Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A Concert in the Park

Episode Date: May 25, 2026

Our story tonight is called A Concert in the Park, and it’s a story about a warm evening spent enjoying live music. It’s also about tiger lilies and elephant ears, stone benches and sneakers, and the memories that melodies can bring to the surface. Subscribe to our ⁠Premium channel⁠. The first month is on us. 💙 We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to ⁠The Southern Poverty Law Center⁠. Working in partnership with communities to advance the human rights of all people. Get 15% off OneSkin with the code NOTHINGMUCH at ⁠oneskin.co/NOTHINGMUCH⁠  #oneskinpod Pre-order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠⁠. ⁠⁠NMH merch, autographed books, and more⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠ ⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠ ⁠⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠ for more Village fun. Bring some treats to Marmalade, Birdy, and Crumb with this Playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Hi, I'm Catherine Nikolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories, about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up,

or when you want a little escape that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the village of Nothing Much, wherever you listen. Welcome. to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.

Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. On this week we are giving to the Southern Poverty Law Center, working in partnership with communities to advance the human rights of all people. You can learn more about them in our show notes. For ad-free episodes, subscribe to our premium feed at Nothing Much Happens.com just by listening to the sound of my voice and following along with the soft shape of the story. We will train your brain to reliably settle and sleep.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, just press play again. Our story tonight is called Concert in the Park, and it's a story about a warm evening spent enjoying, live music. It's also about tiger lilies and elephant ears, stone benches and sneakers, and the memories that melodies can bring to the surface. I've been thinking a lot lately about aging and how I see it differently than I used to. Getting older is a gift, not one given to everyone. So these days I'm less interested in fighting aging and more interested in caring for

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That's 15% off at oneskin.com with code nothing much. So settle in and pull your blanket up over your shoulder. I'll be here watching over as you drift off. You aren't alone. You are guarded. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth.

Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. A concert. In the park. It was a sunny day

in the middle of the week. Near the start of the summer. I'd gotten home from work and puttered around in the yard for a while, then cut a vase's worth of tiger lilies, and set them on the table by the front door, pulling out one extra bloom, and setting it into a bud vase to sit on my bedside table. I'd had a sweetheart years ago,

who always did this for me, a vase of flowers on the table, and one blossom by the bed, and I'd found it to be so romantic and cheerful that I'd kept the habit for myself ever since. Romance and cheer are important, even when you're by yourself. I poured a glass of iced tea

and watched cars going past, from the kitchen window. I got lost in my imagination for a moment, staring out at the traffic. One car going straight, another turning. When I stood wondering where they were going on this lovely afternoon,

I had that flash of understanding that sometimes happens when we step outside, our own perspectives, that every person is the main character of their own story, and we move in and out of the frame of other stories, as supporting characters or background players, but we never really know any story, but our own. I set my glass down, and my gaze fell on the calendar, stuck with a magnet to the side of the fridge. Weeks ago, I'd written in today's block of space. Concert in the park, 6 p.m. I looked at my watch and saw that it was a quarter till.

I'd have just enough time to walk into town. and find a spot on a bench by the stage. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and tied my sneakers on and started in a brisk pace toward the park. It felt good to walk fast and feel the warm air skimming over my skin. I looked into front yards as I passed, noticing different flowers and ground cover.

and leafy green perennials. There was an old house on a corner, just by the park, that had giant stone planters on either side of the front walkway, and I stopped a moment to appreciate the elephant ears, growing on long, slim stems.

Their leaves were arrow-shaped and soft, with bright veins that I knew by the end of the summer would look impossibly big. I looked forward to watching them grow on my walks. I circled past the pond and around to a sunken space, shaped like a clamshell with built-in benches, and a stage covered with a canopy of thin wooden slats laced over by a climbing vine. The band was already playing, a four-piece jazz band

with drums, a stand-up bass, piano and horn. The benches around me were filling up with a combination of families and couples, and people like me, who came on purpose to listen, and others who had, by happy accident, heard the music on their way out of work, and walked over to enjoy.

I leaned in my back against the cool stone of the bench behind me, and closed my eyes to listen. The music followed a few familiar paths that I recognized from the old jazz records I'd been listening to since I was a child, then veered off into unfamiliar patterns and rhythms, and circled back and veered away again. I looked up at the stage,

and watched the piano player and the horn player. They were watching each other, sometimes nodding in agreement, as if to say, yes, good idea. More of that. Every now and then, one of them would crack a sudden smile and laugh. And I realized that someone in the band

had somehow just told a musical joke. They were speaking the language that was foreign to me, and I couldn't translate it or say what the joke was. But what I could hear was beautiful, nonetheless. I watched a little boy, a few rows in front of me. He was watching the bass player, as she thumped up and down the neck of the instrument with confident strong fingers

as the horn blew and the melody turned in spirals in the air she spun her bass on its end pin and caught it again in time to pluck out the next bit of rhythm the little boy clapped his hands and swung his legs in time with the music. I thought of a moment when I'd felt something similar,

a different kind of concert. A few years before, it was in an old roomy theater with creaking wooden seats and an expanse of ceiling full of symmetrical painted murals, framed in molding, that were already a hundred years old.

A friend had pulled a few strings for me, knowing that this particular concert was a moment I dreamed of. She'd gotten me a seat, dead center, in the very front row. And when the man had walked on stage and sat down with his cello, I could have nearly reached out and touched him.

I'd expected to be enthralled by his playing, to be enraptured by the acoustics produced in the old theater. What I hadn't counted on were the tears that slipped down my cheeks, the feeling of my breath being taken from my body, the way I almost couldn't keep track of the notes as they thrummed through my chest. I'd gulped and pressed my hand over my heart and sat still. So as to not break the spell while he played,

I'd never had an experience quite like that before. this man hadn't just been speaking a language, I didn't know. He seemed himself to have come from a different planet and was showing us what language was like on the other side of the cosmos. Not everyone could make music like that. In fact, only a few in a generation can. But that didn't diminish the joy of this, simple concert in the park, or the power of a string of notes to cut through thought and make us present. There was a clarinet player somewhere in my neighborhood, whom I sometimes heard when I was out for a walk, the music coming from an open window in an upstairs room. The playing was sometimes squeaky and halting, but it was also patient and persistent, and I was always glad to hear it. It made me think back to my own days in school band. I joked sometimes that I had played eighth-chair flute, even though there were only five of us. The truth was that because it hadn't come quickly to me,

I'd given it up in my immature brain. I figured that if I couldn't be the best, I would quit the folly of youth. I was glad that years had passed and given me their wisdom, that now I could see that I didn't have to be the best, that there was a whole lot of joy and meaning and learning to be had

in the act of simply playing. I hoped the boy swinging his legs and clapping along to the music would be a bit wiser than I had when his turn for school band came around. though I reminded myself everyone has their own journey to understanding

everyone has their own story to tell. A concert in the park it was a sunny day in the middle of the week near the start of the summer I'd gotten home from work and puttered around in the

yard for a while, then cut a vase's worth of tiger lilies, and set them on the table by the front door, pulling out one extra bloom and setting it into a bud vase for my bedside table. I'd had a sweetheart, years ago, who always did this for me, a vase of flowers on the table and one blossom by the bed, and I'd found it to be so romantic and cheerful that I'd kept the habit for myself ever since. Romance and cheer are important even when you're by yourself. I poured a glass of ice tea and watched cars going past from the kitchen window. I got lost in my imagination for a moment, staring out at the traffic, one car going straight, another turning. And I stood wondering where they were going on this lovely afternoon.

I had that flash of understanding that sometimes happens when we step outside our own perspectives, that every person is the main character of their own story. And we move in and out of the frame of other stories as supporting characters. or background players, but we never really know any story but our own. I set my glass down, and my gaze fell on the calendar, stuck with a magnet to the side of the fridge. Weeks ago, I'd written in today's block of space, concert in the park, 6 p.m. I looked at my watch and saw that it was a quarter till. I'd still have just enough time to walk into town

and find a spot on a bench by the stage. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and tied my sneakers on and started in a brisk pace toward the park. It felt good to walk fast and feel the warm air skimming over my skin. I looked into front yards as I passed, noticing different flowers and ground cover and leafy green perennials. There was an old house on a corner just by the park. that had giant stone planters on either side of the front walkway. And I stopped a moment to appreciate the elephant ears growing on long slim stems.

Their leaves were arrow-shaped and soft with bright veins. and I knew by the end of the summer they would look impossibly big. I looked forward to watching them grow on my walks. I circled past the pond and around to a sunken space, shaped like a clamshell with built-in benches

and a stage covered with a canopy of thin wooden slats laced over by a climbing vine. The band was already playing, a four-piece jazz band with drums, a stand-up bass, piano, and horn. The benches around me were filling up

with a combination of families and couples, and people like me who came on purpose to listen and others who had by happy accident heard the music on their way out of work and walked over to enjoy. I leaned my back against the cool stone of the bench behind me and closed my eyes to listen. The music followed a few, a few, few familiar paths that I recognized from the old jazz records I'd been listening to since I was a child. Then they veered off into unfamiliar patterns and rhythms and circled back and veered away again. I looked up at the stage and watched the piano player and the horn player.

They were watching each other, sometimes nodding in agreement, as if to say, yes, good idea. More of that, every now and then. One of them would crack a sudden smile. and laugh. And I realized that someone in the band had somehow just told a musical joke. They were speaking a language that was foreign to me and I couldn't translate it

or say what the joke was. But what I could hear was beautiful nonetheless. I watched a little boy A few rows in front of me. He was watching the bass player as she thumped up and down the neck of her instrument with confident, strong fingers. As the horn blew,

and the melody turned in spirals in the air, she spun her bass on its end pin and caught it again in time to pluck out the next bit of rhythm. The little boy clapped his hands and swung his legs in time with the music. I thought of a moment when I'd felt something similar, a different kind of concert,

a few years before. It was in an old, roomy theater with creaking wooden seats and an expanse of ceiling full of symmetrical painted murals framed in moldings that were already a hundred years old

a friend had pulled a few strings for me knowing that this particular concert was a moment I dreamed of She'd gotten me a seat dead center in the very front row. And when the man had walked on stage and sat down with his cello, I could have nearly reached out and touched him. I'd expected to be enthralled by his playing, to be enraptured by the,

by the acoustics, produced in the old theater. What I hadn't counted on were the tears that slipped down my cheeks, the feeling of my breath being taken from my body, the way I almost couldn't keep track of the notes as they thrummed through my chest. I'd gulped and pressed my hand over my heart and sat still so as to not break the spell while he played. I'd never had an experience quite like that before. This man hadn't just been speaking a language. I didn't know.

he seemed himself to have come from a different planet and was showing us what language was like on the other side of the cosmos. Not everyone could make music like that. In fact, only a few in every generation can, but that didn't diminish the joy of this simple concert in the park, or the power of a string of notes to cut through thought and make us present. There was a clarinet player. Somewhere in my neighborhood, whom I heard sometimes when I was out for a walk, the music coming from an open window. in an upstairs room.

The playing was sometimes squeaky and halting, but it was also patient and persistent, and I was always glad to hear it. It made me think back to my own days in school band. I joked sometimes that I had played eighth-chair flute, even though there were only five of us. The truth was that because it hadn't come quickly to me, I'd given it up in my immature brain. I figured that if I couldn't be the best, I would quit, the folly of youth.

I was glad that years had passed and given me their wisdom. But now I could see that I didn't have. to be the best, that there was a whole lot of joy and meaning and learning to be had in the act of simply playing. I hoped the boy swinging his legs and clapping along to the music would be a bit wiser than I had when his turn for school band came around. though I reminded myself, everyone has their own journey to understanding. Everyone has their own story to tell.

Sweet dreams.