keep
Speaker 1: up with how fast things had changed. That first day out,
Speaker 1: my boots had gotten muddy and sodden, though I barely noticed.
Speaker 1: I was looking up spotting nests and abandoned hives in
Speaker 1: the tree tops. A cardinal sat chirping in the branches,
Speaker 1: and I laughed, wondering if he ever looked down at
Speaker 1: us and sang out, oh, a human. Fair enough few
Speaker 1: of us could sing like he did. In another day
Speaker 1: or so, the pavement had dried up, and everyone was
Speaker 1: out taking advantage of the break in the weather. Dogs
Speaker 1: and sweaters, children on the bikes they'd gotten for Christmas
Speaker 1: or Hanukkah. And I felt that this, too, was something
Speaker 1: I forgot about when I thought of winter. It breathes
Speaker 1: a sort of fellowship. We were all feeling the same
Speaker 1: things as we waved from different sides of the street.
Speaker 1: We all tipped our faces up to the sun and
Speaker 1: sighed with the relief of it. We'd gained about thirty
Speaker 1: minutes of daylight since the solstice, and it felt like
Speaker 1: such a gift. At the end of the day. It
Speaker 1: gave me a bit of a lift, just to be
Speaker 1: able to see out to the pines at the back
Speaker 1: of my yard for a little longer each day. I
Speaker 1: often felt that as soon as the sun was down,
Speaker 1: well so was I. It made me rush through dinner
Speaker 1: and often had me yawning and blinking by seven. Now,
Speaker 1: just to have a little extra time it inspired me.
Speaker 1: I slowed down. I thumbed through a cookbook, or watered
Speaker 1: my plants, or brewed a cup of tea and sipped
Speaker 1: it from the sofa. Our bodies have clockwork tuned up
Speaker 1: to the seasons and the sun, don't they. Those early
Speaker 1: nights to bed they'd been needed. The weeks of doing
Speaker 1: less were restorative, and now things were turning subtly and slowly,
Speaker 1: but surely. I thought about what I might do with
Speaker 1: the bit of winter that remained. It wasn't done snowing,
Speaker 1: that was for sure. These brakes in the weather came
Speaker 1: and went, and we still had plenty of snow days left.
Speaker 1: There was a skating rink down town, and I thought
Speaker 1: it must be absolutely beautiful to skate in the warmth
Speaker 1: of the late afternoon. To stay on the ice as
Speaker 1: the twinkle lights came on, and then to go somewhere
Speaker 1: for a hot cocoa after your legs were tired out.
Speaker 1: And there was a film festival at the movie theater.
Speaker 1: I'd seen it advertised in the paper. On one screen,
Speaker 1: they were showing the full filmography of some director whose
Speaker 1: work at the time had been mostly ignored but seemed
Speaker 1: prescient and current and now was appreciated. On another screen,
Speaker 1: there were short films, some comic and some serious, and
Speaker 1: in this category there were even a few local entries.
Speaker 1: I was away. I'd never spent a Saturday all day
Speaker 1: at the theater voting on films, seeing things I knew
Speaker 1: nothing about beforehand. Wow, maybe that was what made it
Speaker 1: an excellent idea. There were also seeds to start. Packs
Speaker 1: of them had come in the mail the week before,
Speaker 1: and the garden club of which I'd become a member
Speaker 1: last spring, had sent out a newsletter with instructions for
Speaker 1: making starting pots from recycled newspaper. I could see myself
Speaker 1: clearing off the counters and rolling up my sleeves. I'd
Speaker 1: make a bit of a mess, and it would no
Speaker 1: doubt take longer than I anticipated, But Eventually all my
Speaker 1: little seeds would be tucked into their soil beds and
Speaker 1: waiting to sprout under the lamps. This year I was
Speaker 1: growing dahlias, but nothing else, Just dahlias. But I would
Speaker 1: crack their code and grow the biggest double blooms the
Speaker 1: neighborhood had ever seen. What else? What else could I
Speaker 1: look forward to this winter? Oh? I'd been gifted a
Speaker 1: membership in the Jam of the Month club. I thought
Speaker 1: I could make some thumb print cookies with the first
Speaker 1: jar that had come. The jam was deep purple huckleberry,
Speaker 1: and I bet would go perfectly with a cup of
Speaker 1: coffee in the morning, puzzles and old movies, a hike
Speaker 1: up the crow's nest path in the snow, watching the
Speaker 1: sun come up a little earlier each morning, paper whites
Speaker 1: bodying on the sill. Winter came with so many gifts,
Speaker 1: a hundred different views over the horizon. It wasn't one thing,
Speaker 1: It was many sweet dreams.