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 Nikolay.
Speaker 1: I read and write all the stories you hear on
Speaker 1: nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Witttersheim. We
Speaker 1: give to a different charity each week, and this week
Speaker 1: we are giving to Meals on Wheels, who work to
Speaker 1: support our senior neighbors to extend their independence and health
Speaker 1: as they age. Learn more about them in our show notes.
Speaker 1: I want to thank some recent subscribers to our premium feed.
Speaker 1: So thank you, Emma Rose, Thank you, Jonathan, Thank you,
Speaker 1: Pip Natasha, thank you. You are helping us to continue
Speaker 1: to provide this service that so many depend on. A
Speaker 1: premium subscription works out to just ten cents a day
Speaker 1: and gives you over thirty five bonus episodes, with more
Speaker 1: publishing each month and completely add free listening. You can
Speaker 1: subscribe through the link in our show notes or by
Speaker 1: searching an MH premium on Apple podcasts now. Especially if
Speaker 1: you are new here and if you are welcome, We're
Speaker 1: so glad you're here. Let me say a little bit
Speaker 1: about how this works. Your mind needs just the right
Speaker 1: amount and type of engagement to make falling asleep easier.
Speaker 1: And after six years, yeah, I've kind of cracked the code.
Speaker 1: I'll tell you a soft, soothing bedtime story. It's short
Speaker 1: on plot but full of relaxing details. All you have
Speaker 1: to do is listen and we'll guide your brain to
Speaker 1: reliable sleep. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go
Speaker 1: a little slower the second time through. If you wake
Speaker 1: later in the night, you can just start the story
Speaker 1: over again, or think through any part of it that
Speaker 1: you can remember. This is brain training, so give it
Speaker 1: some time for it to really become ingrained. Our story
Speaker 1: tonight is called Sunrise at the Cabin, and it's a
Speaker 1: story about welcoming the coming day with a friend at
Speaker 1: your side. It's also about dry leaves left over from
Speaker 1: autumn crunching under your feet, the beauty of imperfect things,
Speaker 1: changing light, a coffee cup steaming in the morning air,
Speaker 1: and the gift of an early start. Now lights out,
Speaker 1: my DearS, arrange your pillows and blankets so that you
Speaker 1: are as comfortable and comforted as possible. Let your whole
Speaker 1: body soften, jaw, shoulders, the muscles around your eyes. Everything
Speaker 1: goes heavy into the sheets. You are exactly where you're
Speaker 1: supposed to be right now, Nothing is needed from you.
Speaker 1: Draw a deep breath in through the nose and sigh
Speaker 1: from your mouth. One more breathe in and out. Good
Speaker 1: sunrise at the cabin. I'm not sure how it started.
Speaker 1: I've never been an early riser, nor am I a
Speaker 1: night owl. I like to go to bed early and
Speaker 1: stay tucked in till late. But recently I've been waking
Speaker 1: up before the sun rested and ready wanting to get
Speaker 1: up and get going. At first I resisted, flipped my
Speaker 1: pillow to the cool side and tried to slip back
Speaker 1: into a dream, or propped myself up and read my book,
Speaker 1: hoping my eyes would grow heavy again. Then I realized
Speaker 1: that whatever the cause of this resetting of my internal clock,
Speaker 1: I could take advantage of it, enjoy it rather than
Speaker 1: try to wind the hands back. And since then I've
Speaker 1: become a sunrise enthusiast, watching it from different locations and
Speaker 1: with a growing appreciation for the quiet optimism it inspired
Speaker 1: in me. To day was no different. I woke with
Speaker 1: no alarm, just a feeling of being replete, done with
Speaker 1: sleep and bed, and crept quietly around in the darkness
Speaker 1: so as not to wake the household. I put on
Speaker 1: thick socks, swapped my thin pajamas for warm sweats, and
Speaker 1: felt around on the bedside table till I found my glasses.
Speaker 1: I kept to the edges of the stairs to minimize
Speaker 1: squeaking as I came down into the kitchen and patted
Speaker 1: over to the coffee maker. As I ran water in
Speaker 1: the sink and rinsed the caraffe, I peered out into
Speaker 1: the yard. Our cabin is set at the edge of
Speaker 1: a valley, land dropping away in front of us, then
Speaker 1: rising up and up on the other side, more than
Speaker 1: a hill, but not quite a mountain. There are a
Speaker 1: scattering of houses on the winding roads, and a few
Speaker 1: had lit windows glowing in the early morning. I wondered
Speaker 1: if they too were spooning grounds into their coffee filters,
Speaker 1: smelling the scent of the brew. When the pot was
Speaker 1: half full, I poured some into my favorite mug and
Speaker 1: pulled my hood up over my head. I stepped into
Speaker 1: my garden clogs and slid the door to the deck open.
Speaker 1: It was cool, still early in the spring, but not cold,
Speaker 1: and as I stepped out and was about to close
Speaker 1: the door behind me. I heard the jingle of my
Speaker 1: dog's collar. I waited a moment as he came sleepily
Speaker 1: down the stairs and outside with me. He stopped to
Speaker 1: lean against my leg and let me rub his head,
Speaker 1: then ran out ahead of me. We tromped across the yard,
Speaker 1: the first birds of the morning clearing their throats in
Speaker 1: the nests above us and singing. At the far edge
Speaker 1: of the yard, just before the drop off, we had
Speaker 1: a fire pit ringed with ad arondack chairs, and I
Speaker 1: brushed a few dried leaves from the seat of one
Speaker 1: and sat down. My dog brought me a stick he'd
Speaker 1: found and wagged his tail in the low light, waiting
Speaker 1: for me to toss it. I threw it back toward
Speaker 1: the house and heard his paws thudding into the soft
Speaker 1: ground as he chased after it. I sighed and leaned
Speaker 1: back in my chair, bringing the cup close to my
Speaker 1: face and watching the steam left into the air. The
Speaker 1: light was changing around me, so subtle that it was
Speaker 1: difficult to notice unless I paid close attention. And I
Speaker 1: paid close attention. I noticed that I could see the
Speaker 1: outline of tree trunks and a few of the bigger branches,
Speaker 1: though their tops were lost in the darkness. My dog returned,
Speaker 1: laid down beside the chair and catching the stick between
Speaker 1: his paws, gnawed at it As I waited for the
Speaker 1: sun to rise. It would come up nearly in the
Speaker 1: center of the valley, not exactly the center, a little
Speaker 1: to one side, and I liked that lopsided, imperfect things
Speaker 1: felt lived in and less fragile than the ones that
Speaker 1: lined up just perfectly. The horizon was glowing brighter, and
Speaker 1: the sky above it more blue. My senses were wide awake,
Speaker 1: taking in all that they could. Then it made me
Speaker 1: feel calm and content. I'd heard someone once ask why
Speaker 1: being present was such a big deal, Why work at it?
Speaker 1: The answer they'd gotten was simple, and it rained true
Speaker 1: to me since I'd taken up watching sunrises. When our
Speaker 1: minds and bodies are in the same place, we feel better,
Speaker 1: We act more reasonably, We make more sense. This morning ritual,
Speaker 1: the dog chewing his stick beside me, the changing lines
Speaker 1: of light and color, the taste of my coffee. It
Speaker 1: made sense, helped me make sense of myself and my day. Finally,
Speaker 1: the sun crested over the land in the distance, and
Speaker 1: instantly I smiled. If every stitch of land all over
Speaker 1: the world has its own special moment. Each day is
Speaker 1: singled out to be seen and honored. This was ours.
Speaker 1: I set my cup on the arm of my chair,
Speaker 1: stood and walked closer to the drop off, looking down
Speaker 1: into the valley that was filling up with bright light.
Speaker 1: The houses on the hill, whose windows were lit while
Speaker 1: my coffee had been brewing, now just reflected sun. I
Speaker 1: turned my face to it, let it shine through my
Speaker 1: closed lids and revive me. After a few minutes, again
Speaker 1: feeling replete, I turned and whistled for my dog, and
Speaker 1: he came ambling over, his stick, a bit smaller but
Speaker 1: still in his mouth. I tossed it for him again,
Speaker 1: and bent to gather up a few more broken branches
Speaker 1: and dried out seed pods. Today would be a good
Speaker 1: day to clear the yard of fallen kindling and brush
Speaker 1: and pile it high in the fire pit for tonight.
Speaker 1: The days were getting longer and warmer now that we
Speaker 1: were past the equinox, and I liked to be outside
Speaker 1: for as much of it as possible. Just as I
Speaker 1: was dropping the wood into the pit and thinking that
Speaker 1: a second cup of coffee would hit the spot, I
Speaker 1: heard the windows above the sink creek open and a
Speaker 1: voice call out, breakfast is ready coming. I called back,
Speaker 1: and we turned back to the house. Sunrise at the cabin.
Speaker 1: I'm not sure how it started. I've never been an
Speaker 1: early riser, nor am I a night owl. I like
Speaker 1: to go to bed early and stay tucked in till late.
Speaker 1: But recently I've been waking up before the sun rested
Speaker 1: and ready wanting to get up and get going. At
Speaker 1: first I resisted, flipped my pillow to the cool side
Speaker 1: and tried to slip back into a dream, or propped
Speaker 1: myself up and read my book, hoping my eyes would
Speaker 1: grow heavy again. Then I realized that whatever the cause
Speaker 1: of this resetting of my internal clock, I could take
Speaker 1: advantage of it, enjoy it rather than try to wind
Speaker 1: the hands back. And since then I've become a sunrise enthusiast,
Speaker 1: watching it from different locations and with a growing a
Speaker 1: pretiation for the quiet optimism it inspired in me. Today
Speaker 1: was no different. I woke with no alarm, just a
Speaker 1: feeling of being replete, done with sleep and bed, and
Speaker 1: crept quietly around in the darkness so as not to
Speaker 1: wake the household. I put on thick socks, swapped my
Speaker 1: thin pajamas for warm sweats, and felt around on the
Speaker 1: bedside table till I found my glasses. I kept to
Speaker 1: the edges of the stairs to minimize squeaking as I
Speaker 1: came down into the kitchen, then padded over to the
Speaker 1: coffee maker. I ran water in the sink and rinsed
Speaker 1: the caraffe. I peered out into the yard. Our cabin
Speaker 1: is set at the edge of a valley, land dropping
Speaker 1: away in front of us, then rising up and up
Speaker 1: on the other side, more than a hill, but not
Speaker 1: quite a mountain. There are a scattering of houses on
Speaker 1: the winding roads, and a few had lit windows glowing
Speaker 1: in the early morning. I wondered if they too were
Speaker 1: spooning grounds into their coffee filters, smelling the scent of
Speaker 1: the brew. When the pot was half full, I poured
Speaker 1: some into my favorite mog and pulled my hood up
Speaker 1: over my head. I stepped into my garden clogs and
Speaker 1: slid the door to the deck open. It was cool,
Speaker 1: still early in the spring, but not cold, and as
Speaker 1: I stepped out and was about to close the door
Speaker 1: behind me, I heard the jingle of my dog's collar.
Speaker 1: I waited a moment as he came sleepily down the
Speaker 1: stairs and outside with me. He stopped to lean against
Speaker 1: my leg let me rub his head, then ran out
Speaker 1: ahead of me. We tromped across the yard, the first
Speaker 1: birds of the morning clearing their throats and their nests
Speaker 1: above us and singing. At the far edge of the yard,
Speaker 1: just before the drop off, we had a fire pit
Speaker 1: ringed with Adirondack chairs, and I brushed a few dried
Speaker 1: leaves from the seat of one and sat down. My
Speaker 1: dog brought me a stick he'd found and wagged his
Speaker 1: tail in the low light, waiting for me to toss it.
Speaker 1: I threw it back toward the house and heard his
Speaker 1: paws thudding into the soft ground as he chased it.
Speaker 1: I sighed and leaned back in my chair, bringing the
Speaker 1: cup close to my face and watching the steam lift
Speaker 1: into the air. The light was changing around me, so
Speaker 1: subtle that it was difficult to notice unless I paid
Speaker 1: close attention. I paid close attention. I noticed that I
Speaker 1: could see the outline of tree trunks and a few
Speaker 1: of the bigger branches, though their tops were still lost
Speaker 1: in the darkness. My dog returned, laid down beside the
Speaker 1: chair and catching the stick between his paws. Gnawed at
Speaker 1: it as I waited for the sun to rise. It
Speaker 1: would come up nearly in the center of the valley,
Speaker 1: not exactly the center, a little to one side, and
Speaker 1: I liked that sided imperfect things felt lived in and
Speaker 1: less fragile than the ones that lined up just perfectly.
Speaker 1: The horizon was glowing brighter, and the sky above it
Speaker 1: more blue. My senses were wide awake, taking in all
Speaker 1: that they could, and it made me feel calm and content.
Speaker 1: I'd heard someone ask once why being present was such
Speaker 1: a big deal, Why work at it? The answer they'd
Speaker 1: gotten was simple and rain true to me, since I'd
Speaker 1: taken up watching sunrises. When our minds and bodies are
Speaker 1: in the same place, we feel better, We act more reasonably,
Speaker 1: We make more sense. This morning ritual, the dog chewing
Speaker 1: his stick beside me, the changing lines of light and color,
Speaker 1: the taste of my coffee. It made sense, helped me
Speaker 1: make sense of myself and my day. Finally, the sun
Speaker 1: crested over the land in the distance, and instantly I smiled.
Speaker 1: If every stitch of land all over the world has
Speaker 1: its own special moment each day, to be singled out,
Speaker 1: to be seen and honored, this was ours. I set
Speaker 1: my cup on the arm of my chair and walked
Speaker 1: closer to the drop off, looking down into the valley
Speaker 1: that was filling up with bright light. The houses on
Speaker 1: the hill, whose windows were lit when my coffee had
Speaker 1: been brewing, now a just reflected sun. I turned my
Speaker 1: face to it, let it shine through my closed lids,
Speaker 1: revive me. After a few minutes, again feeling replete, I
Speaker 1: turned and whistled for my dog, and he came ambling over,
Speaker 1: his stick, a bit smaller but still in his mouth.
Speaker 1: I tossed it for him again and bent to gather
Speaker 1: up a few more broken branches and dried out seed pods.
Speaker 1: TO day would be a good day to clear the
Speaker 1: yard of fallen kindling and brush and pile it high
Speaker 1: in the fire pit for to night. The days were
Speaker 1: getting longer and warmer now that we were past the equinox,
Speaker 1: and I liked to be outside for as much of
Speaker 1: it as possible. Just as I was dropping the wood
Speaker 1: into the pit and thinking that a second cup of
Speaker 1: coffee would hit the spot, I heard the window above
Speaker 1: the sink creek open and a voice call out, breakfast
Speaker 1: is ready coming, I called back, and we turned back
Speaker 1: to the house. Sweet dreams,