Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A Break In The Weather

Episode Date: January 13, 2020

Our story tonight is called A Break in the Weather and it’s a story about a day in the sun. It’s also about a heart drawn on a window pane, dripping icicles, and that fresh open feeling that comes with a little bit of change. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to another year of bedtime stories for grown-ups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the CuriousCast podcast network. Let's get ready to sleep. I'll read you a simple, cozy story.

It's a place to rest your mind, and when your mind rests, your body will inevitably follow. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read. Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the cozy details of the story. Pull them around you as you would a soft blanket. And if you wake in the night,

take yourself back into the story, thinking back through any bit you can remember. This trains your brain to return to sleep mode and the more you practice it the easier you will find it. Now it's time to switch off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on.

Adjust your pillows and comforter until you feel completely at ease. If you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep, try resting the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help keep your jaw relaxed. Now, you are about to fall asleep. You will sleep deeply all night. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh through the mouth. Again, breathe in

and out. Good. Good. Our story tonight is called A Break in the Weather. And it's a story about a day in the sun. It's also about a heart drawn on a windowpane, dripping icicles, and that fresh, open feeling

that comes with a little bit of change. A Break in the weather. We'd had a few days of bright sun and balmy, sweet-smelling air, interrupting the ice and cold of midwinter. I'd been happily hibernating buried deep in blankets and thick sweaters with a tall stack of books and endless cups of tea to see me through to spring but when I opened the front door today and blinked up at the bright, clear skies

I felt that stir of excitement and blinked up at the bright, clear skies. I felt that stir of excitement that normally comes a few more months down the line. I found myself wondering if the creek behind the library was frozen up or running fast today. I wondered if the shops downtown had changed their window displays, and if there was a new movie at the theater. I decided to find out. I was so used to bundling up that I'd already stepped into my snow boots and had a scarf and hat on before I remembered that today felt different.

I opened the door again and let the air move around me. I'd be overheated after a minute of walking dressed like this. So I traded my boots for sneakers, and my hat and scarf for sunglasses. I stopped on my front sidewalk to look up and down the street. I heard the slam of a back door, and a call to come on and saw that the neighborhood kids weren't wasting the day. They had scooters and bikes which had arrived at Christmas and Hanukkah

and which they'd been hesitantly pushing around the living room floor, waiting to break them in. And today was the day. I watched as they hopped on, pushing and pedaling their way up the hill to ride it joyfully back down. I remembered that feeling of speed and rushing air on my face, and the memory spun me toward town with a spring in my step. The sidewalks were clear and dry, but the gutters

ran with rivulets of melting snow. I watched the water as it moved, pulled by gravity, creased with its current, and spilling quickly into the grate at the corner. I wondered if I still knew how to make a paper boat, with its cuffed hull

and thin, peaked sail. I had a stack of origami papers in my desk drawer at home. Maybe I would try later. As I turned the corner into town, I saw that the warm weather had called to lots of us today. The sidewalks were bustling with people out for a walk, some pushing strollers or stepping out with dogs who were happily sniffing at every tree and branch.

Many walked with their coats open to the warm air and their faces tilted up to the sun. I stopped at the movie house and looked at all their posters. I have a great love for movie posters. And let the sun warm my back as I stood to read the taglines and look at the faces of the actors. They had a few vintage posters set behind panes of glass, and I liked the way their frayed edges and slightly faded colors

looked against the newer ones. A couple came through the doors, holding hands, and still laughing for whatever show they'd seen, and the smell of fresh popcorn followed them out onto the street. I walked for a while, looking into shop windows, and enjoying the way things smelled and sounded on the street. The creek was flowing fast in the ravine behind the library, and I stopped to watch a gray squirrel as she picked through the pine needles at the water's edge.

Her broad, furry tail was pulled back over her small body and head like an umbrella, shielding her from the dripping, melting snow in the branches above. The lampposts in the park were still strung with twinkle lights, and I hoped they would be until spring truly came. The days were still short, and the long months of winter could drag, so knowing that there would be a little more light in places like this made the season sweeter. There was a cart on the edge of the park, and I stopped to buy a soft pretzel wrapped in wax paper, dotted with salt and smeared with yellow mustard.

After one bite, I knew that the pretzel must have come from the bakery a few blocks away. Everything they made had a sort of signature flavor. And while I couldn't put my finger on what it was, I knew it when I tasted it. I stopped on a bench to eat. The dough was soft and chewy, and the salt crunched in my teeth. My bench sat across from the yoga studio,

and the windows were fogged up from the class that was just letting out. I watched as the classroom doors opened and students gathered shoes and jackets. They looked a bit sweaty and had calm, happy faces. A man tucked his mat under his arm and stopped to draw a heart in the condensation on the windowpane. Someone else drew a peace sign. From my bench, I looked up at the top of the building. It had a cornice of arches and carved stones in a deco design.

There was an old-fashioned fire escape along its side, and the iron bars were thick with icicles. They were dripping fast in the sunshine, and the sound it made as the drops hit the cobblestones below reminded me of rain on a tin roof. On my way back through town toward home, I caught up a newspaper blowing against a tree trunk. I smoothed the page and saw it held the forecast for the next few days.

A snowstorm was predicted to start late tonight and blanket our town with a thick layer of snow and ice by morning. The sun was bright and warm on my face as I read, and it didn't seem possible that we'd be back in winter in a few hours. But I thought of my stack of books, of the pot of soup I could make, and the half-done afghan I'd been crocheting and felt excited to tuck back into my hibernation. This brief break in the weather had been energizing

and it had got me out and about on a beautiful day. But I wasn't quite done with winter yet. And it seemed from the paper in my hand that it wasn't quite done with me either. A break in the weather. We'd had a few days of bright sun and balmy, sweet-smelling air interrupting the ice and cold of midwinter.

I'd been happily hibernating, buried deep in blankets and thick sweaters, with a tall stack of books and endless cups of tea to see me through to spring. But when I opened the front door today and blinked up at the bright, clear skies, I felt that stir of excitement that normally comes a few more months down the line. I found myself wondering if the creek behind the library was frozen up or running fast today. I wondered if the shops downtown had changed their window displays, and if there was a new movie at the theater.

I decided to find out. I was so used to bundling up that I'd already stepped into my snow boots and had a scarf and hat on before I remembered that today felt different. I opened the door again, and let the air move around me. I'd be overheated after a minute of walking, dressed like this.

So I traded my boots for sneakers, and my hat and scarf for sunglasses. I stopped on my front sidewalk to look up and down the street. I heard the slam of a back door and a call to, come on, and saw that the neighborhood kids weren't wasting the day. They had scooters and bikes, which had arrived at Christmas and Hanukkah, and which they had been hesitantly pushing around the living room floor, waiting to break them in. And today was the day. I watched as they hopped on, pushing and pedaling their way up the hill to ride

it joyfully back down. I remembered that feeling of speed and rushing air on my face. And the memory spun me towards town with a spring in my step. The sidewalks were clear and dry, but the gutters ran with rivulets of melting snow. I watched the water as it moved, pulled by gravity, creased with its current, and spilling quickly into the grate at the corner.

I wondered if I still knew how to make a paper boat, with its cuffed hull and thin peaked sail. I had a stack of origami papers in my desk drawer at home, and maybe I would try later. As I turned the corner into town, I saw that the warm weather had called to lots of us today. The sidewalks were bustling with people out for a walk, some pushing strollers or stepping out with dogs who were happily sniffing at every tree and bench. Many walked with their coats open to the warm air and their faces tilted up to the sun.

I stopped at the movie house and looked at all of their posters. I have a great love for movie posters and let the sun warm my back as I stood to read the taglines and look at the faces of the actors. They had a few vintage posters set behind panes of glass, and I liked the way their frayed edges and slightly faded colors looked against the newer ones.

A couple came through the doors, holding hands and still laughing from whatever show they'd seen. And the smell of fresh popcorn followed them out onto the street. I walked for a while, looking into shop windows and enjoying the way things smelled and sounded on the street. The creek was flowing fast in the ravine behind the library, and I stopped to watch a gray squirrel as she picked through the pine needles at the water's edge.

Her broad, furry tail was pulled back over her small body and head like an umbrella, shielding her from the dripping, melting snow in the branches above. The lampposts in the park were still strung with twinkle lights, and I hoped they would be

until spring truly came. The days were still short, and the long months of winter could drag, so knowing that there would be a little more light in places like this made the season sweeter. There was a cart on the edge of the park, and I stopped to buy a soft pretzel wrapped in waxed paper, dotted with salt, and smeared with yellow mustard. After one bite, I knew that the pretzel must have come from the bakery a few blocks away. Everything they made had a sort of signature flavor.

And while I couldn't put my finger on what it was, I knew it when I tasted it. I stopped on a bench to eat. The dough was soft and chewy, and the salt crunched in my teeth. My bench sat across from the yoga studio, and the windows were fogged up from the class that was just letting out. I watched as the classroom doors opened, and students gathered shoes and jackets. They looked a bit sweaty and had calm, happy faces.

A man tucked his mat under his arm and stopped to draw a heart in the condensation of the windowpane. Someone else drew a peace sign. From my bench, I looked up at the top of the building. It had a cornice of arches and carved stone in a deco design. There was an old-fashioned fire escape along its side, and the iron bars were thick with icicles. They were dripping fast in the sunshine, and the sound it made as the drops hit the cobblestones below reminded me of rain on a tin roof.

On my way back through town toward home, I caught up a newspaper blowing against a tree trunk. I smoothed the page and saw it held the forecast for the next few days. A snowstorm was predicted. To start late tonight and blanket our town with a thick layer of snow and ice by morning. The sun was bright and warm on my face as I read, and it didn't seem possible that we'd be back in winter in a few hours. But I thought of my stack of books, of the pot of soup I could make and the half-done afghan

I'd been crocheting and felt excited to tuck back into my hibernation. This brief break in the weather had been energizing, and it had got me out and about on a beautiful day. But I wasn't quite done with winter yet, and it seemed from the paper in my hand that it wasn't quite done with me either. Sweet dreams.