Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - A New Leaf (Encore)

Episode Date: January 18, 2024

Originally Aired: December 30th, 2018 (Season 2 Episode 13) Our story tonight is called A New Leaf, and it’s a story about starting off the new year with a fresh book to write your plans in. It’s also about a memory of something magical, a cup of coffee on a cold day, and the pleasure of a freshly sharpened pencil. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or click here. Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We've had a little change to the setup of the show, and I just want to alert you. In order to keep this show possible, we've had to move our ads a few minutes into the actual episode. I know, I know, I'm not a fan either. But if my options are do this or stop doing the show, well,

you can bet I'm going to do this. And I think I've designed it in a way that feels pretty organic. So I'll walk you through the opening as usual and tell you how to use the show. And then we'll skip to the show description, that little teaser that tells you about our story tonight. Then we'll have our ad break, and all ads should be read by me in my sleepy voice. In the first few weeks here, there may be a few bugs in that system, but I promise we're working it out. Then we'll come back. I'll tuck you in, and we'll take our deep breaths. Okay, on with the show. Let me tell you a bit about how to use this podcast. It's designed to help you quiet down your mind and ease it to sleep. And it does that by giving your mind a place to rest

that isn't the tangle of thoughts you might have been caught in all day. The story is simple, and not much happens in it. And that is sort of the idea. Just follow along with my voice and the soft details of the story, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed. I'll tell the story twice, and the second time through, I'll go a little slower. We're training your brain along the way, and the more you use the stories, the faster you'll settle to sleep. So have a bit of patience if you're new to this. Our story tonight is called A New Leaf, and it's a story about starting off the year

with a fresh book to write your plans in. It's also about a memory of something magical, a cup of coffee on a cold day, and the pleasure of a freshly sharpened pencil. Now turn off your light. Put away anything you've been looking at and snuggle your body down into your favorite sleeping position. Pull the blanket over your shoulder and tuck your pillow in just the way you like it. Take a deep breath in through your nose. And out through your mouth. Good.

Let's do one more. In. And out. Good. A new leaf. I'm not one for New Year's resolutions. After all, why wait for a specific day on the calendar to start something new? All the same, I liked reflecting. I liked having time to parse apart a thought or a feeling. I liked creating,

sketching, or writing and wandering and exploring. And the start of a new year was always ripe for that. So when I turn over a new leaf, it's more literal than figurative. I turn the leaf of a new book, or path on the trail, or song on the record. This time around, my fresh start was all to do with a new planner. I still liked a physical paper planner, a pretty book to write out my plans in. I liked looking at a whole month or week at a time and setting down the dates and times when I'd do the things I mean to do.

Last year's was full. I was out of pages, and after a year of being carried in my bag and brought out and put away so many times, the hard-bound edges were scuffed, and the ribbon for finding the day had been pulled out and lost. So a few days after the busyness of Christmas, I'd found myself on the street in front of one of my favorite shops,

looking at the planners in the store window. This little shop sells some of the best things. They have shelves full of blank journals and notebooks, just waiting for you to write your great novel in. They have stationery in 100 patterns with envelopes to match. They have sealing wax in a hundred patterns with envelopes to match. They have ceiling wax in a hundred colors and stamps with every letter. They have calendars, some silly with cats doing yoga, and some with the most lovely illustrations of tiny sweet worlds that you can get lost in.

And they have planners. I stepped in out of the cold and noticed the smell of the shop. A bit like a library, and a bit like a craft room. Actually, it smelled exactly like the library in the elementary school I'd gone to as a child. Have you ever been stopped in your tracks by a smell that took you so powerfully back in time, you had to shake your head to clear it. I remembered the worn blue carpeting, the tall stacks of books, and the feeling of excitement, wondering what was in all of them. I remembered pulling an old book off of a shelf in a back corner and sliding the card out of the paper pocket inside the front cover to see when it had last been checked out and by whom. I went to a tiny school,

and it happened to be the same one my father had gone to as a child. And there on the card, a few rows from the top, in a child's handwriting, was his name. I guess in a small school, it wasn't such a coincidence that we should pick up the same book.

But at the time, I remember standing stuck still on that blue carpet, looking around with wide eyes and wondering if the universe was winking at me. I smiled at the memory and decided that along with my planner, I would buy a card to send to Dad. I started browsing, and before I knew it, I had a little pile of goodies. Dad's card. A calendar to hang in the kitchen. A fresh pack of pencils. I could hardly wait to sharpen them, a packet of origami papers, my new planner, which had all the features I liked, plus a built-in

pocket to store some notes, and a few pages of stickers in the back. Was I too old for stickers, I asked myself. Never, I answered. And lastly, only one new journal. I had so many, and I'd made myself a promise that I wouldn't buy any more till I filled up the old ones, so I only got one. A friendly face at the register rung me up and slipped all my purchases into a bag. As I stepped back out onto the winter street with it,

I thought of the projects I could try out in the new year, and I walked a few blocks, making plans in my head. I walked past a diner with booths lining the window and noticed an empty one away from the door. Perfect. I slipped in, pointed to a booth, and a waitress waved me to it. I ordered a cup of coffee and laid my new planner on the formica table. I took out my old one, along with a new pencil and my sharpener.

I'd had a moment just like this a year ago, the changing of the guard. I wrote my name and phone number in the new book, slid my flat palm over the fresh pages, and spun through them, filling in the birthdays and appointments and ideas. The waitress came back to warm up my coffee, and she smiled down at my scattered books and pages. Oh, I love a new planner at New Year's, she said. Me too, I agreed. She went back to her work, and I sipped coffee and wrote out Dad's card.

I looked through the pages of the wall calendar, marveling at the illustrations. I looked ahead to next year's Thanksgiving and Christmas, checking where they would land, as if I were really planning that far ahead. I guess I was just looking for reasons to daydream about the year to come. The street was getting dark now, and I started packing up my things. The waitress dropped off my bill, and as I was taking a few dollars out to pay it,

I thought suddenly about finding my dad's name in that book in the library all those years ago, and feeling like it was a little present that had been put into my hands. I took the blank journal, the one I wasn't supposed to buy anyway, and slipped a sheet of stickers into the front cover and left it with the money on the table and went out. I had written across the bill, Happy New Year. A New Leaf A new leaf. I'm not one for New Year's resolutions.

After all, why wait for a specific day on the calendar to start something new? All the same, I liked reflecting. I liked having time to parse apart a thought or a feeling. And I liked creating, sketching, or writing and wandering and exploring. And the start of a new year was always ripe for that. So when I turned over a new leaf, it was more literal than figurative. I turn the leaf of a new book or path on the trail or song on a record.

This time around, my fresh start was all to do with a new planner. I still liked a physical paper planner, a pretty book to write out my plans in. I like looking at a whole month or week at a time and setting down the dates and times of when I'll do the things I mean to do. Last year's was full. I was out of pages. And after a year of being carried in my bag and brought out and put away so many times, and after a year of being carried in my bag,

and brought out and put away so many times, the hard-bound edges were scuffed, and the ribbon for finding the day had been pulled out and lost. So a few days after the busyness of Christmas, I'd found myself on the street, in front of one of my favorite shops, looking at the planners of the best things. They have shelves full of blank journals and notebooks just waiting for you to write your great novel in. They have stationery in a hundred patterns with envelopes to match. They have sealing wax in a hundred colors and stamps with every letter.

They have calendars, some silly with cats doing yoga, and some with the most lovely illustrations of tiny sweet worlds that you can get lost in. And they have planners. I stepped in out of the cold and noticed the smell of the shop. A bit like a library. And a bit like a craft room. Actually, it smelled exactly like the library in the elementary school I'd gone to as a child.

Have you ever been stopped in your tracks by a smell that took you so powerfully back in time you have to shake your head to clear it? I remembered the worn blue carpeting, the tall stacks of books, and the feeling of excitement, wondering what was in all of them. I remembered pulling an old book off of a shelf in a back corner and sliding the card out of the paper pocket inside the front cover, to see when it had last been checked out,

and by whom. I went to a tiny school, and it happened to be the same one my father had gone to as a child. And there on the card, a few rows from the top, in a child's handwriting handwriting was his name. I guess in a small school, it wasn't such a coincidence that we should pick up the same book. But at the time, I remember standing, stock still, on that blue carpet,

looking around with wide eyes, and wondering if the universe was winking at me. I smiled at the memory, and decided that, along with my planner, I would buy a card to send to Dad. I started browsing, and before I knew it, I had a little pile of goodies. Dad's card,

a calendar to hang in the kitchen, a fresh pack of pencils. I could hardly wait to sharpen them. A packet of origami papers, my new planner, which had all the features I liked, plus a built-in pocket to store some notes, and a few pages of stickers in the back. Was I too old for stickers? I asked myself. Never, I answered. And lastly, only one new journal. I had so many, and I'd made myself a promise that I wouldn't buy any more

till I filled up the old ones, so I only got one. A friendly face at the register rung me up and slipped all my purchases into a bag. As I stepped back out onto the winter street with it, I thought of the projects I could try out in the new year, and I walked a few blocks, making plans in my head. I walked past a diner with booths lining the windows and noticed an empty one away from the door. Perfect. I slipped in,

pointed to the booth, and a waitress waved me to it. I ordered a cup of coffee and laid my new planner on the formica table. I took out my old one, along with a new pencil and my sharpener. I'd had a moment just like this a year ago. The changing of the guard. I wrote my name and phone number into the new book, slid my flat palm over the fresh pages,

and spun through them, filling in birthdays and appointments and ideas. The waitress came back to warm up my coffee and she smiled down at my scattered books and pages oh I love a new planner at New Year's she said me too I agreed she went back to her work and I sipped coffee and wrote out Dad's card. I looked through the pages of the wall calendar, marveling at the illustrations. I looked ahead to next year's Thanksgiving and Christmas,

checking where they would land, as if I were really planning that far ahead. I guess I was just looking for reasons to daydream about the year to come. The street was getting dark now, and I started packing my things up. The waitress dropped off my bill, and as I was taking out a few dollars to pay it,

I thought suddenly about finding Dad's name in that book, in the library, all those years ago, and feeling like it was a little present that had been put into my hands. I took the blank journal, the one that I wasn't supposed to buy anyway, and slipped a sheet of stickers into the front cover and left it with the money on the table and went out. I'd written across the bill, Happy New Year.

Sweet Dreams