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 Catherine 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: Let me explain a bit about how to use this podcast.
Speaker 1: We need to engage your mind just enough to help
Speaker 1: you unstick from your day and slip into sleep, and
Speaker 1: I've got the perfect formula for it. It's a simple
Speaker 1: soothing story that I'll tell twice, a little slower the
Speaker 1: second time. Just rest your mind on it and follow
Speaker 1: where it goes, and probably before we get very far
Speaker 1: into it, you'll be deeply asleep. If you wake again later,
Speaker 1: you could listen again, or just think through what you
Speaker 1: remember from the story, or even any pleasant memory. This
Speaker 1: is brain training. We are building up a reliable response
Speaker 1: to make sleep come easier and last longer, and it
Speaker 1: does take a bit of time to create that habit,
Speaker 1: so be patient if you are new to this. Our
Speaker 1: story tonight is called Begin Again, and it's a story
Speaker 1: about a reset scheduled for the equinox. It's also about
Speaker 1: sunrise watched from an open hatchback on a road outside
Speaker 1: of town, birds and squirrels ringing in the spring, and
Speaker 1: making your own rituals to mark a moment. Now it's
Speaker 1: time to turn off the light and put away anything
Speaker 1: you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time
Speaker 1: to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position.
Speaker 1: If there is a thought tugging on your sleeve, take
Speaker 1: a second to acknowledge it. You don't have to pretend
Speaker 1: it isn't there. Just go ahead and think that thought
Speaker 1: one more time. Good. Now, hand it to me. I've
Speaker 1: got it now. If you really want it back when
Speaker 1: you wake up, you can have it. But chances are
Speaker 1: you'll forget. Let's take a deep breath in through the
Speaker 1: nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Do that again,
Speaker 1: Breathe in and out. Good, begin again. I'd learned it
Speaker 1: in science class when I was eleven or twelve, and
Speaker 1: had somehow never forgotten it, though I could certainly use
Speaker 1: a refresher on lots of other topics we'd covered then.
Speaker 1: We must have been studying the planets. In fact, I
Speaker 1: remember that the Solar System simply as an idea in
Speaker 1: and of itself, was a popular project to make for
Speaker 1: Science Fair, although we were warned against it as it
Speaker 1: wasn't an experiment, just a display. But every year there
Speaker 1: would be someone who'd put it off till it was
Speaker 1: too late. An out would come the styrofoam balls, the
Speaker 1: wire and poster paints, and there it would be a
Speaker 1: map of this small corner of the universe. And who
Speaker 1: doesn't love a good map. We'd been studying the position
Speaker 1: and relative size of the planets, which was then and
Speaker 1: continues to be, at least for me, pretty difficult to grasp.
Speaker 1: Here is Earth, Okay, I have some experience with Earth.
Speaker 1: I've taken a flight to another continent, I've driven from
Speaker 1: one coast to another. I can grasp, if lightly, how
Speaker 1: big she is. And then there is Mercury, about a
Speaker 1: third of the size of our planet, and Mars, which
Speaker 1: is about half the size, and Venus, which is only
Speaker 1: slightly smaller than we are. Then Neptune and Uranus four
Speaker 1: times as big, and Saturn nine times and Jupiter eleven
Speaker 1: times as big. There was a poster on the wall
Speaker 1: above my seat in our classroom that I would stare at,
Speaker 1: wondering at the size of those giants. The planet sat
Speaker 1: as if on a table to show how they compared
Speaker 1: to one another. Mercury looked like a marble, and Mars
Speaker 1: like the red ball in my tiny plastic jack's case.
Speaker 1: Earth and Venus were good sized gumballs, the ones that
Speaker 1: came out of the candy machines by the door at
Speaker 1: the grocery store, the kind you dropped a quarter into
Speaker 1: and twisted the knob to release the candy, then quickly
Speaker 1: cupped your hand under the chute to catch your treat
Speaker 1: Uranus and Neptune might be soccer or basketballs, and Saturn
Speaker 1: an extra large beach ball, though it had rings instead
Speaker 1: of seams, and still Jupiter was even bigger. It was
Speaker 1: the pumpkin that had won the prize at the fall Fare.
Speaker 1: I had lost myself at times staring up at that poster,
Speaker 1: trying to imagine so much space, so many stars, and
Speaker 1: the sweeping elliptical orbits of the planets. It felt like
Speaker 1: poetry that they didn't just make perfect circles, that their
Speaker 1: paths had a long side and a short side, like
Speaker 1: the track around the football field we'd studied eclipses and
Speaker 1: made cardboard tube telescopes to spy Jupiter over Christmas vacation.
Speaker 1: Then on the cusp of spring, we'd learned about the equinox.
Speaker 1: This was the bit I remembered still, because often people
Speaker 1: call the first day of the warming season spring solstice,
Speaker 1: but it isn't a solstice at all. The solstice marks
Speaker 1: the longest and shortest days of the year in December
Speaker 1: and June. As the sand in the hour glass gets
Speaker 1: tipped in the other direction on the vernal and autumnal equinoxes,
Speaker 1: the glass gets tipped on its side for a day.
Speaker 1: Both bulbs hold an exactly equal count of sand. On
Speaker 1: the equinox, there are as many minutes of darkness as light,
Speaker 1: and that had stayed with me all these years. It
Speaker 1: felt like a factory reset nature, saying, let's have a
Speaker 1: day where we wipe the slate. Let's even it all
Speaker 1: out and start again tomorrow. It reminded me of that
Speaker 1: turn of phrase all things being equal, though instead of
Speaker 1: it being a choice of words, it was a literal
Speaker 1: description at least as long as sunbeams a night sky
Speaker 1: were concerned. So, looking at my calendar all these years
Speaker 1: after sixth grade science. I was excited to see the
Speaker 1: equinox approaching. If the new year was for letting go
Speaker 1: of old things and leap day for trying something you'd
Speaker 1: never imagined you'd do, then Equinox was a day for
Speaker 1: starting over, for turning my dial back to zero. Sometimes
Speaker 1: in the winter it dipped down a few notches, mimicking
Speaker 1: the temperature and got stuck there. Or when I was busy,
Speaker 1: had too many projects on the go, or was too
Speaker 1: wrapped up in problems I couldn't solve, my dial got
Speaker 1: turned far up and even a good night's sleep didn't
Speaker 1: reset it. So that's how I would spend my Equinox
Speaker 1: getting back to zero. I did it by getting up
Speaker 1: a half hour or so before the sun rose, packing
Speaker 1: a thermos of coffee, and driving out past the edge
Speaker 1: of town. There is a small rise that faces east,
Speaker 1: just a turn in the road with space to pull over,
Speaker 1: but it gave a clear view of where the sun
Speaker 1: would come up. I parked my car on the verge
Speaker 1: and popped my hatch back so I could sit in
Speaker 1: the warm, open space and wait for the light to change.
Speaker 1: As the sun was about to crust the horizon, I
Speaker 1: poured myself a cup of coffee and held it under
Speaker 1: my nose, letting the aroma and steam warm my face.
Speaker 1: I drink coffee every morning, which meant it was already
Speaker 1: built into my life and a perfect carrier for a
Speaker 1: moment of intention. So as the sun reflected on my legs,
Speaker 1: I took a slow sip of coffee and thought, begin again,
Speaker 1: Start again. Once my cup was empty and my stomach
Speaker 1: beginning to grumble, I climbed out of the car and
Speaker 1: took a big stretch and a couple of deep breaths
Speaker 1: of cool morning air. I felt awake. That was something more.
Speaker 1: Light always helped with the neurons in my brain seemed
Speaker 1: less sluggish, my body less bound into stillness. I walked
Speaker 1: around the car, looking up into the branches to see
Speaker 1: who else was up. I could hear bird song, loud
Speaker 1: and optimistic, and the scrabbling of squirrels as they leapt
Speaker 1: from bow to bow. I buckled into my car and
Speaker 1: drove back into town. I found a spot to park
Speaker 1: near the library and walked down a few streets to
Speaker 1: the bakery. There were tables outside, along with one of
Speaker 1: those standing heaters that had been ignited, probably when the
Speaker 1: baker had flipped the open sign on the door. I
Speaker 1: tried to be out outside for as much of the
Speaker 1: day as possible on Equinox. It was part of my
Speaker 1: reset plan. After months nestled into my house, I had
Speaker 1: to reacquaint myself with the out of doors. So I
Speaker 1: was grateful for the heater as I intended to have
Speaker 1: breakfast at one of the tables. It was warming inside.
Speaker 1: The shop smelled of a heavenly mix afresh baked bread
Speaker 1: and sweets, muffins and pastries. I scoped out the cases
Speaker 1: while I stood in line, but when I got to
Speaker 1: the front, I just said, whatever you recommend, I'll have
Speaker 1: two of The baker gave an honest laugh. Oh, I
Speaker 1: loved when some silly thing I said made someone actually laugh.
Speaker 1: She shook out a wax paper sack and reached with
Speaker 1: her tongs for something on the counter behind her. She
Speaker 1: turned back to me and set it down, saying, two
Speaker 1: carrot cake muffins. You won't be sorry, I said, and
Speaker 1: a latte. One will be enough. I carried my breakfast
Speaker 1: out to the table and thought about the day in
Speaker 1: front of me. I'd walk through the park and look
Speaker 1: for tulips coming up in the flower beds. I'd go
Speaker 1: to the bookshop and buy something to read on my
Speaker 1: front porch. I'd hike the crow's Nest trail and see
Speaker 1: if any hot house rhubarb was ready at the farmer's market.
Speaker 1: I'd visit friends and keep my face to the sun
Speaker 1: till it's set, and tomorrow I would begin again, again,
Speaker 1: begin again. I'd learned it in science class when I
Speaker 1: was eleven or twelve, and had somehow never forgotten it,
Speaker 1: though I could certainly use a refresher on lots of
Speaker 1: other topics we'd covered. The we must have been studying
Speaker 1: the planets. In fact, I remember that the solar system,
Speaker 1: simply as an idea in and of itself, was a
Speaker 1: popular project to make for Science Fair, although we were
Speaker 1: warned against it as it wasn't an experiment, just a display.
Speaker 1: But every year there would be someone who would put
Speaker 1: it off till it was too late, and out would
Speaker 1: come the styrofoam balls, the wire and poster paints. There
Speaker 1: it would be a map of this small corner of
Speaker 1: the universe, and who doesn't love a good map. We'd
Speaker 1: been studying the position and relative size of the planets,
Speaker 1: which was then and continues to be, at least for me,
Speaker 1: pretty difficult to grasp. Here is Earth, Okay, I have
Speaker 1: some experience with Earth. I've taken a flight to another continent.
Speaker 1: I've driven from one coast to another. I can grasp,
Speaker 1: if lightly, how big she is. And then there is Mercury,
Speaker 1: about a third of the size of our planet, and Mars,
Speaker 1: which is about half the size, and Venus, which is
Speaker 1: only slightly smaller than we are. Then Neptune and Urinus
Speaker 1: four times as big, and Saturn nine times and Jupiter
Speaker 1: eleven times as big. There was a poster on the
Speaker 1: wall of above my seat in our classroom that I
Speaker 1: would stare at, wondering at the size of those giants.
Speaker 1: The planet sat as if on a table to show
Speaker 1: how they compared to one another. Mercury looked like a marble,
Speaker 1: and Mars like the red ball in my tiny plastic
Speaker 1: jack's case. Earth and Venus were good sized gumballs, the
Speaker 1: ones that came out of the candy machines by the
Speaker 1: door at the grocery store, the kind you dropped a
Speaker 1: quarter into and twisted the knob to release the candy,
Speaker 1: then quickly cupped your hand under the chute to catch
Speaker 1: your treat. Uranus and Neptune might be soccer or basketballs,
Speaker 1: and Saturn an extra large beach ball, though it had
Speaker 1: rings instead of seams, and still Jupiter was even bigger.
Speaker 1: It was the pumpkin that had won the prize at
Speaker 1: the Fall Fair. I'd lost myself at times staring up
Speaker 1: at that poster, trying to imagine so much space, so
Speaker 1: many stars, and the sweeping elliptical orbits of the planets
Speaker 1: that felt like poetry, that they didn't just make perfect circles,
Speaker 1: that their paths had a long side and a short side,
Speaker 1: like the track around the football field. We'd studied eclipses
Speaker 1: and made cars board tube telescopes to spy Jupiter over
Speaker 1: Christmas vacation. Then on the cusp of spring we learned
Speaker 1: about the equinox. This was the bit I remembered still
Speaker 1: because often people call the first day of the warming
Speaker 1: season spring solstice, but it isn't a solstice at all.
Speaker 1: The solstice marks the longest and shortest days of the
Speaker 1: year in December and June. As the sand in the
Speaker 1: hour glass gets tipped in the other direction. On the
Speaker 1: vernal and autumnal equinoxes, the glass gets tipped on its
Speaker 1: side for a day. Both bulbs hold an exactly equal
Speaker 1: count of sand. On the equinox, there are as many
Speaker 1: minutes of darkness as light, and that had stayed with
Speaker 1: me all these years. It felt like a factory reset nature, saying,
Speaker 1: let's have a day where we wipe the slate, Let's
Speaker 1: even it all out and start again tomorrow. It reminded
Speaker 1: me of that turn of phrase all things being equal,
Speaker 1: though instead of it being a choice of words, it
Speaker 1: was a literal description, at least as long as sunbeams
Speaker 1: a night sky were concerned. So, looking at my calendar
Speaker 1: all these years after sixth grade science, I was excited
Speaker 1: to see the equinox approaching. If the new year was
Speaker 1: for letting go of old things and leap day for
Speaker 1: trying something you'd never imagined you'd do, then equinox was
Speaker 1: a day for starting over, for turning my dial back
Speaker 1: to zero. Sometimes in the winter it dipped down a
Speaker 1: few notches, mimicking the temperature and got stuck there. Or
Speaker 1: when I was busy, had too many projects on the go,
Speaker 1: or was too wrapped up in problems I couldn't solve,
Speaker 1: my dial got turned far up, and even a good
Speaker 1: night's sleep didn't reset it, so that was how I
Speaker 1: would spend my equinox getting back to zero. I did
Speaker 1: it by getting up a half hour or so before
Speaker 1: the sun rose, packing a thermos of coffee, and driving
Speaker 1: out past the edge of town. There is a small
Speaker 1: rise that faces east, just a turn in the road
Speaker 1: with space to pull over, but it gave a clear
Speaker 1: view of where the sun would come up. I parked
Speaker 1: my car on the verge and popped my hatch back
Speaker 1: so I could sit in the warm, open space and
Speaker 1: wait for the light to change. As the sun was
Speaker 1: about to crest the horizon, I poured myself a cup
Speaker 1: of coffee and held it under my nose, letting the
Speaker 1: aroma and steam warm my face. I drink coffee every morning,
Speaker 1: which meant it was already built into my life and
Speaker 1: a perfect carrier for a moment of intention. So as
Speaker 1: the sun reflected on my lenses, I took a slow
Speaker 1: sip of coffee and thought, begin again, Start again. Once
Speaker 1: my cup was empty and my stomach beginning to grumble,
Speaker 1: I climbed out of the car and took a big
Speaker 1: stretch and a couple of deep breaths of cool morning air.
Speaker 1: I felt awake. That was something more. Light always helped
Speaker 1: with the neurons in my brain seemed less sluggish, my
Speaker 1: body less bound into stillness. I walked around the car,
Speaker 1: looking up into the branches to see who else was up.
Speaker 1: I could hear birds song, loud and optimistic, and the
Speaker 1: scrabbling of squirrels as they leapt from bow to bow.
Speaker 1: I buckled into my car and drove back into town.
Speaker 1: I found a spot to park near the library and
Speaker 1: walked down a few streets to the bakery. There were
Speaker 1: tables outside, along with one of those standing heaters that
Speaker 1: had been ignited, probably when the baker had flipped the
Speaker 1: open sign on the door. I tried to be outside
Speaker 1: for as much of the day as possible on Equinox.
Speaker 1: It was part of my reset plan. After months nestled
Speaker 1: into my house, I had to reacquaint myself with the
Speaker 1: out of doors. So I was grateful for the heater
Speaker 1: as I intended to have breakfast at one of the tables.
Speaker 1: It was warming inside. The shop smelled of a heavenly
Speaker 1: mix of fresh baked breads and sweets, muffins and pastries.
Speaker 1: I scoped out the cases while I stood in line,
Speaker 1: but when I got to the front, I just said,
Speaker 1: whatever you recommend, I'll have two of The baker gave
Speaker 1: an honest laugh. Oh ah, how I loved when some
Speaker 1: silly thing I said made someone actually laugh. She shook
Speaker 1: out a wax paper sack and reached with her tongs
Speaker 1: for something on the counter behind her. She turned back
Speaker 1: to me and set it down, saying, two carrot cake muffins.
Speaker 1: You won't be sorry, I said, and a latte, but
Speaker 1: one will be enough. I carried my breakfast out to
Speaker 1: the table and thought about the day in front of me.
Speaker 1: I'd walk through the park and look for tulips coming
Speaker 1: up in the flower beds. I'd go to the book
Speaker 1: shop and buy something to read on my front porch.
Speaker 1: I'd hike the Crow's Nest trail and see if any
Speaker 1: hot house rhubarb was ready. At the farmer's market, I'd
Speaker 1: visit friends. I'd keep my face to the sun till
Speaker 1: it's set, and tomorrow I would begin again again. Sweet dreams.