Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, and 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, and
Speaker 1: nothing much happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If
Speaker 1: you'd like to hear our stories without any ads and
Speaker 1: catch our bonus episodes, you can subscribe to our Premium
Speaker 1: plus feed costs about a dime a day and really
Speaker 1: supports what we do. We actually have a bonus episode
Speaker 1: coming out today and it's called A Midsummer Afternoon's Nap
Speaker 1: and it's a story about a hammock in the shade
Speaker 1: hydrangeas as they shift color from pink to blue, and
Speaker 1: the feeling of being right in the middle of a warm,
Speaker 1: lovely season. Learn more at Nothing Much Happens dot com.
Speaker 1: So the best way to fall asleep is to not
Speaker 1: try to fall asleep. Really, so instead of trying just
Speaker 1: listen to the story I have to tell you, listen
Speaker 1: to my voice. It will engage your brains task positive network,
Speaker 1: and that will allow you to fall asleep. I'll tell
Speaker 1: the story twice and I'll go a little bit slower
Speaker 1: the second time through. If you wake in the middle
Speaker 1: of the night. Don't hesitate to just listen again or
Speaker 1: think through any part of the story that you can remember.
Speaker 1: Just shifting your thoughts in this way will help you
Speaker 1: drift back off. And if you're new to this, be patient.
Speaker 1: This is brain training and its effectiveness will build over time. Okay,
Speaker 1: lights out, campers, set aside anything you've been working on
Speaker 1: or looking at. It's time to settle down into your bed,
Speaker 1: to pull the blanket up over your shoulder and relax
Speaker 1: into your favorite sleeping position. I would take a second
Speaker 1: to just mentally close the loop on your day. Anything
Speaker 1: that's left over, any stray, niggling thoughts, acknowledge them, and
Speaker 1: then let them go. If they are truly important, you
Speaker 1: can pick them up tomorrow morning, but most likely you'll
Speaker 1: just forget them. Now. Take a deep breath, in through
Speaker 1: the nose and side through the mouth. Yeah again, in
Speaker 1: and out with sound good. Our story tonight is called
Speaker 1: the Potter's Wheel, and it's a story about the pleasures
Speaker 1: of making something with your own two hands. It's also
Speaker 1: about laundry, drawing on the line a little room that
Speaker 1: is just for you, and initials atched onto the bottom
Speaker 1: of a vase the Potter's Wheel. I'd been away from
Speaker 1: it for a few days. We'd taken a long weekend
Speaker 1: to go camping, and it had felt so good to
Speaker 1: step out of our schedules and routines. We'd told the
Speaker 1: time by the angle of the sun and the grumbling
Speaker 1: of our stomachs. We hiked and swam, and cooked and
Speaker 1: ate and told stories over the fire at night. The
Speaker 1: days full of sunshine and fresh air left us happily
Speaker 1: exhausted when we climbed into our sleeping bags each night,
Speaker 1: and though I thought I'd struggle to get comfortable and
Speaker 1: our tent, sleep would come thick and heavy, and I'd
Speaker 1: barely move, waking in the same position I'd drifted off.
Speaker 1: In the last day, the winds had picked up, and
Speaker 1: before we loaded up the car to head home, we'd
Speaker 1: take an advantage of the cooler weather to climb a
Speaker 1: steep path to the top of an overlook and sit
Speaker 1: for an hour or so in the breeze, looking down
Speaker 1: into a valley of rippling leaves and tall grasses. It
Speaker 1: had left my skin smelling like summer, and even now
Speaker 1: that we were home, if I tucked my nose into
Speaker 1: the crook of my elbow, I could detect it. I'd
Speaker 1: spent the morning sorting laundry, washing, and hanging our clothes
Speaker 1: out on the line in the backyard. The house had
Speaker 1: been stale and stuffy when we got home, but all
Speaker 1: the windows were open now, and I picked a vase
Speaker 1: full of lilies for the kitchen table. The lilies were
Speaker 1: star gazers, pink and fuchia, with deep rose freckles and
Speaker 1: a sweetness that must call to bumblebees from miles around.
Speaker 1: When I'd arranged them in the vase and filled it
Speaker 1: with water at the tap, I'd noticed how heavy it was.
Speaker 1: It was one of the first vases I'd thrown on
Speaker 1: my pottery wheel, and I kept it not because it
Speaker 1: was a beautiful specimen of what I could make, but
Speaker 1: because it wasn't it was where I'd started. It was
Speaker 1: too heavy, its walls too thick. It was made without
Speaker 1: a definite shape in mind, and it hadn't ever found one.
Speaker 1: The glaze was patchy and smeared, but it had my
Speaker 1: initials scraped into the bottom, and I was still proud
Speaker 1: of it. I suddenly wanted to get back to my
Speaker 1: wheel to throw something. A few somethings and just feel
Speaker 1: the clay slipping through my fingers again. I poured a
Speaker 1: fresh cup of coffee and stepped into the small room
Speaker 1: where I made things. It was a little space that
Speaker 1: had probably once been a pantry. Our old farmhouse was
Speaker 1: one of those sorts of places that got added onto
Speaker 1: again and again, and the layout was creative and a
Speaker 1: bit round about. I liked that I felt like I
Speaker 1: was tucked into a pocket when I was in here.
Speaker 1: It had one window that looked into the backyard, where
Speaker 1: I could see the clothes billowing in the wind. I
Speaker 1: rolled up my sleeves and unwrapped a chunk of clay.
Speaker 1: I used my wire cutter to separate a good sized
Speaker 1: piece and wrapped the rest back up. I set up
Speaker 1: my tools by the wheel, a fresh bowl of water, sponges,
Speaker 1: a steel scraper, a potter's rib, and a large, sturdy
Speaker 1: paper clip that worked as well as anything else I'd
Speaker 1: found to sculpt with. I started by wedging the clay,
Speaker 1: a process that was a bit like kneading bread dough
Speaker 1: and helped to remove air bubbles. I pummeled and pushed
Speaker 1: and compressed it until it felt ready in my hands.
Speaker 1: Then I sat at the wheel and with a big,
Speaker 1: satisfying slap, anchored it onto its center. Well, it seemed
Speaker 1: like the center, but the next step, as I began
Speaker 1: to set the wheel to spinning, was to actually center it.
Speaker 1: This took a bit of muscle and concentration as I
Speaker 1: leaned my weight into the clay and wrestled it into alignment. Honestly,
Speaker 1: I liked this part of potting. Some might find it
Speaker 1: tedious and would want to get right onto the more
Speaker 1: delicate steps, but I found it cathartic and primal. The
Speaker 1: clay and I might start off in opposition, but after
Speaker 1: a minute or so of work, we would slip into
Speaker 1: an easier accord and begin to create together. I imagine
Speaker 1: all artists and crafts people have probably felt a moment
Speaker 1: like that, when the work begins to guide you to
Speaker 1: talk back or clear a new path. It happened often
Speaker 1: when I began to pull the clay up, lengthening my pot,
Speaker 1: and then pushing it back down and pulling it up
Speaker 1: again to begin to define its shape. It happened now
Speaker 1: as what I thought would be a vase started to
Speaker 1: become something else. What was this a beaker? A pot ah?
Speaker 1: It was going to be a pitcher, I you were,
Speaker 1: with a tall, ridged body. I shaped with my tools
Speaker 1: and sponge. Every part of what I was doing took practice,
Speaker 1: and even with a couple of years of it under
Speaker 1: my belt, I regularly got bits of it wrong. Sometimes
Speaker 1: I didn't wedge enough, and the air trapped in the
Speaker 1: clay would expand in the kiln and blow the whole
Speaker 1: thing apart. Sometimes I made my pieces too heavy, or
Speaker 1: thinned them too much, pushed them off center till they
Speaker 1: spun out on the wheel. One of my teachers, who'd
Speaker 1: noticed me being too fearful of all of the above,
Speaker 1: spent a day with me making and smashing down the
Speaker 1: same shape over and over. We'd pull it up, refine
Speaker 1: the rim, and give it a neat base, and then
Speaker 1: she'd stop the wheel and tell me to wreck it.
Speaker 1: It was bitter medicine to swallow, but she was teaching
Speaker 1: me that my skill wouldn't disappear after a misfire. I
Speaker 1: didn't have to be so careful or afraid of just
Speaker 1: trying something or to make a mess. I could begin again,
Speaker 1: over and over, and I should. I stopped the wheel
Speaker 1: and carefully shaped the pouring lip of the pitcher, looking
Speaker 1: for the right angle so that water wouldn't drip when
Speaker 1: it was used, and then wired it off the wheel
Speaker 1: and reached for more clay to pull the handle. I
Speaker 1: dipped my fingers into the water and began to stretch
Speaker 1: and pull the shape. I got it wrong twice before
Speaker 1: I found the right length and structure. Then scored the
Speaker 1: pitcher and painted on thin slip to attach it. Sometimes
Speaker 1: the trickiest part was knowing when to stop, and I
Speaker 1: thought I'd found the moment. It would need to dry
Speaker 1: on the rack till it was leather hard, and then
Speaker 1: I could smooth and finish the surface us and put
Speaker 1: it through its first firing, then glaze and another trip
Speaker 1: into the kiln. I stepped out to the kitchen sink
Speaker 1: to wash the dry clay from my hands, and saw
Speaker 1: that the breeze had picked up and one of my
Speaker 1: shirts was hanging on by a single clothespin. I'd go
Speaker 1: out to take down the laundry and then get right
Speaker 1: back behind my wheel, the Potter's wheel. I'd been away
Speaker 1: from it for a few days. We'd taken a long
Speaker 1: weekend to go camping, and it had felt so good
Speaker 1: to step out of our schedules and routines. We told
Speaker 1: the time by the angle of the sun and the
Speaker 1: grumbling of our stomachs. We hiked and swam, and cooked
Speaker 1: and ate and told stories over the fire at night.
Speaker 1: The days full of sunshine and fresh air left us
Speaker 1: happily exhausted when we climbed into our sleeping bags each night,
Speaker 1: and though I'd thought I'd struggle to get comfortable in
Speaker 1: our tent, sleep would come thick and heavy, and I'd
Speaker 1: barely move, waking in the same position I'd drifted off
Speaker 1: in the last day. The winds had picked up, and
Speaker 1: before we loaded up the car to head home, we'd
Speaker 1: take an advantage of the cooler weather to climb a
Speaker 1: steep path to the top of an overlook and sit
Speaker 1: for an hour or so in the breeze, looking down
Speaker 1: into a valley of rippling leaves and tall grasses. I
Speaker 1: had left my skin smelling like summer, and even now
Speaker 1: that we were home, if I tucked my nose into
Speaker 1: the crook of my elbow, I could detect it. I'd
Speaker 1: spent the morning sorting laundry, washing, and hanging our clothes
Speaker 1: out on the line in the backyard. The house had
Speaker 1: been stale and stuffy, when we got home, but all
Speaker 1: the windows were open now, and I'd picked a vase
Speaker 1: full of lilies for the kitchen table. The lilies were
Speaker 1: star gazers, pink and fuchia, with deep rose freckles and
Speaker 1: with a sweetness that must call to bumblebees from miles around.
Speaker 1: When I'd arranged them in the vase and filled it
Speaker 1: with water at the tap, I'd noticed how heavy it was.
Speaker 1: It was one of the first vases I'd thrown on
Speaker 1: my pottery wheel, and I kept it not because it
Speaker 1: was a beautiful specimen of what I could make, but
Speaker 1: because it wasn't. It was where I'd started. It is
Speaker 1: too heavy, its walls too thick. It was made without
Speaker 1: a definite shape in mind, and it hadn't ever found one.
Speaker 1: The glaze was patchy and smeared, but I'd had my
Speaker 1: initials scraped into the bottom, and I was still proud
Speaker 1: of it. I suddenly wanted to get back to my wheel,
Speaker 1: to throw something, a few somethings, and just feel the
Speaker 1: clay slipping through my fingers again. I poured a fresh
Speaker 1: cup of coffee and sped into the small room where
Speaker 1: I made things. It was a little space that had
Speaker 1: probably once been a pantry. Our old farmhouse was one
Speaker 1: of those sorts of places that got added onto again
Speaker 1: and again, and the layout was creative and a bit
Speaker 1: round about. I liked it. I felt like I was
Speaker 1: tucked into a pocket when I was in here. It
Speaker 1: had one window that looked into the backyard, where I
Speaker 1: could see the clothes billowing in the wind. I rolled
Speaker 1: up my sleeves and unwrapped a chunk of clay. I
Speaker 1: used my wire cutter to separate a good sized piece
Speaker 1: and wrapped the rest back up. I set up my
Speaker 1: tools by the wheel, a fresh bowl of water, sponges,
Speaker 1: a steel scraper, a potter's rib, and a large, sturdy
Speaker 1: paper clip that worked as well as anything else I'd
Speaker 1: found to sculpt with. I started by wedging the clay,
Speaker 1: a process that was a bit like kneading breaddough and
Speaker 1: helped to remove air bubbles. I pummeled and pushed and
Speaker 1: compressed it until it felt ready in my hands. Then
Speaker 1: I sat at the wheel and with the big satisfying slap,
Speaker 1: anchored it onto its center. Well, it seemed like the center,
Speaker 1: but the next step, as it began to set the
Speaker 1: wheel to spinning, was to actually center it, and this
Speaker 1: took a bit of muscle and concentration as I leaned
Speaker 1: my weight into the clay and wrestled it into alignment. Honestly,
Speaker 1: I liked this part of potting. Some might find it
Speaker 1: tedious and would want to get right unto the more
Speaker 1: delicate steps, but I found it cathartic and primal. The
Speaker 1: clay and I might start off in opposition, but after
Speaker 1: a minute or so of work, we would slip into
Speaker 1: an easier accord and began to create together. I imagined
Speaker 1: all artists and craftspeople have probably felt a moment like this,
Speaker 1: when the work begins to guide you to talk back
Speaker 1: or clear a new path. It happened often when I
Speaker 1: began to pull the clay up, lengthening my pot, and
Speaker 1: then pushing it back down and pulling it up again
Speaker 1: to begin to define its shape. It happened now as
Speaker 1: what I thought would be a vase started to become
Speaker 1: something else. What was this a beaker, a pot ah?
Speaker 1: It was going to be a pitcher a you were
Speaker 1: with a tall, ridged body. I shaped with my tools
Speaker 1: and sponge. Every part of what I was doing took practice,
Speaker 1: and even with a couple years of it under my belt.
Speaker 1: I regularly got bits of it wrong. Sometimes I didn't
Speaker 1: wedge enough, and the air trapped in the clay would
Speaker 1: expand in the kiln and blow the whole thing apart.
Speaker 1: Sometimes I made my pieces too heavy, or thinned them
Speaker 1: too much, pushed them off center till they spun out
Speaker 1: on the wheel. One of my teachers, who'd noticed me
Speaker 1: being too fearful of all of the above of spent
Speaker 1: a day with me making and smashing down the same
Speaker 1: shape over and over. We'd pull it up, refine the rim,
Speaker 1: and give it a neat base, and then she'd stop
Speaker 1: the wheel and tell me to wreck it. It was
Speaker 1: bitter medicine to swallow, but she was teaching me that
Speaker 1: my skill wouldn't disappear after a misfire. I didn't have
Speaker 1: to be so careful. We're afraid of just trying something,
Speaker 1: afraid of making a mess. I could begin again, over
Speaker 1: and over when I should. I stopped the wheel and
Speaker 1: carefully shaped the pouring lip of the pitcher, looking for
Speaker 1: the right angle so that water wouldn't drip when it
Speaker 1: was used. Then wired it off the wheel and reached
Speaker 1: for more clay to pull the handle. I dipped my
Speaker 1: fingers into the water and began to stretch and pull
Speaker 1: the shape. I got it wrong twice before I found
Speaker 1: the right length and structure. Then scored the pitcher and
Speaker 1: painted on thin slip to attach it. Sometimes the trickiest
Speaker 1: part was knowing when to stop. And I thought I'd
Speaker 1: found the moment. It would need to dry on the
Speaker 1: rack till it was leather heard, and then I would
Speaker 1: smooth and finish the surface and put it through its
Speaker 1: first firing, then glaze, and another trip through the kiln.
Speaker 1: I stepped out to the kitchen sink to wash the
Speaker 1: dry clay from my hands, and saw that the breeze
Speaker 1: had picked up and one of my shirts was hanging
Speaker 1: on by a single clothespin. I'd go out to I
Speaker 1: take down the laundry and and get right back behind
Speaker 1: my wheel. Sweet dreams