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: All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nikolay,
Speaker 1: with audio engineering by Bob Witttersheim. If you enjoy our stories,
Speaker 1: please share them any way you can with anyone you
Speaker 1: know who likes relaxation and good sleep, and follow us
Speaker 1: on Facebook and Instagram for some extra coziness. I'm about
Speaker 1: to tell you a bedtime story, and the story is
Speaker 1: a place to rest your mind so that it doesn't
Speaker 1: wander and race and keep you up. All you need
Speaker 1: to do is listen and let the simple details catch you.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a bit
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. If you find that you
Speaker 1: are still awake at the end of the second telling,
Speaker 1: not to worry. That's just fine. You could listen again
Speaker 1: or just walk yourself back through any of the details
Speaker 1: that you remember, and before you know it, you'll be
Speaker 1: sinking down into deep and RESTful sleep. This is a
Speaker 1: kind of brain training, and the more you do it,
Speaker 1: the more your sleep will improve. So be patient. If
Speaker 1: you are new at this, our story tonight is called
Speaker 1: first This, then that and it's a story about a
Speaker 1: bit of spring clean on a sunny day. It's also
Speaker 1: about watching birds at their feeter, sharing things with your neighbors,
Speaker 1: and the joy of finding something forgotten in an old
Speaker 1: coat pocket. Now it's time to switch off the light,
Speaker 1: set aside anything you've been working on, playing with, and
Speaker 1: settle your body into the most comfortable position that you
Speaker 1: can find. Take a slow, deep breath in through your
Speaker 1: nose and out through your mouth. Do that one more time.
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out good. First this, then that, years ago,
Speaker 1: a friend had offered me a useful piece of advice.
Speaker 1: I was rushing, overwhelmed, with too much on my plate,
Speaker 1: and starting to grasp and sputter and run out of steam.
Speaker 1: She reached out and touched my arm, looked into my
Speaker 1: eyes and said, first this, then that, We took a
Speaker 1: breath together, and I laughed. Her simple suggestion felt like
Speaker 1: sun breaking through gloom. Of course, I was letting my
Speaker 1: mind raise ahead, and it rightfully felt overwhelmed. Instead, I
Speaker 1: needed to do one thing at a time to find
Speaker 1: my way from where I was to where I meant
Speaker 1: to be. It was something I still said to myself
Speaker 1: when I had a lot of work to get through,
Speaker 1: but also when I had something to enjoy, but had
Speaker 1: become a mental touch stone, a method of simply slowing
Speaker 1: down so that whatever I was doing could be intentional
Speaker 1: instead of accidental. I said it to myself this morning,
Speaker 1: as I pushed aside curtains and lifted blinds in one
Speaker 1: window after another. The early spring sun was warm and bright,
Speaker 1: and somehow of a completely different quality than the winter
Speaker 1: sun of just the week before. I couldn't open the
Speaker 1: windows yet to let the fresh air in. It was
Speaker 1: still a bit too cold, but I could let the
Speaker 1: light in, and I did every window in every room,
Speaker 1: and as I walked from one to another, I let
Speaker 1: the sun dazzle my eyes. I stood in the slanting
Speaker 1: light and thought first this, then that the house felt different,
Speaker 1: filled with bright daylight, and it made me want to
Speaker 1: clear out the remnants of winter with a day of
Speaker 1: spring cleaning. Not everyone looks forward to days like that,
Speaker 1: but I do. I like putting things in their place,
Speaker 1: tidying and organizing, and stepping back at the end to
Speaker 1: see how neatly things could stand. I had learned a
Speaker 1: long time ago. But when my rooms were disorganized and cluttered,
Speaker 1: my mind seemed to feel the same way. When things
Speaker 1: were in their place. I felt energized and clear headed,
Speaker 1: so I was happy to roll up my sleeves and
Speaker 1: set my house to rights. I'd filled the bird feeders
Speaker 1: early in the morning, I noticed my coat rack on
Speaker 1: the way back in. It was covered with scarves and
Speaker 1: heavy coats and hats, with mittens and gloves hanging from pockets,
Speaker 1: and a pile of boots at its foot. I stood
Speaker 1: in front of it with hands on hips and said,
Speaker 1: first this. I went through the pile, moved coats into
Speaker 1: the back of the closet, folded away the scarves into
Speaker 1: a basket, and sorted out the rest. I made peace
Speaker 1: with the fact that I had indeed lost one of
Speaker 1: my favorite mittens, and let go of its lone sister.
Speaker 1: I felt into pockets and tossed out movie stubs, increased notes,
Speaker 1: and in the very last pocket, pulled out crisp ten
Speaker 1: dollar bill. Yes, I laughed aloud at how the feeling
Speaker 1: of finding money in a forgotten pocket never becomes less joyous.
Speaker 1: It is as sweet at ten as it is at thirty,
Speaker 1: or I hoped at eighty. Next, I moved through kitchen
Speaker 1: cupboards consolidating near empty boxes of tea and pulling down
Speaker 1: cookbooks that would be better enjoyed by some one else.
Speaker 1: We had a neighborhood drop off for such things, a
Speaker 1: tiny pantry to leave a book you'd finished with the
Speaker 1: walk you'd meant to learn to cook with but never had,
Speaker 1: or a sweater that still had a lot of love
Speaker 1: to give but just didn't fit like it used to.
Speaker 1: Last week, I popped in on a walk and found
Speaker 1: a little book of poetry by writers I'd never heard of.
Speaker 1: It was just the size to slip into the pocket
Speaker 1: of my spring jacket, and I'd been opening it at
Speaker 1: bus stops and the line of the coffee shop and
Speaker 1: reading a few verses. After all, summer is for music,
Speaker 1: autumn for books, the winter is for films, and spring
Speaker 1: spraying is for poetry. I'd been filling a handlebag as
Speaker 1: I worked my way through closets and cupboards, and now
Speaker 1: had a little collection of things ready to find another home.
Speaker 1: I set it at the back door, thinking that if
Speaker 1: the sun lasted a bit longer, I could walk it
Speaker 1: down to the pantry. Before the day was over, my
Speaker 1: work was nearly done, My rooms were fresh and clean,
Speaker 1: and wanting to be lived in. I set the kettle
Speaker 1: on the stove and lit the flame. While the water heated,
Speaker 1: I picked through a bunch of flowers and an old
Speaker 1: ceramic face on the counter. I'd bought them at the
Speaker 1: corner grocery a few days before, heavy stems of lilies
Speaker 1: with some greenery around them. They were just starting to open,
Speaker 1: and I pinched away the filament and anther. The pollen
Speaker 1: stained my fingers, and I rinsed them under the tap,
Speaker 1: thinking of the sleeping bulbs about to wake in my garden,
Speaker 1: the birds building nests in the still naked branches, the
Speaker 1: underground burrows of rabbits growing their families. I thought that
Speaker 1: spring in Italian was prima vera, prima meaning first, and
Speaker 1: vera meaning true or real. Yes, the year was a
Speaker 1: few months old by now, but the spring was the
Speaker 1: first real moment. I took my cup to a chair
Speaker 1: facing the full bird feeder. There were cardinals and mourning
Speaker 1: doves and gray jays picking through seeds and hopping in
Speaker 1: the black dirt. We were all putting our houses in
Speaker 1: order to day. The afternoon light was warm on my skin.
Speaker 1: As I stretched out in the chair, I let my
Speaker 1: hand reach for a book, thinking that I might read
Speaker 1: a page or two, but the sunlight on my face
Speaker 1: was irresistibly pushing down my lids. I leaned my head
Speaker 1: back into the cushion with a slow sigh. My work
Speaker 1: was done. Now I could rest. First this, then, that,
Speaker 1: years ago, a friend had offered me a useful piece
Speaker 1: of advice. I was rushing, overwhelmed, with too much on
Speaker 1: my plate and starting to grasp and sputter and run
Speaker 1: out of steam. She'd reached out and touched my arm,
Speaker 1: looked into my eyes and said, first this, Then that
Speaker 1: We took a breath together, and I laughed. Her simple
Speaker 1: suggestion fell sun breaking through gloom. Of course, I was
Speaker 1: letting my mind race ahead, and it rightfully felt overwhelmed. Instead,
Speaker 1: I needed to do one thing at a time to
Speaker 1: find my way from where I was to where I
Speaker 1: meant to be. It was something I still said to
Speaker 1: myself when I had a lot of work to get through,
Speaker 1: but also when I had something to enjoy. It had
Speaker 1: become a mental touchstone, a method of simply slowing down
Speaker 1: so that whatever I was doing could be intentional instead
Speaker 1: of accidental. I said it to myself this morning as
Speaker 1: I pushed aside curtains and lifted blinds in one window
Speaker 1: after another. The early spring sun was warm and bright,
Speaker 1: and somehow of a completely different quality than the winter
Speaker 1: sun of just the week before. I couldn't open the
Speaker 1: windows yet to let the fresh air in. It was
Speaker 1: still too cold, but I could let the light in,
Speaker 1: and I did every window in every room, and as
Speaker 1: I walked from one to another, I let the sun
Speaker 1: dazzle my eyes. I stood in the slanting light and
Speaker 1: thought first this, then that the house felt different, filled
Speaker 1: with bright daylight, and it made me want to clear
Speaker 1: out the remnants of winter with a day of spring cleaning.
Speaker 1: Not everyone looks forward to days like that, but I do.
Speaker 1: I like putting things in their place, tidying and organizing,
Speaker 1: and stepping back at the end to see how neatly
Speaker 1: things could stand. I'd learned a long time ago, but
Speaker 1: when my rooms were disorganized and cluttered, my mind seemed
Speaker 1: to feel the same way. When things were in their place,
Speaker 1: I felt energized and clear headed. So I was happy
Speaker 1: to roll up my sleeves and set my house to rights.
Speaker 1: I'd filled the bird feeders early in the morning and
Speaker 1: noticed my coat rack on the way back in. It
Speaker 1: was covered with scarves and heavy coats and hats, with
Speaker 1: mittens and gloves hanging from the pockets, and a pile
Speaker 1: of boots at its foot. I stood in front of
Speaker 1: it with hands on hips and said, first this. I
Speaker 1: went through the pile, moved coats into the back of
Speaker 1: the closet, folded away the scarves into a basket, and
Speaker 1: sorted out the rest. I made peace with the fact
Speaker 1: that I had indeed lost one of my favorite mittens,
Speaker 1: and let go of its lone sister. I felt into
Speaker 1: pockets and tossed out movie stubs and creased notes, and
Speaker 1: in the very last pocket pulled out a crisp ten
Speaker 1: dollar bill. Yes, I laughed aloud at how the feeling
Speaker 1: of finding money in a forgotten pocket never becomes less joyous.
Speaker 1: It is as sweet at ten as it is at thirty,
Speaker 1: or I hoped at eighty. Next, I moved through kitchen cupboards,
Speaker 1: consolidating mere empty boxes of tea and pulling down cook
Speaker 1: books that would be better enjoyed by some one else.
Speaker 1: We had a neighborhood drop off for such things, a
Speaker 1: tiny pantry to leave a book you'd finished with the
Speaker 1: walk you'd meant to learn to cook with but never had,
Speaker 1: or a sweater that still had a lot of love
Speaker 1: to give, but just didn't fit like it used to.
Speaker 1: Last week, I'd popped in on a walk and found
Speaker 1: a little book of poetry by writers i'd never heard of.
Speaker 1: It was just the right size to slip into the
Speaker 1: pocket of my spring jacket, and I'd been opening it
Speaker 1: up i bus stops and the line at the coffee
Speaker 1: shop and reading a few verses. After all, summer is
Speaker 1: for music, autumn for books, the winter is for films,
Speaker 1: and spring spring is for poetry. I'd been filling a
Speaker 1: handlebag as I worked my way through closets and cupboards,
Speaker 1: and now had a little collection of things ready to
Speaker 1: find another home. I set it at the back door,
Speaker 1: thinking that if the sun lasted a bit longer, I
Speaker 1: could walk it down to the pantry. Before the day
Speaker 1: was over, my work was nearly done, My rooms were
Speaker 1: fresh and clean and wanting to be lived in. I
Speaker 1: set the kettle on the stove and lit the flame.
Speaker 1: While the water heated, I picked threw a bunch of
Speaker 1: flowers in an old ceramic vase on the counter. I
Speaker 1: bought them at the corner grocery a few days before,
Speaker 1: heavy stems of lilies with some greenery tucked in around them.
Speaker 1: They were just starting to open, and I pinched away
Speaker 1: the filament an anther. The pollen stained my fingers and
Speaker 1: I rinsed them under the tap, thinking of the sleeping
Speaker 1: bulbs about to wake in my garden, the birds building
Speaker 1: nests in the still naked branches, the underground burrows of
Speaker 1: rabbits growing their families. I thought that spring in Italian
Speaker 1: was prima vera, prima meaning first, and vera meaning true
Speaker 1: or real. Yes, the year was a few months old
Speaker 1: by now, but the spring was the first real moment.
Speaker 1: I took my cup to a chair facing the full
Speaker 1: bird feeder. There were cardinals and mourning doves and gray
Speaker 1: jays picking through seeds and hopping in the black dirt.
Speaker 1: We were all putting our houses in order to day.
Speaker 1: The afternoon light was warm on my skin as I
Speaker 1: stretched out in the chair. I let my hand reach
Speaker 1: for a book, thinking that I might read a page
Speaker 1: or two, But the sunlight on my face was irresistibly
Speaker 1: pushing down my lids, and I leaned my head back
Speaker 1: into the cushion with a slow sigh. My work was done.
Speaker 1: Now I could rest, sweet dreams.