Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A Dance In The Park (Encore)

Episode Date: May 9, 2024

Originally Aired: May 17th, 2020 (Season 5 Episode 10) Our story tonight is called "A Dance in the Park," and it’s a story about coming back into the world after a bit of time spent alone. It’s also about a glass of pink hibiscus tea, window shopping on a downtown street, and moving to the music on a sunny day. So get cozy and ready to sleep.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Today marks six years of telling you bedtime stories, which has become the most exciting, gentle adventure of my life. And it seems fitting that today I can share something I've been working on for quite a while,

something created just for you, to bring a piece of the village into your homes, and to guide you into healthy wind-down routines that will feel so good. This month we are releasing the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box, a wellness box of hand-selected products that I personally use and that I love, along with a few exclusive stories to round out your cozy routines. Each box features products specially selected for your relaxation. From Evoresio Wellness' Chill Now, a high-potency, organic-certified reishi mushroom extract, to NutriChamp's tart cherry gummies, great for sleep and reducing inflammation,

and they taste great. There's a lavender candle to mark your moment of calm from our favorite small-batch candle makers, VelaBox. A meditative activity for you by way of a brighter years mini coloring book. A fantastic way to disconnect from your screen and tap into your creative self before bed. Then more mushrooms, this time in chocolate, specially formulated for sleep, from the lovely team behind Alice Mushrooms.

And some delicious essential oils to rub on your wrists and neck from our friends at Woolsey's. And of course, some melatonin for those who need an extra helping hand to rest by way of new strips. Place it on your tongue and it dissolves in seconds. Like everything in this village, we took our time to create this for you. It's such a pleasure to be able to help so many of you, to tuck you in at night, and to keep watch till the morning. And I'm excited to help create comfort in new ways

with our first ever wind down box. Head over to nothingmuchappens.com for more information. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you, and the story is a soft landing place for your mind. Whatever your day has been like, it can end in soothing rest, just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of our tale. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. Let the details you hear pull you into the world of the story, as if you were seeing and hearing and tasting what it has to offer. If you wake again in the middle of the night, turn your mind right back to those details.

And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed. This is a simple but effective form of brain training. And as the habit builds, you'll notice that you drop off sooner and stay asleep longer. Our story tonight is called A Dance in the Park, and it's a story about coming back into the world after a bit of time spent alone. It's also about a glass of pink hibiscus tea, window shopping on a downtown street, and moving to the music on a sunny day.

Now, it's time to turn off the light and to put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take a moment to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Pull the comforter over your shoulder, and let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh out of the mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Do that one more time. Breathe in.

And out. Good. A dance in the park. We were on the cusp of real summer weather. And when I sat on the front porch this morning and let the sunshine creep across the boards and onto my toes, I noticed that it no longer felt filtered and weak, like it often does in the winter and early spring. This was summer sunshine.

It warmed you through and brought out freckles, and felt when you lifted your face to it with your eyes tightly shut, like food and medicine and the missing element that is suddenly abundant in your system. I sat until the whole porch was lit up with morning light and listened listen to the birds calling, and the street waking up. Neighbors waved from their driveways, coffee cups in hand, stepping out to fetch the paper,

or to peer thoughtfully down at sprouting gardens. Kids on bikes and skateboards, already deep into the games and stories of the day, rolled past me. I supposed it was my turn to head out into the day. I stood up and checked my pockets. I had house keys and sunglasses and a few dollars,

everything I needed. One of the lovely things about warm weather days is the ease with which you can leave the house. After months of layering on coats and scarves, thick socks and heavy boots, and checking the weather report and shoveling the front walk, it is a joy to step out in sandals and shirt sleeves and be comfortable in the open air without any planning at all. I locked the front door and hopped down the steps into the grass.

The sun warmed the back of my neck as I started down the sidewalk. I felt it on my forearms and calves and the bridge of my nose. I read once that in some ancient mythology, in some part of the world, I'd forgotten where, they believed that the heat of the sun was stored in trees, and when you burned their wood, the fire was just the sun being finally released back into the world.

I thought of this as the hot sun forced a shiver down my spine. I must have stored the cold from all the snow I had shoveled over the years, all the snowmen I'd rolled into place, all the flakes I'd caught on my tongue. Now that chill was wrung from my body, and I felt a momentary wave of goosebumps on my arm as it passed back into the atmosphere. I hadn't paid much attention to where I was walking, as it didn't much matter to me. But turning a corner, I was happy to see I was on the edge of downtown.

I hadn't been to the shops and cafes on these streets for a while, and I'd missed them. There was a window full of pastries and fruit tarts at the bakery. Beside the tarts was a stack of fresh loaves, still dusted with flour. They'd been scored just before they went into the oven

so that their crusts showed a design of curling leaves or crisscrosses a few doors down in the window of a gift shop or a neat row of handmade soaps and jars of salves and lotions, displays of bracelets and earrings and hand-drawn cards and pictures. I didn't need a thing, but I liked looking. The walk and the sun had made me thirsty, and I remembered a little cafe in the next street that made iced hibiscus tea, and I strolled off toward it. or full of folks having a drink or a bite to eat,

some keeping company with friends and others happily sitting with a book in hand or a newspaper spread open on their lap. I stepped inside and ordered my tea, deciding to take it to go so I could keep walking. Behind the bar, they had a tall glass urn with the bright pink tea inside. Along with the hibiscus flowers, it was brewed with fresh strawberries and raspberries and knobbly branches of ginger. A minute later, I was standing back out in the fresh air, taking a long drink of the tea, which was cold and tart-tasting,

the flavor a bit like cranberries. I sipped it as I made my way up one street and down another. The flower baskets hanging from the street lamps were full of petunias and geraniums and fuchsias. I stopped to look at the posters in the window of the record shop and made a few mental plans for concerts and gigs I could see in the next few weeks. On the lawn of the library at the edge of the park, kids were grouped around picnic tables, with a few grown-up volunteers overseeing some craft project. They darted

back and forth between the tables, gathering up supplies onto paper plates to make into collages. I could hear their voices and laughter through the still air as I went further into the park. Everything was green now, thick, fresh, trimmed grass, shrubs and hedges, and layers of shiny leaves overhead. As I came around the side of the lake, I heard music playing. I followed it down a path and into an open stone plaza where the farmer's market

was set up on Sunday mornings. Suddenly the music was louder and a crowd of people danced to it. I remembered seeing a poster by the library for a group class. Salsa in the park, it had said. I smiled to myself as I watched the faces of the dancers. They were moving together, sometimes in couples and sometimes as groups, some laughing and some quite serious, seeming to dance as much with an engagingly lifted eyebrow as with their feet, as they stepped and turned and shifted. A ring of happy spectators stood watching, tapping their toes, clapping their hands to the music.

I settled onto a bench to watch, now and then catching the eye of a dancer or passerby. We said to each other with our eyes, This is nice. I'm glad to be here for it. I'd spent a lot of time on my own lately, and that served its own purpose. Solitude was fortifying for me.

It gave me space and quiet and a steady center. But I'd been like a gear turning all by itself in the house. That gear rotated and kept my machinery going. But today, feeling the sun and waving at my neighbors, looking in the store windows and drinking tea in the open air and clapping along with the music while people danced, it felt like my gear was syncing back up with everyone else's.

We powered each other, and that felt like rediscovering my place among my fellows. I closed my eyes and listened to the clapping hands. I lifted my face and let the sun shine on it. I took a deep breath in and let it out. A dance in the park. We were on the cusp of real summer weather. And when I sat on the front porch this morning and let the sunshine creep across the boards and onto my toes, I noticed that it no longer felt filtered and weak, like it often does in the winter and early spring. This was summer sunshine.

It warmed you through and brought out freckles and felt when you lifted your face to it, with your eyes tightly shut, like food and medicine, and the missing element that was suddenly abundant in your system. I sat until the whole porch was lit up with morning light and listened to the birds calling and the street waking up. Neighbors waved from their driveways, coffee cups in hand,

stepping out to fetch the paper or peer thoughtfully down at sprouting gardens. Kids on bikes and skateboards, already deep into the games and stories of the day rolled past me. I supposed it was my turn to head out into the day. I stood up and checked my pockets. I had house keys and sunglasses and a few dollars. Everything I needed. One of the lovely things about warm weather days is the ease with which you can leave the house. After months of layering on coats and scarves,

thick socks and heavy boots, and checking the weather report and shoveling the front walk. It is a joy to step out in sandals and shirt sleeves and be comfortable in the open air without any planning at all. I locked the front door and hopped down the steps into the grass. The sun warmed the back of my neck

as I started down the sidewalk. I felt it on my forearms and calves and the bridge of my nose. I read once, in some ancient mythology, in some part of the world I'd forgotten where. They believed that the heat of the sun was stored in trees, and when you burned their wood, the fire was just the sun being finally released back into the world.

I thought of this as the hot sun forced a shiver down my spine. I must have stored the cold from all the snow I had shoveled over the years, all the snowmen I'd rolled into place, all the flakes I'd caught on my tongue. Now, that chill was wrung from my body, and I felt a momentary wave of goosebumps on my arms as it passed back into the atmosphere. I hadn't paid much attention to where I was walking, as it didn't much matter to me. But turning a corner, I was happy to see I was on the edge of downtown. I hadn't been to the shops and cafes on these streets for a while, and I'd missed them. There was a window full of pastries and fruit tarts at the bakery.

Beside the tarts was a stack of fresh loaves, still dusted with flour. They'd been scored just before they went into the oven, so that their crusts showed a design of curling leaves or criss-crosses. A few doors down in the window of a gift shop were a neat row of handmade soaps and jars of salves and lotions, displays of bracelets and earrings and hand-drawn cards and pictures. I didn't need a thing, but I liked looking.

The walk and the sun had made me thirsty. I remembered a little café in the next street that made iced hibiscus tea, and I strolled off toward it. The outdoor tables were full of folks having a drink or a bite to eat, some keeping company with friends, and others happily sitting with a book in hand or a newspaper spread open on their lap. I stepped inside and ordered my tea. I decided to take it to go, so I could keep walking. Behind the bar, they had a tall glass urn with the bright pink tea inside.

Along with the hibiscus flowers, it was bre back out in the fresh air, taking a long drink of the tea, which was cold and tart-tasting, the flavor a bit like cranberries. I sipped it as I made my way up one street and down another. The flower baskets hanging from the street lamps were full of petunias and geraniums and fuchsias. I stopped to look at the posters

in the window of the record shop and made a few mental plans for concerts and gigs I could see in the next few weeks. On the lawn of the library, at the edge of the park, kids were grouped around picnic tables, with a few grown-up volunteers overseeing some craft project. They darted back and forth between the tables, gathering up supplies onto paper plates to make into collages.

I could hear their voices and laughter through the still air as I went further into the park. Everything was green now. Thick, fresh-trimmed grass, shrubs and hedges, and layers of shiny leaves overhead. As I came around the side of the lake, I heard music playing. I followed it down a path and into an open stone plaza, where the farmer's market was set up on Sunday mornings. Suddenly the music was louder, and a crowd of people danced to it. I remembered seeing a poster by the library for a group class.

Salsa in the park, it had said. I smiled to myself as I watched the faces of the dancers. They were moving together, sometimes in couples and sometimes as groups, some laughing, and some quite serious, seeming to dance as much with an engagingly lifted eyebrow as with their feet, as they stepped and turned and shifted. A ring of happy spectators stood watching, tapping their toes and clapping their hands to the music. I settled onto a bench to watch, now and then catching the eye of a dancer, a passerby. We said to each other with our eyes, this is nice.

I'm glad to be here for it I'd spent a lot of time on my own lately and that served its own purpose solitude was fortifying for me it gave me space and quiet and a steady center. But I'd been like a gear, turning all by itself in the house. That gear rotated and kept my machinery going. But today, feeling the sun and waving at my neighbors,

looking in the store windows and drinking tea in the open air, clapping along with the music while people danced. It felt like my gear was syncing back up with everyone else's. We powered each other. And that felt like rediscovering my place among my fellows.

I closed my eyes and listened to the clapping hands. I lifted my face and let the sun shine on it. I took a deep breath in. And let it out. And let it out. Sweet dreams.