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 create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio
Speaker 1: Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different
Speaker 1: charity each week, and this week we are giving to
Speaker 1: Hot Mess Express, a woman led non profit with chapters
Speaker 1: across the United States. They serve the women in their
Speaker 1: community with no judgment through cleaning, organizing, and offering a
Speaker 1: fresh start. Learn more about them in our show notes.
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Speaker 1: giving your brain something too attached to It becomes like
Speaker 1: an anchor. Your ship drops anchor, and instead of traveling
Speaker 1: all over the place, your mind is held in one soft,
Speaker 1: relaxing place, and you sleep. All you need to do
Speaker 1: is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go
Speaker 1: a little slower the second time through. If you wake
Speaker 1: again in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode
Speaker 1: right back on. With time, you'll wake less, and even
Speaker 1: when you do, you'll return to sleep within moments. Our
Speaker 1: story tonight is called Cinder and the Springtime, and it's
Speaker 1: a story about a gift given to returning neighbors on
Speaker 1: a bright, warm day. It's also about moss and pine needles,
Speaker 1: a bicycle basket made special for a friend, practical magic,
Speaker 1: and gratitude for the ones we share our space with.
Speaker 1: Now it's time turn out your light, set down your device,
Speaker 1: and get asked. Comfortable as you can, tuck yourself in
Speaker 1: with all the loving care little you needs tonight. Relax
Speaker 1: your jaw on your shoulders and let your body be heavy.
Speaker 1: Whatever you've gotten done today, it was enough. You have
Speaker 1: done enough. Draw a deep breath in through the nose
Speaker 1: and sigh from your mouth. One more in.
Speaker 2: Let it go good cinder and the springtime.
Speaker 1: Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together outside my
Speaker 1: bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves
Speaker 1: and even spotted one or two in the side yard
Speaker 1: when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off
Speaker 1: whenever they saw me, but I hoped they were checking
Speaker 1: out the neighborhood and would put down roots somewhere close.
Speaker 1: Then I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves
Speaker 1: on the window, and I couldn't believe my luck. I
Speaker 1: would have a front row seat for the spring squabs.
Speaker 1: Day by day they'd worked on the nest, hopping to
Speaker 1: the sill with pine needles or bits of hay in
Speaker 1: their beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the
Speaker 1: concise construction, to watch it be built up in layers,
Speaker 1: to see how the scraps were woven together, building materials
Speaker 1: tried and rejected, then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse
Speaker 1: into their lives and instincts. They had gotten used to
Speaker 1: me passing by the window, and though they frequently froze
Speaker 1: for a few seconds staring with their liquid black eyes,
Speaker 1: when I turned away to brush my teeth at the sink,
Speaker 1: they likewise turned back to their work. My gray cat,
Speaker 1: Cinder knew they were there, but kept away from the
Speaker 1: window so that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not
Speaker 1: believe that that a cat would understand the situation and
Speaker 1: act in that way, But she was not like other cats.
Speaker 1: She was like an ante, but in animal form. She
Speaker 1: found the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and
Speaker 1: matched them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed
Speaker 1: a soul to bring light into their home, some one
Speaker 1: to catch all the love they needed to give. That
Speaker 1: is frequently the cause of heartache, love with no one
Speaker 1: to give it to. So Cinder and I play match
Speaker 1: maker among our neighbors and friends and the creatures she finds.
Speaker 1: Unbelieve it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare
Speaker 1: those doves any more than she would have left a
Speaker 1: lost bunny out in the cold. So last spring, the
Speaker 1: doves had raised a little clutch of two eggs, and
Speaker 1: when the babies grew big enough and learned to fly,
Speaker 1: they started again with two more. The collective noun for
Speaker 1: mourning doves, at least the one that stood out because
Speaker 1: of how ill suited it felt was piteousness, a piteousness
Speaker 1: of mourning doves. No, that wasn't right at all. It
Speaker 1: had been a jubilance of doves, as far as I
Speaker 1: could tell. And when the jubilants flew south for the winter,
Speaker 1: the little nest sat empty and had filled with snow.
Speaker 1: It lasted, though they'd built it so well that even
Speaker 1: after the spring melt and the strong winds blew, it
Speaker 1: sat sturdily on the sill. Then this morning, as I
Speaker 1: groggily washed my face at the basin, I heard a coup,
Speaker 1: that unmistakable call of a dove, and I quickly pressed
Speaker 1: a towel to my face and edged over to the window.
Speaker 1: There on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak
Speaker 1: was my friend. She was patching up the family estate.
Speaker 1: I stood there with a towel under my chin, a
Speaker 1: huge smile on my face, feeling the cool tile under
Speaker 1: my feet, but the warmth of the spring sun through
Speaker 1: the window. And how good it was to share my
Speaker 1: home with souls like Cinder and this family doves. It
Speaker 1: made me think of something my grandmother would do in
Speaker 1: the springtime, as birds and animals returned to her own yard.
Speaker 1: She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around the garden,
Speaker 1: leave them at the base of her bird bath and
Speaker 1: near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was a spring offering,
Speaker 1: and one that really helped. I'd read a note in
Speaker 1: her handwriting in a margin of her grimoire that if
Speaker 1: a rite or ritual didn't actually accomplish something useful or good, well,
Speaker 1: then she didn't much see the point, and I found
Speaker 1: that her type of practical magic suited me best as well.
Speaker 1: Some people liked to offer up the hair from their
Speaker 1: brushes and combs for birds to use, but Grandma had
Speaker 1: written that if the hair was longer than an inch,
Speaker 1: it could actually harm birds much more than help them,
Speaker 1: So better to look for moss and lichen, pine needles,
Speaker 1: and perhaps witchiest of all, cobwebs. So Cinder and I
Speaker 1: started indoors, winding the duster into the corners of the
Speaker 1: ceilings and shaking the webs out over the back porch.
Speaker 1: When I reached for my sweater and bike helmet, Cinder
Speaker 1: meowed at my ankles. I'd had a special basket installed
Speaker 1: for her at the bicycle shop in the Alley downtown.
Speaker 1: It had a cushioned bottom and a seat belt that
Speaker 1: attached to her harness so we could ride together. Are
Speaker 1: you up for a ride, I asked, and leaned down
Speaker 1: to stroke her back. She pressed her head into my
Speaker 1: hand and purred softly. A few minutes later we were
Speaker 1: buckled into place, rolling down the street toward the dirt
Speaker 1: roads a few blocks over. Cinder sat comfortably in her basket,
Speaker 1: her whiskers flickering in the breeze as I pedaled. When
Speaker 1: we turned down a dirt road where a stretch of
Speaker 1: woods extended along beside us, I slowed down, first to
Speaker 1: avoid the ruts that the spring rain had deepened, and
Speaker 1: second to listen and smell and feel for the things
Speaker 1: we were looking for. At a certain point, like a
Speaker 1: compass arrow pulled toward north, or a dowsing rod drawn
Speaker 1: to a vein of water. The handlebars turned toward the verge,
Speaker 1: and I found a spot to stop an unbuckle Cinder
Speaker 1: from her basket. She jumped up onto my shoulder, where
Speaker 1: she liked to sit like a queen, and we walked
Speaker 1: into the woods. I had a small tote bag with me,
Speaker 1: and we wandered along, pausing to fill it with handfuls
Speaker 1: of pine needles and milkweed fluff. I found some saven
Speaker 1: leaved club moss, but the clump was so paltry I
Speaker 1: hesitated to take any. I thought that if it had
Speaker 1: been further into the warm weather a few weeks into June,
Speaker 1: when the cottonwood flies, I could have taken that I'd
Speaker 1: have had enough to stuff pillows. Then Cinder and I
Speaker 1: turned our heads in unison toward a brighter corner of
Speaker 1: the wood, intuition calling us over ah a broad patch
Speaker 1: of mossy stone crop sometimes called golden sedum. As I
Speaker 1: plucked handfuls to take home for the birds to weave
Speaker 1: into their nests, Cinder walked through the soft carpet. Do
Speaker 1: mourning doves like sedum? I asked her. Her tail flicked lazily,
Speaker 1: as if to say, I suppose we shall see if
Speaker 1: they did. I thought i'd write it into the Grimoire,
Speaker 1: an idea for a rite of spring some descendant might
Speaker 1: read about one day recognizing my handwriting like I recognized grands,
Speaker 1: and being encouraged to step out into the garden an
Speaker 1: offer up some gift to the birds. Cinder and the springtime.
Speaker 1: Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together outside my
Speaker 1: bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves
Speaker 1: and even spotted one or two in the side yard
Speaker 1: when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off
Speaker 1: whenever they saw me, but I hoped they were checking
Speaker 1: out the neighborhood and would put down somewhere close. Then
Speaker 1: I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves on
Speaker 1: the window sill and couldn't believe my luck. I would
Speaker 1: have a front row seat for the spring squabs. Day
Speaker 1: by day they'd worked on the nest, hopping to the
Speaker 1: sill with pine needles or bits of hay in their
Speaker 1: beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the concise construction,
Speaker 1: to watch it be built up in layers, to see
Speaker 1: how the scraps were woven together, building materials tried and rejected,
Speaker 1: then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse into their lives
Speaker 1: and instincts. They had gotten used to me passing by
Speaker 1: the window, and though they frequently froze for a few
Speaker 1: seconds staring with their liquid black eyes, when I turned
Speaker 1: away to brush my teeth at the sink, they likewise
Speaker 1: turned back to their work. My gray cat, Cinder knew
Speaker 1: they were there, but kept away from the window so
Speaker 1: that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not believe that
Speaker 1: that a cat would understand the situation and act in
Speaker 1: that way, but she was not like other cats. She
Speaker 1: was like an auntie, but in animal form. She found
Speaker 1: the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and matched
Speaker 1: them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed a
Speaker 1: soul to bring light into their home, someone to catch
Speaker 1: all the love they needed to give. That is frequently
Speaker 1: the cause of heartache, love with no one to give
Speaker 1: it to. So Cinder and I play matchmaker among our
Speaker 1: neighbors and friends and the creatures she finds, And believe
Speaker 1: it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare those
Speaker 1: doves any more than she would have left a lost
Speaker 1: bunny out in the cold. So last spring the doves
Speaker 1: had raised a little clutch of two eggs, and when
Speaker 1: the babies grew big enough and learned to fly, they
Speaker 1: started again with two more. The collective noun for mourning doves,
Speaker 1: at least the one that stood out because of how
Speaker 1: ill suited it felt, was piteousness. A piteousness of mourning doves,
Speaker 1: No that wasn't right at all. It had been a
Speaker 1: jubilance of doves, as far as I could tell, And
Speaker 1: when the jubilants flew south for the winter, the little
Speaker 1: nest sat empty and had filled with snow. Still it lasted.
Speaker 1: They'd built it so well that even after the spring
Speaker 1: melt and the strong winds blew, it sat sturdily on
Speaker 1: the sill. Then this morning, as I groggily washed my
Speaker 1: face at the basin, I heard a coup, that unmistakable
Speaker 1: call of a dove, and I quickly pressed a towel
Speaker 1: to my face and edged over to the window. There
Speaker 1: on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak was
Speaker 1: my friend, and she was patching up the family estate.
Speaker 1: I stood there with the towel at my chin, a
Speaker 1: huge smile on my face, feeling the cool tile under
Speaker 1: my feet, but the warmth of the spring sun through
Speaker 1: the window, and how good it was to share my
Speaker 1: home with souls like Cinder and this family of day.
Speaker 1: It made me think of something my grandmother would do
Speaker 1: in the springtime, as birds and animals returned to her
Speaker 1: own yard. She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around
Speaker 1: the garden, leave them at the base of her bird
Speaker 1: bath and near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was
Speaker 1: a spring offering, and one that really helped. I'd read
Speaker 1: a note in her handwriting in a margin of her
Speaker 1: grimoire that if a right or ritual didn't actually accomplish
Speaker 1: something useful or good, well, she didn't much see the
Speaker 1: point when I found that her type of practical magic
Speaker 1: best suited me as well. Some people liked to offer
Speaker 1: up the hair from their brushes and combs for birds
Speaker 1: to use, but Grandma had written that if hair was
Speaker 1: longer than an inch, it could actually harm birds much
Speaker 1: more than help them, So better to look for moss
Speaker 1: and lichen, pine needles, and perhaps witchiest of all, cobwebs.
Speaker 1: So Cinder and I started indoors, winding the duster into
Speaker 1: the corners of the ceiling and shaking all the webs
Speaker 1: out over the back porch. When I reached for my
Speaker 1: sweater and bike helmet, Cinder meowed at my ankles. I'd
Speaker 1: had a special basket installed for her at the bicycle
Speaker 1: shop in the Alley down town. It had a cushioned
Speaker 1: bottom and a seat belt that attached to her harness
Speaker 1: so we could ride together. Are you up for a ride,
Speaker 1: I asked, and leaned down to stroke her back. She
Speaker 1: pressed her head into my hand and purred softly. A
Speaker 1: few minutes later we were buckled into place, rolling down
Speaker 1: the street toward the dirt roads. A few blocks over.
Speaker 1: Cinder sat comfortably in her basket, her whiskers flickering in
Speaker 1: the breeze as I peddled. When we turned down a
Speaker 1: dirt road where a stretch of woods extended along beside us,
Speaker 1: I slowed down, first to avoid the ruts that the
Speaker 1: spring rain had deepened, and second to listen and smell
Speaker 1: and feel for the things we were looking for. At
Speaker 1: a certain point, like a compass arrow pulled toward north,
Speaker 1: or a dowsing rod drawn to a vein of water.
Speaker 1: The handlebars turned toward the verge, and I found a
Speaker 1: spot to stop an unbuckle Cinder from her basket. She
Speaker 1: jumped up onto my shoulder, where she liked to sit
Speaker 1: like a queen, and we walked into the woods. I
Speaker 1: had a small tote bag with me, and we wandered along,
Speaker 1: pausing to fill it with handfuls of pine needle and
Speaker 1: milkweed fluff. I found some saven leaved club moss, but
Speaker 1: the clump was so paltry I hesitated to take any
Speaker 1: I thought that if it had been further into the
Speaker 1: warm weather a few weeks into June, when the cottonwood flies,
Speaker 1: I could have taken that I'd have had enough to
Speaker 1: stuff pillows. Then Cinder and I turned our heads in
Speaker 1: unison toward a bright corner of the wood, intuition calling
Speaker 1: us over ah a broad patch of mossy stone crop
Speaker 1: sometimes called golden sedum. As I plucked handfuls to take
Speaker 1: home for the birds to weave into their nests, Cinder
Speaker 1: walked through the soft carpet to mourning doves like Sedom.
Speaker 1: I asked her her taale flicked lazily, as if to say,
Speaker 1: I suppose we shall see if they did. I thought
Speaker 1: I'd write it into the Grimoire, an idea for a
Speaker 1: rite of spring. Some descendant might read about one day,
Speaker 1: recognizing my handwriting like I'd recognized grants, and be encouraged
Speaker 1: to step out into a garden and offer up some
Speaker 1: gift to the birds. Sweet dreams,