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 Witterersheim. We
Speaker 1: give to a different charity each week, and this week
Speaker 1: we are giving to Michigan Environmental Justice Coalition, working for
Speaker 1: a world where all of us, no matter our race, place,
Speaker 1: or politics, have access to affordable, renewable, and community controlled energy.
Speaker 1: You can learn more about them in our show notes.
Speaker 1: Today marks six years of telling you bedtime Stories, which
Speaker 1: has become the most exciting, gentle adventure of my life.
Speaker 1: And it seems fitting that today I can share something
Speaker 1: I've been working on for quite a while, something created
Speaker 1: just for you to bring a piece of the village
Speaker 1: into your homes and to guide you into healthy wind
Speaker 1: down routines that will feel so good. This month, we
Speaker 1: are releasing but Nothing Much Happens wind Down Box, a
Speaker 1: wellness box of hand selected products that I personally use
Speaker 1: and that I love, along with a few exclusive stories
Speaker 1: to round out your cozy routines. Each box features products
Speaker 1: specially selected for your relaxation from Everescio Wellness's Chill Now
Speaker 1: a high potency organic certified Raschi mushroom extract to nutri
Speaker 1: Champs tart cherry gummies great for sleep and reducing inflammation,
Speaker 1: and they taste great. There's a lavender candle to mark
Speaker 1: your moment of calm from our favorite small batch candle
Speaker 1: maker's Vella Box. A meditative activity for you by way
Speaker 1: of a Brighter Years mini coloring book, a fantastic way
Speaker 1: to disconnect from your screen and tap into your creative self.
Speaker 1: Before then, more mushrooms, this time in chocolate specially formulated
Speaker 1: for sleep, from the lovely team behind Alice Mushrooms. And
Speaker 1: some delicious essential oils to rub on your wrists and
Speaker 1: neck from our friends at Woolsey's. And of course some
Speaker 1: melatonin for those who need an extra helping hand to
Speaker 1: rest by way of new strips. Place it on your
Speaker 1: tongue and it dissolves in seconds. Like everything in this village,
Speaker 1: we took our time to create this for you. It's
Speaker 1: such a pleasure to be able to help so many
Speaker 1: of you, to tuck you in at night and to
Speaker 1: keep watch till the morning. And I'm excited to help
Speaker 1: create comfort in new ways with our first ever wind
Speaker 1: down box. Head over to Nothing Much Happens dot com
Speaker 1: for more information. Now, after six years and more than
Speaker 1: one hundred and thirty million downloads, I've kind of cracked
Speaker 1: the code on how to help you sleep. I'll tell
Speaker 1: you a story. Nothing much happens in it. You just
Speaker 1: rest your mind on the words, follow along with my voice,
Speaker 1: and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and refreshed.
Speaker 1: I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower
Speaker 1: the second time through. If you wake again in the night,
Speaker 1: you can turn a story right back on. You'll drop
Speaker 1: right back to sleep. If you're new to this, be patient.
Speaker 1: This is brain training, and it may take some regular
Speaker 1: use to work reliably. Our story tonight is called first
Speaker 1: Mow of the Year, and it's a story about a
Speaker 1: day of yard work as spring arrives in full. It's
Speaker 1: also about pine cones and ladybugs, a glass of water
Speaker 1: enjoyed on the porch step, the sun on the back
Speaker 1: of your neck, and the shared experiences that connect us.
Speaker 1: Now it's time turn out the light, set down your device,
Speaker 1: and slide down to your sheets. There is nothing left
Speaker 1: to do. Nothing remains but that you rest. I'll be
Speaker 1: here reading even after you've fallen asleep. Let jaw, shoulders,
Speaker 1: hands and hips all relax. All is well now we rest.
Speaker 1: Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh
Speaker 1: from your mouth. Nice, do that one more time. Breathe
Speaker 1: in and let it go good. First mow of the year.
Speaker 1: I stood outside the garage, my fingers reaching for the handle,
Speaker 1: but looking over my shoulder into the back yard and beyond,
Speaker 1: past the tree line that marked the yard next door,
Speaker 1: at all the green growth and flowers that had shot
Speaker 1: up and blossomed in the last week or so. We
Speaker 1: slept with the windows cracked last night, and this morning
Speaker 1: I had opened more airing out the house. The staleness
Speaker 1: of long cold months washed away in minutes. I wanted
Speaker 1: to get outside as soon as I could, and looking
Speaker 1: out from the kitchen window, I could see a day's
Speaker 1: worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been
Speaker 1: warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on
Speaker 1: any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little
Speaker 1: critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few
Speaker 1: meals first. It seemed like to day might finally be
Speaker 1: the day for it. I turned back to the garage
Speaker 1: and gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a
Speaker 1: little bend in my knees, and a strong push up
Speaker 1: on the door to send it gliding into place. I
Speaker 1: thought about getting an opener put on, but there was
Speaker 1: something about opening it by hand that I actually liked.
Speaker 1: It was a very specific movement, one that was buried
Speaker 1: deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist
Speaker 1: open the garage door for my grandpa so he could
Speaker 1: get his tractor out. The rattily clatter of the old
Speaker 1: door moving on its track, the gust of scent from
Speaker 1: inside tools and dust and wood shavings, the way my
Speaker 1: wrist knew how far to turn my knees, how much
Speaker 1: to bend, And then inside the garage, the neat peg
Speaker 1: boarts hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into
Speaker 1: place and waiting for its next job. My own garage
Speaker 1: was not quite as neat as his had been, but
Speaker 1: still there was a sort of order to the chaos.
Speaker 1: I stepped in and propped my hands on my hips,
Speaker 1: looking around at the tools and stacks of pots. First
Speaker 1: things first, I thought, and reached for a pair of
Speaker 1: garbs and gloves. My thumb went right through a hole
Speaker 1: in the fabric, and I laughed, recognizing the pair as
Speaker 1: one I'd bought years ago when I'd tilled my first garden.
Speaker 1: They were cream with red dots that, if you looked
Speaker 1: close enough, were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off
Speaker 1: and tucked them into my back pocket, thinking that I
Speaker 1: could probably fix them up with a needle and thread.
Speaker 1: In a jiffy, I found a second pair, this one
Speaker 1: without any terribly large holes had put them on. I
Speaker 1: wheeled my more out onto the sidewalk and shook out
Speaker 1: a lawn bag beside it. From down the block, I
Speaker 1: heard the stuttering start of some one else's mower and
Speaker 1: cupped my hand over my eyes to shield out the
Speaker 1: sun and peer through the yards. A few gardens over,
Speaker 1: my neighbor was mowing the first path through his grass,
Speaker 1: and within a second the scent of it hit me
Speaker 1: so green and lively. I took a few deep breaths
Speaker 1: with my eyes closed. Spring was really here, summer, just
Speaker 1: behind in my own yard. I started to trace back
Speaker 1: and forth, walking slowly with my eyes on the ground.
Speaker 1: I picked up sticks and pine cones relocated rocks and
Speaker 1: gathered a few scraps of trash that the wind had
Speaker 1: blown in. When the grass was clear, I started my
Speaker 1: own mower and pushed it down the length of the yard.
Speaker 1: It reminded me suddenly of my dad's green tennis shoes
Speaker 1: by the back door when I was a kid. They
Speaker 1: hadn't started off as green, but after a day behind
Speaker 1: the mower, they'd begun to color with chlorophyll, and he'd
Speaker 1: given up on trying to keep them white. They'd just
Speaker 1: become his mowing shoes. I looked down at my own
Speaker 1: pair and smiled. There was something so small and simple,
Speaker 1: a shared experience of being a grown up with chores.
Speaker 1: But it made me really happy. This whole day did
Speaker 1: I made slow, even rose with the more. I'd raised
Speaker 1: the blade up a bit, so I was giving the
Speaker 1: grass only a subtle hair cut. My mind got quiet
Speaker 1: as I mowed. The steadiness of my feet pacing along
Speaker 1: behind the wheels, the warm sun on the back of
Speaker 1: my neck, the slow, careful turn at the end of
Speaker 1: a row, lining up the wheels and starting again. Was
Speaker 1: it so different from walking a labyrinth? Didn't feel that different.
Speaker 1: I'd had a teacher once who'd recommended a walking meditation.
Speaker 1: They'd suggested the best place for it was a grocery store.
Speaker 1: Just get a cart and walk the aisles as slowly
Speaker 1: as you can, notice each step. That was me Now.
Speaker 1: When the back yard was done, I shut down the
Speaker 1: mower and began to wheel it down the driveway start
Speaker 1: in the front. Just as a quiet thirst appeared in
Speaker 1: my throat, I noticed a tall glass of water set
Speaker 1: out for me on the step of the side door. Ah,
Speaker 1: it seemed like the perfect time for a break. I
Speaker 1: sat down on the step and lifted the cool glass
Speaker 1: to my lips. There were a few slices of cucumber
Speaker 1: floating among the ice cubes, and it tasted so refreshing
Speaker 1: and delicious. While I sipped, I looked across the driveway
Speaker 1: at the house next door. They had two little boys,
Speaker 1: well not so little anymore. They were growing fast in
Speaker 1: my mind. The youngest was still riding in the stroller,
Speaker 1: his big brother toddling beside as their dads took them
Speaker 1: for a walk. But I knew he must now be
Speaker 1: several years into elementary school, the oldest probably in middle school.
Speaker 1: Their dog, a sweet golden Retriever named Clover, was stretched
Speaker 1: out on her side on the back patio in the sun,
Speaker 1: and even from where I sat, I could see the
Speaker 1: slow rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed.
Speaker 1: My glass of water finished, I set it down on
Speaker 1: the step, pushed back up onto my feet, I reached
Speaker 1: for the handle bar of the mower. In the front yard,
Speaker 1: I repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen
Speaker 1: branches and found one of Clover's frisbees among the Pacassandra.
Speaker 1: I carried it to her fence and whistled for She
Speaker 1: lifted her head to look at me, one ear flipped
Speaker 1: inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I
Speaker 1: showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet,
Speaker 1: ready for me to throw it. I sent it out
Speaker 1: toward the back edge of her yard, and she went
Speaker 1: tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid air, she
Speaker 1: wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it
Speaker 1: out from where it landed near a lilac bush, and
Speaker 1: carried it back to her patio with her tail happily
Speaker 1: wagging along the way. Across the street, another neighbor was
Speaker 1: fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter.
Speaker 1: A new one shiny and red sat waiting on the
Speaker 1: grass as she worked away with the screwdriver. Just like
Speaker 1: the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of
Speaker 1: tugging at the pole cord of the moor, of green
Speaker 1: tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun on a warm patio,
Speaker 1: I knew the feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw.
Speaker 1: I restarted the mower and began to pace through the
Speaker 1: front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I
Speaker 1: all had in common. First mow of the year. I
Speaker 1: stood outside the garage, my fingers reaching for the handle,
Speaker 1: but looking over my shoulder into the back yard and beyond,
Speaker 1: past the tree line that marked the yard next door,
Speaker 1: at all the green growth and flowers that had shot
Speaker 1: up and blossomed in the last week or so. We'd
Speaker 1: slept with the windows cracked last night, and this morning
Speaker 1: I had opened more, airing out the house. The staleness
Speaker 1: of long cold months washed away in minutes. I wanted
Speaker 1: to get outside as soon as I could, and looking
Speaker 1: out from the kitchen window, I could see a day's
Speaker 1: worth of chores waiting for me. The weather had been
Speaker 1: warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on
Speaker 1: any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little
Speaker 1: critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few
Speaker 1: meals first. It seemed like today might finally be the
Speaker 1: day for it. I turned back to the garage and
Speaker 1: gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a little
Speaker 1: bend in my knees, and a strong push up on
Speaker 1: the door to send it gliding into place. I'd thought
Speaker 1: about getting an opener put on it, but there was
Speaker 1: something about opening it by hand that I actually liked.
Speaker 1: It was a very specific movement, one that was buried
Speaker 1: deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist
Speaker 1: open the garage door for my grandpa so he could
Speaker 1: get his tractor out. The radially clatter of the old
Speaker 1: door moving on its track, the gust of scent from
Speaker 1: inside tools and dust and wood shavings, the way my
Speaker 1: wrists knew how far to turn my knees, how much
Speaker 1: to bend, And then inside the garage, neat peg boards
Speaker 1: hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into place
Speaker 1: and waiting for its next job. My own garage was
Speaker 1: not quite as neat as his had been, but still
Speaker 1: there was a sort of order to the chaos. I
Speaker 1: stepped in and propped my hands on my hips, looking
Speaker 1: around at the tools and stacks of pots. First things first,
Speaker 1: I thought, and reached for a pair of garden gloves.
Speaker 1: My thumb went right through a hole in the fabric,
Speaker 1: and I laughed, recognizing the pair as one I'd bought
Speaker 1: years before when I tilled my first garden. They were
Speaker 1: cream with red dots that, if you looked close enough,
Speaker 1: were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off and tucked
Speaker 1: them into my back pocket, thinking that I could probably
Speaker 1: fix them up with a needle and thread in a jiffy.
Speaker 1: I found a second pair, this one without any terribly
Speaker 1: large holes, and put them on. I wheeled my mower
Speaker 1: out onto the sidewalk and shook out a lawn bag
Speaker 1: beside it. From down the block, I heard the stuttering
Speaker 1: start of some one else's mower and cupped my hand
Speaker 1: over my eyes to shield out the sun and peer
Speaker 1: through the yards. A few gardens over, my neighbor was
Speaker 1: mowing the first path through his grass, and within a
Speaker 1: second the scent of it hit me so green and lively.
Speaker 1: I took a few deep breaths with my eyes closed
Speaker 1: spring was really here, summer just behind in my own yard.
Speaker 1: I started to trace back and forth, walking slowly with
Speaker 1: my eyes on the ground. I picked up sticks and
Speaker 1: pine cones, relocated rocks, and gathered a few scraps of
Speaker 1: trash that the wind had blown in. When the grass
Speaker 1: was clear, I started my own mower and pushed it
Speaker 1: down the length of the yard. It reminded me suddenly
Speaker 1: of my dad's green tennis shoes by the back door
Speaker 1: when I was a kid. They hadn't started off as green,
Speaker 1: but after a day behind the mower, they'd begun to
Speaker 1: color with chlorophyll, and he'd given up trying to keep
Speaker 1: the might. They'd just become his mowing shoes. I looked
Speaker 1: down at my own pair and smiled. There was something
Speaker 1: so small and simple, a shared experience of being a
Speaker 1: grown up with chores. But it made me really happy.
Speaker 1: This whole day dead. I made slow, even rose with
Speaker 1: the mower. I'd raised the blade up a bit, so
Speaker 1: I was giving the grass only a subtle hair cut.
Speaker 1: My mind got quiet as I mowed, the steadiness of
Speaker 1: my feet pacing along behind the wheels, the warm sun
Speaker 1: on the back of my neck, the slow careful turn
Speaker 1: at the end of a row, lining up the wheels,
Speaker 1: and starting again. Was it so different from walking a labyrinth?
Speaker 1: And didn't feel that different. I'd had a teacher once
Speaker 1: who'd recommended a walking meditation. They'd suggested the best place
Speaker 1: for it was a grocery store. Just get a cart
Speaker 1: and walk the aisles as slowly as you can, notice
Speaker 1: each step. That was me now. When the back yard
Speaker 1: was done, I shut down the moor and began to
Speaker 1: wheel it down the driveway to start in the front.
Speaker 1: Just as a quiet thirst appeared in my throat, I
Speaker 1: noticed a tall glass of water set out for me
Speaker 1: on the step of the side door. Ah, it's seemed
Speaker 1: the perfect time for upbreak. I sat down on the
Speaker 1: step and lifted the cool glass to my lips. There
Speaker 1: were a few slices of cucumber floating among the ice cubes,
Speaker 1: and it tasted so refreshing and delicious. While I sipped,
Speaker 1: I looked across the driveway at the house next door.
Speaker 1: They had two little boys, well not so little anymore.
Speaker 1: They were growing fast in my mind. The youngest was
Speaker 1: still riding in the stroller, his big brother toddling beside
Speaker 1: as their dads took them for a while, but I
Speaker 1: knew he must now be several years into elementary school,
Speaker 1: the oldest probably in middle school. Their dog, a sweet
Speaker 1: Golden Retriever named Clover, was stretched out on her side
Speaker 1: on their back patio in the sun, and even from
Speaker 1: where I sat, I could see the slow rise and
Speaker 1: fall of her ribs as she breathed. My glass of
Speaker 1: water finished, I set it down on the step and
Speaker 1: pushed back up on to my feet. I reached for
Speaker 1: the handlebar of the mower in the front yard. I
Speaker 1: repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen branches
Speaker 1: and found one of Clover's frisbees among the pacissandra. I
Speaker 1: carried it to her fence and whistled for her. She
Speaker 1: lifted her head to look at me, one ear flipped
Speaker 1: inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I
Speaker 1: showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet,
Speaker 1: ready for me to throw it. I sent it out
Speaker 1: toward the back edge of her yard, and she went
Speaker 1: tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid air, she
Speaker 1: wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it
Speaker 1: out from where it landed near a lilac bush. And
Speaker 1: carried it back to her patio, with her tail happily
Speaker 1: wagging along the way. Across the street, another neighbor was
Speaker 1: fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter.
Speaker 1: A new one, shiny and red, sat waiting on the
Speaker 1: grass as she worked away with a screwdriver. Just like
Speaker 1: the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of
Speaker 1: tugging at the pull cord of the mower, of green
Speaker 1: tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun on a warm patio,
Speaker 1: I knew that feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw.
Speaker 1: I restarted the mower and began to pace through the
Speaker 1: front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I
Speaker 1: had in common. Sweet dreams