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 Nikolai.
Speaker 1: I create everything you hear on Nothing much happens with
Speaker 1: audio engineering by Bob Witttersheim. Before anything else, we'd like
Speaker 1: to thank some recent subscribers to our premium feeds. So
Speaker 1: thank you Dorian, thank you, Charlene, thank you, Marcus and Leslie.
Speaker 1: I promise not to put you through an NPR style
Speaker 1: pledge drive here, but subscribing really does help keep these
Speaker 1: stories coming to you every week. There's a lot of
Speaker 1: work going on behind the scenes, not just me and
Speaker 1: Bob anymore, and when you subscribe, you make that possible,
Speaker 1: as well as getting ad free bonus and extra long,
Speaker 1: slightly more happens episodes. So if that's something you're interested in,
Speaker 1: we have a direct link in the show notes you
Speaker 1: can click and get started. You can even continue to
Speaker 1: listen on whatever app you're using right now, so there's
Speaker 1: not even any new tech to figure out. Nothing much happens.
Speaker 1: We give to a different charity each week, and this
Speaker 1: week we are giving to Greyhound Rescue. They ethically rescue, lovingly, rehabilitate,
Speaker 1: and safely rehome greyhounds, giving them a voice through advocacy
Speaker 1: and education. Find a link to them in our show notes. Now,
Speaker 1: the concept here is simple but tried and true. I'm
Speaker 1: going to read you a bedtime story, and just by
Speaker 1: listening to it, by following along with the sound of
Speaker 1: my voice, we'll steer you into a deep, restorative sleep.
Speaker 1: This is a sort of grown up sleep training, and
Speaker 1: you'll notice that the more you do it, the faster
Speaker 1: you fall asleep or return to sleep in the night.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. Now it's time lights out.
Speaker 1: Set aside anything you've been playing with or working on,
Speaker 1: and take a moment to prioritize your own comfort and
Speaker 1: feel how good it is to be in bed right now.
Speaker 1: Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to
Speaker 1: since you got up this morning. Well, now it's here.
Speaker 1: You are safe, You are done for the day, and
Speaker 1: I'll be here keeping watch as you sleep. Take a slow,
Speaker 1: deep breath in through your nose and sigh through your
Speaker 1: mouth one more time, fill it up and let it
Speaker 1: go good. Our story tonight is called the Joy of
Speaker 1: missing out and It's a story about recharging your boy
Speaker 1: when your battery has run down. It's also about frost
Speaker 1: on the windows, reading a favorite book, snuggled deep under
Speaker 1: the covers, being honest about what you need, and giving
Speaker 1: others permission to do the same. The joy of missing out.
Speaker 1: We were a week or so away from Thanksgiving, and
Speaker 1: it felt like Halloween was yesterday and that Christmas would
Speaker 1: be tomorrow. As much as I loved this time of year,
Speaker 1: sometimes it seemed like a mad gallop rushing from October
Speaker 1: to the new year, and I wanted to slow it
Speaker 1: down and savor it before it was gone. So instead
Speaker 1: of picking apples for next week's pies at the orchard,
Speaker 1: or heading to downtown to stroll the streets and watch
Speaker 1: the shopkeepers put together their holiday window displays, or meeting
Speaker 1: friends coming into town for dinner, or a hundred other
Speaker 1: things that I am thoroughly fond of, I am instead
Speaker 1: relaxing into the joy of missing out. I realized this morning,
Speaker 1: as I sipped my coffee in bed, that my battery
Speaker 1: had run out. I just didn't have the energy to
Speaker 1: do today, and at first I resisted it, feeling like
Speaker 1: I should push myself up and into my clothes out
Speaker 1: of the door, and that if I did, maybe I
Speaker 1: would find the energy. But I realized even if I did,
Speaker 1: I wasn't likely to find the joy. I could put
Speaker 1: one foot in front of the other, but couldn't put
Speaker 1: an honest smile on my face. No, I needed a deep,
Speaker 1: factory reset, and in the moment I surrendered to that,
Speaker 1: I felt myself relaxing. I hadn't even realized that I'd
Speaker 1: been wearing my shoulders like earrings, tensing against the day.
Speaker 1: As I let my shoulders and my guard down, I
Speaker 1: breathed deeper. I felt a warm thank you for listening
Speaker 1: from my body, spreading through my limbs. I would make
Speaker 1: no plans today, and I would cancel the ones I
Speaker 1: did have. I drank till my cup was empty, pushed
Speaker 1: it onto my bedside table, and slid back down into
Speaker 1: my sheets. They were still warm and puffed up from
Speaker 1: a night of sleeping, and I burrowed in till just
Speaker 1: my head was out. There was frost on the window
Speaker 1: this morning, and I spent some time just looking at it,
Speaker 1: watching how the light of the rising sun struck and
Speaker 1: bounced off of it. I could feel that given its
Speaker 1: struthers my body would not have awoken this early, and
Speaker 1: that there might be a way back into sleep. I
Speaker 1: took my book from the table and curled up around it,
Speaker 1: keeping as much of me as possible in my cocoon
Speaker 1: of blankets. As I opened it and began to read,
Speaker 1: a memory from childhood ran through my mind of the
Speaker 1: first time I read a whole chapter on my own.
Speaker 1: It had been the morning like this, one frost on
Speaker 1: the windows, and me tucked up in bed with a
Speaker 1: thin chapter book. I remember fumbling my way through the
Speaker 1: words I didn't recognize, sounding them out slowly but determinedly,
Speaker 1: until I turned a page and found a big two
Speaker 1: marking the start of the next chapter. I had felt
Speaker 1: so proud. It felt like I had reached a turning point.
Speaker 1: I could read now all by myself, and whenever I wanted.
Speaker 1: I thought of little me smiling at her book all
Speaker 1: those years ago, and felt so tender toward her and
Speaker 1: grateful as I was still turning pages and enjoying stories
Speaker 1: all these years later. My current read was when I
Speaker 1: read every autumn. It didn't matter if I was right
Speaker 1: in the middle of another book, if I had a
Speaker 1: tall stack waiting for me beside the bed. The pages
Speaker 1: were starting to be dog eared. When the spine cracked
Speaker 1: once it felt crisp and the leaves turned. I plucked
Speaker 1: this one from the shelf and treated myself to a
Speaker 1: long dip into its world, which was full of mystery
Speaker 1: and magic and near misses and impossible love. As my
Speaker 1: eyes moved over the lines on the page, I felt
Speaker 1: my eyelids drooping. I kept starting over, rereading a line,
Speaker 1: opening my eyes again, until I finally let the book
Speaker 1: fall onto the comforter beside me and drifted dreamt in
Speaker 1: a swirl of snow and colors. Nothing concrete enough to
Speaker 1: form into a storyline, but with the atmosphere of Christmas,
Speaker 1: a sea of trees lit up on a mountain side,
Speaker 1: and excitement and sleigh bells. When I woke again, I
Speaker 1: felt replete. I stretched my limbs in bed and took
Speaker 1: deep breaths at the window, tying my robe around me.
Speaker 1: I watched cars coming and going. A neighbor wrapped in
Speaker 1: a huge parka with a scarf slipping down his back
Speaker 1: was unpacking boxes of twinkle lights and a whole herd
Speaker 1: of reindeer on to his front lawn. I smiled, as
Speaker 1: I scooped up my cold cup from beside the bed
Speaker 1: and felt how lovely it was to be missing out
Speaker 1: on all of that. Today in the kitchen, I started
Speaker 1: a fresh pot of coffee and sprinkle a good bit
Speaker 1: of cinnamon in with the grounds. As it brewed, the
Speaker 1: house filled with the lovely, roasty, sweet scent, and I
Speaker 1: sent a couple of messages to cancel the plans i'd
Speaker 1: had for that evening. I did it without the least
Speaker 1: bit of regret or guilt, just knowing I was doing
Speaker 1: what I needed to do to take care of myself.
Speaker 1: The responses came back with little hearts and thumbs up.
Speaker 1: No one was mad, no one was expecting more of
Speaker 1: me than I could give. In fact, one friend gratefully
Speaker 1: said she'd decided to stay home too, that I'd given
Speaker 1: her the nudge she needed to slow down. That's the
Speaker 1: thing about just being honest about what you need. When
Speaker 1: you do, you give others permission to do the same,
Speaker 1: and we all get a little closer to having those
Speaker 1: needs met. I thought of things I might like to
Speaker 1: do while missing out. Watch old movies, take a long
Speaker 1: hot bath, fill up the bird feeders, do the crossword, puzzle,
Speaker 1: maybe cook something, or maybe just order something tasty that
Speaker 1: could be delivered right to my door. That sounded like
Speaker 1: plenty for a full day of doing nothing much. Yes,
Speaker 1: before I knew it, I'd be putting up the tree,
Speaker 1: rushing to a holiday concert, making a new Year's resolution. Well,
Speaker 1: here was an early resolution I thought I might be
Speaker 1: able to stick to Every now and then, when I
Speaker 1: felt the need, I would politely absent myself from the
Speaker 1: busy world and remember how to rest the joy of
Speaker 1: missing out. We were a week or so away from Thanksgiving,
Speaker 1: and it felt like Halloween was yesterday and that Christmas
Speaker 1: would be tomorrow. As much as I loved this time
Speaker 1: of year, sometimes it seemed like a mad gallop rushing
Speaker 1: from October to the new year, and I wanted to
Speaker 1: slow it down and savor it before it was gone.
Speaker 1: So instead of picking apples for next week's pies at
Speaker 1: the orchard, or heading to downtown to stroll the streets
Speaker 1: and watch the shopkeepers put together their holiday window displays,
Speaker 1: or meet friends coming into town for dinner, or a
Speaker 1: hundred other things that I am thoroughly fond of, I
Speaker 1: am instead relaxing into the joy of missing out. I
Speaker 1: realized this morning, as I sipped my coffee in bed,
Speaker 1: that my battery had run out. I just didn't have
Speaker 1: the energy to do to day, and at first I
Speaker 1: resisted it, feeling like I should push myself up and
Speaker 1: into my clothes and out of the door, and that
Speaker 1: if I did, maybe I would find the energy. But
Speaker 1: I realized even if I did, I wasn't likely to
Speaker 1: find the joy. I could put one foot in front
Speaker 1: of the other, but couldn't put an honest smile on
Speaker 1: my face. No, I needed a deep, factory reset, and
Speaker 1: in the moment I surrendered to that, I felt myself relaxing.
Speaker 1: I hadn't even realized that I'd been wearing my shoulders
Speaker 1: like earrings, tensing against the day. As I let my
Speaker 1: shoulders and my guard down, I breathed deeper and felt
Speaker 1: a warm thank you for listening from my body, spreading
Speaker 1: through my limbs. I would make no plans today, and
Speaker 1: I would cancel the ones I did have. I drank
Speaker 1: till my cup was empty, pushed it onto my bedside table,
Speaker 1: and slid back down into my sheets. They were still
Speaker 1: warm and puffed up from a night of sleeping, and
Speaker 1: I burrowed in till just my head was out. There
Speaker 1: was frost on the window this morning, and I spent
Speaker 1: some time just looking at it, watching how the light
Speaker 1: of the rising sun struck and bounced off of it.
Speaker 1: I could feel that, given its druthers, my body would
Speaker 1: not have awoken this early, and that there might be
Speaker 1: a way back into sleep. I took my book from
Speaker 1: the table and curled up around it, keeping as much
Speaker 1: of me as possible in my cocoon of blankets. As
Speaker 1: I opened it and began to read, a memory from
Speaker 1: childhood ran through my mind of the first time I
Speaker 1: read a whole chapter on my own. It had been
Speaker 1: a morning like this one, frost on the windows and
Speaker 1: me tucked up in bed with a thin chapter book.
Speaker 1: I remember fumbling my way through the words I didn't recognize,
Speaker 1: sounding them out slowly but determinedly, until I turned a
Speaker 1: page and found a big two marking the start of
Speaker 1: the next chapter. I had felt so proud, what felt
Speaker 1: like I had reached a turning point. I could read
Speaker 1: now all by myself, and whenever I wanted. I thought
Speaker 1: of little me smiling at her book all those years ago,
Speaker 1: and felt so tender toward her and grateful as I
Speaker 1: was still turning pages and enjoying stories all these years later.
Speaker 1: My current read was one I read every autumn. It
Speaker 1: didn't matter if I was right in the middle of
Speaker 1: another book, if I had a tall stack waiting for
Speaker 1: me beside the bed, if the pages were starting to
Speaker 1: be dog eared and the spine cracked. Once it felt
Speaker 1: crisp and the leaves turned, I plucked this one from
Speaker 1: the shelf and treated myself to a long dip into
Speaker 1: its world, which was full of mystery and magic and
Speaker 1: near misses and impossible love. As my eyes moved over
Speaker 1: the lines on the page, I felt my eyelids drooping.
Speaker 1: I kept starting over, rereading a line, opening my eyes again,
Speaker 1: until I finally let the book fall on to the
Speaker 1: comforter beside me and drifted. I dreamt in a swirl
Speaker 1: of snow and colors, nothing concrete enough to form into
Speaker 1: a story line, but with the atmosphere of Christmas. A
Speaker 1: sea of trees lit up on a mountain side, an
Speaker 1: excitement and sleigh bells. When I woke again, I felt replete.
Speaker 1: I stretched my limbs in bed and took deep breaths
Speaker 1: at the window, tying my robe around me, I watched
Speaker 1: cars coming and going. A neighbor wrapped in a huge
Speaker 1: parka with a scarf slipping down his back, was unpacking
Speaker 1: boxes of twinkle lights and the whole herd of reindeer
Speaker 1: on to his front lawn. I smiled as I scooped
Speaker 1: up my cold cup from beside the bed, and felt
Speaker 1: how lovely it was to be missing out on all
Speaker 1: of that. To day, in the kitchen, I started a
Speaker 1: fresh pot of coffee and sprinkled a good bit of
Speaker 1: cinnamon in with the grounds. As it brewed, the house
Speaker 1: filled with the lovely, roasty, sweet scent, and I sent
Speaker 1: a couple messes to cancel the plans I'd had for
Speaker 1: that evening. I did it without the least bit of
Speaker 1: regret or guilt, just knowing I was doing what I
Speaker 1: needed to do to take care of myself. The responses
Speaker 1: came back in with little hearts and thumbs up. No
Speaker 1: one was mad, no one was expecting more of me
Speaker 1: than I could give. In fact, one friend gratefully said
Speaker 1: she'd decided to stay home too, that I'd given her
Speaker 1: the nudge you needed to slow down. That's the thing
Speaker 1: about just being honest about what you need. When you
Speaker 1: do you give others permission to do the same, and
Speaker 1: we all get a little closer to having those needs. Matt,
Speaker 1: I thought of things I might like to do while
Speaker 1: missing out. Watch old movies, take a long hot bath,
Speaker 1: fill up the bird feeders, do the crossword puzzle, maybe
Speaker 1: cook something, or maybe just order something that could be
Speaker 1: delivered right to my front door. That sounded like plenty
Speaker 1: for a full day of doing nothing much. Yes, before
Speaker 1: I knew it, I'd be putting up the tree, rushing
Speaker 1: to a holiday concert, making a New Year's resolution. Well,
Speaker 1: here was an early resolution I thought I might be
Speaker 1: able to stick to every now and then, when I
Speaker 1: felt the need, I would politely absent myself in the
Speaker 1: busy world and remember how to rest sweet dreams.