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 Katherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
Speaker 1: available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
Speaker 1: Now I have a story to tell you. It's a
Speaker 1: simple story and not much happens in it, and that's
Speaker 1: kind of the idea. Follow along with the sound of
Speaker 1: my voice and the simple details of the tale, and
Speaker 1: you'll quickly ease your mind into deep sleep. I'll tell
Speaker 1: the story twice, and the second time through I'll go
Speaker 1: a little slower. If you find that you're still awake
Speaker 1: at the end of the second telling, don't worry. Just
Speaker 1: think back through the details you can remember. This trains
Speaker 1: the brain over time to slow to a stop. And
Speaker 1: the more you do this training, the faster you'll settle
Speaker 1: and sleep. So have a bit of patience if you
Speaker 1: are new to this. Now it's time to close everything up.
Speaker 1: Turn off your light, snuggle your body down into your
Speaker 1: favorite sleeping position, pull the blanket over your shoulder, and
Speaker 1: tuck your pillow in just the way you like it.
Speaker 1: Take a deep breath, in through your nose and out
Speaker 1: through your mouth. Good one more, please, in and out.
Speaker 1: Our story to night is called winter Walk, and it's
Speaker 1: a story about stepping through crisp layers of deep snow
Speaker 1: on a sunny, cold day. It's also about a well
Speaker 1: made bed, a sleeping kitty, and the welcome way that
Speaker 1: nature can take your breath away. Winter Walk. Deep snow
Speaker 1: had fallen over night, and the morning broke clear and cold.
Speaker 1: I lingered at the kitchen table with an extra cup
Speaker 1: of coffee as I watched the light shift and the
Speaker 1: sun come up. Sunrise in deep winter, with its bright
Speaker 1: pinks and streaks of yellow, feels like an affirmation from
Speaker 1: Mother Nature herself. Yes, the days are short and the
Speaker 1: landscape coated in shades of white and gray, but the
Speaker 1: skies are vibrant. There is bright life in the thickest
Speaker 1: days of winter. With the sun up, I'd opened all
Speaker 1: the curtains and let it slant into the rooms of
Speaker 1: my house. We hadn't seen much sun in a while,
Speaker 1: and I found myself stopping to look out, taking a
Speaker 1: few deep breaths. Every few minutes as I worked through
Speaker 1: my morning chores. Someone told me years ago that you
Speaker 1: get a better night's sleep in a bed that's been made.
Speaker 1: Something about the feeling of tidiness and order helped you
Speaker 1: to drift off. So I'd made a habit of it,
Speaker 1: and now I found it to be a kind of
Speaker 1: morning meditation. I did it the same way each time,
Speaker 1: and took care with the process. I had an armchair
Speaker 1: with a little ottoman in front of my bedroom window
Speaker 1: where I sometimes sat and read, and I sacked the
Speaker 1: pillows on it and pulled back the douvet and sheet.
Speaker 1: I smoothed out the sheet under it and pulled the
Speaker 1: blankets back up, walking around the bed and refolding and
Speaker 1: tucking the edges, I shook out the pillows and plumped
Speaker 1: them back into place. I took a soft plaid throw
Speaker 1: that my kiddy liked and swirled it into a nest
Speaker 1: and placed it at the foot of the bed for her.
Speaker 1: With curtains open and the morning light coming in, the
Speaker 1: room looked neat and inviting. I had a day to enjoy,
Speaker 1: but I was already looking forward to going to bed
Speaker 1: to night, with my chores done and the day becoming
Speaker 1: as warm and as bright as it would likely get,
Speaker 1: I decided to bundle up and take a long walk
Speaker 1: in the fresh snow. I layered on sweater and coat,
Speaker 1: thick socks and boots, hat and scarf and gloves, and
Speaker 1: closed the back door behind me and stood looking out
Speaker 1: at the unbroken drifts of snow. The cold air opened
Speaker 1: my eyes wide, and I looked up at the peaks
Speaker 1: of old evergreens and the bare branches of maples stacked
Speaker 1: with a foot of snow. Winter walks are slow walks,
Speaker 1: and you make your way carefully and a bit ploddingly,
Speaker 1: but it gives you time for lots of looking and
Speaker 1: thinking and noticing. Past the edge of the yard, I
Speaker 1: stepped onto a well worn path and into thickening woods.
Speaker 1: I had a few acres, and this portion of my
Speaker 1: land back up to moor woods that were public, so
Speaker 1: I could walk for a long time and not run
Speaker 1: out of trees and wilderness. I remembered the winter walks
Speaker 1: I took with my family as a child. There was
Speaker 1: an empty lot at the end of the street, and
Speaker 1: beyond it fields and clusters of trees, and while the
Speaker 1: whole thing was probably no bigger than a city block,
Speaker 1: It felt like a secret land, a place where there
Speaker 1: was no end of exploring to be done. Children have
Speaker 1: this power to look at something simple and every day
Speaker 1: and imagine the wondrous. I felt a growing warmth in
Speaker 1: my belly and chests from the exercise and fresh air.
Speaker 1: I took deep breaths of it and let it fill
Speaker 1: my lungs. The familiar paths looked new in the thick snow,
Speaker 1: and I took a few turns, intentionally leading myself away
Speaker 1: from my usual route, knowing I could follow my bootprints
Speaker 1: back if I got turned around. I followed a frozen
Speaker 1: creek with just a trickle of moving water, past a
Speaker 1: thick grove of birch trees, their rippled white bark at
Speaker 1: home in the white winter, to an open meadow where
Speaker 1: I stood for a while with a sudden feeling that
Speaker 1: there was something here to see. She stepped out slowly
Speaker 1: from the trees across the field, a dough tall and elegant.
Speaker 1: I guessed she'd seen me long before I was aware
Speaker 1: of her, but she'd trusted and let me see her anyway.
Speaker 1: I was caught by her beauty and stood still and
Speaker 1: maybe forgot to breathe for a moment. Then I called
Speaker 1: out lo and calm, nice day for a walk, and
Speaker 1: she wagged her white tail and bent her head to
Speaker 1: nose through the snow for a bit of winter brows.
Speaker 1: I supposed she was as glad to see the sun
Speaker 1: as I had been this morning, and reminded myself that
Speaker 1: the earth is what we all have in common. I
Speaker 1: left her to her meal and followed my tracks back
Speaker 1: through the woods and eventually into my own garden. The
Speaker 1: long walk had made me hungry, and I was already
Speaker 1: thinking my way through the fridge and pantry and mentally
Speaker 1: setting the table. I kicked the snow from my boots
Speaker 1: and stood in the back hall, reversing the process that
Speaker 1: had started this morning's adventure. I went to my room
Speaker 1: to change snowy layers for warm, fresh ones, and found
Speaker 1: Kitty curled into her spot on the bed. She turned
Speaker 1: her chin up in an impossible angle, wriggled lazily on
Speaker 1: her spine, and let out a soft meow. I curled
Speaker 1: up around her and told her about the deer I
Speaker 1: had seen in the open field. I told her she
Speaker 1: was probably back in her den by now, nestled down
Speaker 1: with her friends and Kitty purred. It was good to
Speaker 1: go out into the woods and walk and remember the
Speaker 1: fresh air, and then it was good to retrace your steps,
Speaker 1: tucked back into the warmth and comfort of home. The
Speaker 1: winter wasn't over yet, but the sun was out and
Speaker 1: there was much to enjoy while we waited for spring.
Speaker 1: Winter walk. Deep snow had fallen over night, and the
Speaker 1: morning broke clear and cold. I had lingered at the
Speaker 1: kitchen table with an extra cup of coffee as I
Speaker 1: watched the light shift and the sun come up. Sunrise
Speaker 1: in deep winter, with its bright pinks and streaks of yellow,
Speaker 1: feels like an affirmation for Mother Nature herself. Yes, the
Speaker 1: days are short and the landscape coated in shades of
Speaker 1: white and gray, but the skies are vibrant. There is
Speaker 1: bright life in the thickest days of winter. With the
Speaker 1: sun up, I'd opened all the curtains and let it
Speaker 1: slant into the rooms of my house. We hadn't seen
Speaker 1: much sun in a while, and I found myself stopping
Speaker 1: to look out and taking a few deep breaths every
Speaker 1: few minutes as I worked through my morning chores. Someone
Speaker 1: told me years ago that you get a better night's
Speaker 1: sleep in a bed that's been made. Something about the
Speaker 1: feeling of tidiness and order helped you to drift off.
Speaker 1: So I made a habit of it, and now I
Speaker 1: found it to be a kind of morning meditation. I
Speaker 1: did it the same way each time, and took care
Speaker 1: with the process. I had an armchair with a little
Speaker 1: ottoman in front of my bedroom window where I sometimes
Speaker 1: sat and read, and I stacked the pillows on it,
Speaker 1: pulled back the duvet and sheet. I smoothed out the
Speaker 1: sheet under it, and pulled the blankets back up, walking
Speaker 1: around the bed and refolding and tucking the edges, I
Speaker 1: shook out the pillows and plumped them back into place.
Speaker 1: I took a soft plaid throw that my kiddy liked
Speaker 1: and swirled it into a nest and placed it at
Speaker 1: the foot of the bed for her. With curtains open
Speaker 1: and the morning light coming in, the room looked neat
Speaker 1: and inviting, I had a day to enjoy, but I
Speaker 1: was already looking forward to going to bed to night.
Speaker 1: With my chores done and the day becoming as warm
Speaker 1: and bright as it would likely get, I decided to
Speaker 1: bundle up and take a long walk in the fresh snow.
Speaker 1: I layered on a sweater and a coat, thick socks
Speaker 1: and boots, hat and scarf and gloves, and closed the
Speaker 1: back door behind me and stood looking out at the
Speaker 1: unbroken drifts of snow. The cold air opened my eyes wide,
Speaker 1: and I looked up at the peaks of old evergreens
Speaker 1: and the bare branches of maples stacked with a foot
Speaker 1: of snow. Winter walks are slow walks. You make your
Speaker 1: way carefully and a bit ploddingly, but it gives you
Speaker 1: time for lots of looking and thinking and noticing. Past
Speaker 1: the edge of the yard, I stepped onto a well
Speaker 1: worn path and into thickening woods. I had a few acres,
Speaker 1: and this portion of my land backed up to more
Speaker 1: woods that were public, so I could walk for a
Speaker 1: long time and not run out of trees or wilderness.
Speaker 1: I remembered the winter walks I took with my family
Speaker 1: as a child. There was an empty lot at the
Speaker 1: end of the street, and beyond it fields and clusters
Speaker 1: of trees, and while the whole thing was probably no
Speaker 1: bigger than a city block, it felt like a secret land,
Speaker 1: a place where there was no end of exploring to
Speaker 1: be done. Children have this power to look at something
Speaker 1: simple and every day and imagine the wondrous. I felt
Speaker 1: a growing warmth in my belly and chest from the
Speaker 1: exercise and fresh air. I took deep breaths of it
Speaker 1: and let it fill my lungs. The familiar paths looked
Speaker 1: new in the thick snow, and I took a few turns,
Speaker 1: intentionally leading myself away from my usual route, knowing I
Speaker 1: could follow my boot prints back if I got turned round.
Speaker 1: I followed a frozen creek with just a trickle of
Speaker 1: moving water, past a thick grove of birch trees, the
Speaker 1: rippled white bark at home in the white winter, to
Speaker 1: an open meadow where I stood for a while a
Speaker 1: sudden feeling that there was something here to see. She
Speaker 1: stepped out slowly from the trees across the field, a
Speaker 1: dough tall and elegant. I guessed she had seen me
Speaker 1: long before I was aware of her, but she trusted
Speaker 1: and let me see her anyway. I was caught by
Speaker 1: her beauty and stood still and maybe forgot to breathe
Speaker 1: for a moment. Then I called out lo and calm,
Speaker 1: nice day for a walk, and she wagged her white
Speaker 1: tail and bent her head to nose through the snow
Speaker 1: for a bit of winter brows. I supposed she was
Speaker 1: as glad to see the sun as I had been
Speaker 1: this morning, and reminded myself that the earth is what
Speaker 1: we all have in common. I left her to her
Speaker 1: meal and followed my tracks back through the woods and
Speaker 1: eventually into my own garden. The long walk had made
Speaker 1: me hungry, and I was already thinking my way through
Speaker 1: the fridge and pantry and mentally setting the table. I
Speaker 1: kicked the snow from my boots and stood in the
Speaker 1: back hall, reversing the process that had started this morning adventure.
Speaker 1: I went to my room to change snowy layers for warm,
Speaker 1: fresh ones, and found Kitty curled into her spot on
Speaker 1: the bed. She turned her chin up in an impossible angle,
Speaker 1: wriggled lazily on her spine, and let out a soft meow.
Speaker 1: I curled up around her and told her about the
Speaker 1: deer I seen in the open field. I told her
Speaker 1: she was probably back in her den by now nestled
Speaker 1: down with her friends, and Kitty purred, it was good
Speaker 1: to go out into the woods and walk and remember
Speaker 1: the fresh air, and then it was good to retrace
Speaker 1: your steps. Tucked back into the warmth and comfort of home.
Speaker 1: The winter wasn't over yet, but the sun was out
Speaker 1: and there was much to enjoy while we waited for spring.
Speaker 1: Sweet dreams