Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - All Day, At Home

Episode Date: February 24, 2020

Our story tonight is called All Day, At Home and it’s a story about tucking yourself away from the world for a bit. It’s also about watching winter from a window seat, red pepper flakes from the Italian coast, and the joy of minding one’s own business. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book!Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, 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. Thank you for listening and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter

for a bit of extra coziness. So I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. And the story is like a soft landing spot for your mind. Rather than letting your brain race through the same thoughts you've been chasing all day, we are going to take a detour to a calm and cozy place. I'll tell this story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the middle of the night, just walk yourself back through any of the details that you remember, and you'll drop right back off.

We get better at what we do habitually, so be patient if you are new to this. Your sleep will improve with time and practice. Now it's time to turn off the light. Take one last sip of water and snuggle down into your favorite sleeping position. Get your pillow in the perfect spot. And take a slow, deep breath in through your nose. And out through your mouth. Nice. Do that one more time.

Breathe in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called All Day at Home. And it's a story about tucking yourself away from the world for a bit. It's also about watching winter from a window seat, red pepper flakes from the Italian coast, and the joy of minding one's own business. All day, at home. It wasn't the weather that kept me home today, though there were certainly still drifts of snow banked beside the front door,

and a low, grey sky that hinted at more to come. It was just that feeling when I woke, the feeling of being a bit overe quiet to myself that helped me make up my mind. As I stirred my morning cup of coffee, I decided to stay home all day, to not go out unless it was to feed the birds or bring in firewood. Or to stand for a few moments in the cool air and breathe in the smell of, well, winter air really smells like the absence of. Of growing green things. of movement and doing.

I guess winter air smells like quiet and stillness and repose. And that matched my needs perfectly today. Once I'd decided that today was a day for retreat, I'd taken my nearly full journal from my drawer and my pen and a blanket and went to the window seat that looked down into the small, sloping valley at the edge of my backyard.

In the summer, when I would sit here with the window open and let the birdsong and the warm breeze in, I could imagine myself in a treehouse, as all I could see were layers and layers of leaves. These were old trees, their toes dug deep into the rich lowland, and their tops level with my window. Now I looked out at their bare branches, spread like reaching fingers across the sky. Nests from last summer were suddenly visible as dark clumps in the joints of those fingers.

And I wondered where their former residents were at this moment. Spreading their wings in bright sunlight? Splashing in a friendly birdbath in a southerly backyard? Or sleeping with a wing tucked over a head in a new nest somewhere warm. I spent a while sitting there, writing in my journal and looking out the window. I wrote about small things from the week, some that I wanted to remember, and some that I was ready to forget. And putting them down on the paper helped me to do that. It gave them a place to live that wasn't my head.

Eventually, I set the book aside and pulled the blanket closer around me. Sometimes from this spot, I could see deer browsing through the trunks of trees, dipping their heads and nosing the snow aside from a mouthful of berries. But today, all was still. Everyone was staying home. Eventually, I slipped my feet back into my slippers and padded down into the kitchen. It was a bit past lunchtime. Nearly two, in fact.

And that made me think of the Italian way of eating a good-sized meal at this time of day. Something that would stay with you and nourish you for a good long while. I went to my cupboard and pulled down a jar of green lentils, a tiny can of tomato paste, and a box of pasta. Pasta con lenticchio today. A comforting pasta soup that was simple to make and delicious and satisfying. I tipped the lentils into a colander to rinse them, and as they ran over my fingers,

I had a sudden memory of being very young, maybe four years old, in a classroom with a paint-smeared smock tied around me. There were bins of rice and grains, and we could dip our tiny hands into them and feel them tickle over our skin as all the kernels and seeds collided. I remembered that I had liked the way it felt and had happily stayed there, just sliding my hands through the bins

and quietly humming to myself. I supposed I hadn't changed that much in the years since. I still liked the pleasure of my own company and could easily entertain myself with simple, enjoyable things. I took a small pot from a shelf and set it on the stove. I measured in water and olive oil, a clove of garlic and a spoonful of the tomato paste. I added the rinsed lentils and turned on the hob. As the water warmed and came to a boil, the smell of the tomato and garlic filled my little kitchen. I turned it a bit lower and let it simmer away for a bit to let the lentils soften.

I liked a small pasta noodle for this, like titali, which are short tubes and whose name meant thimble. I liked that. Thimble soup on a cold day. The broth had become a bit thicker as the lentils cooked and was a rich, reddish brown. I tipped in the pasta and gave it a stir. As it cooked, I set a place for myself at the table.

A glass of mineral water, a napkin, salt and pepper, and a tiny dish of red pepper flakes. I was rationing them, and had been doling them out in tiny increments for a while now. You can buy them anywhere. But these particular peperoncini had been bought in a little shop in Maiori by a friend, and therefore had a special flavor that probably had more to do with sentiment than taste buds.

I imagined her on her summer vacation with a floppy hat and giant sunglasses stepping out of the bright Mediterranean sun into a shop with packets of spices strung on a hook by the door, and remembering how much I liked to add these to my soups and sauces, taking one down for me. When the pasta was cooked, I ladled it out into a bowl and carried it to my place. I pinched a few flakes of pepper in and stirred it through. The lentils had nearly dissolved, and the surface of the

broth was speckled with olive oil. The clove of garlic had gone soft and sweet as it cooked, and I spooned it into my first bite with a few pasta thimbles and a good bit of the tomato stock. This day, this meal, the time at the window with my book and pen. They were restoring me. It's easy these days to feel like you're under a microscope, over-examined or scrutinized, and then to feel like you need a bit of time to be invisible to the rest of the world,

and with a lot of care and tenderness to simply mind your own business. That's what I would continue to do today. Tend to myself and let the world revolve without me for a bit. All day at home. It wasn't the weather that kept me home today, though there were certainly still drifts of snow banked beside the front door, and a low gray sky that hinted at more to come. It was just that feeling when I woke.

The feeling of being a bit overexposed to the world. Of needing a day of quiet to myself that helped me to make up my mind. As I stirred my morning cup of coffee, I decided to stay home all day, to not go out unless it was to feed the birds or to bring in firewood or to stand for a few moments in the cool air

and breathe in the smell of, well, winter air really smells like the absence of, of growing green things, of movement and doing. I guess winter air smells like quiet and stillness and repose. And that matched my needs perfectly today. Once I'd decided that today was a day for retreat, I'd taken my nearly full journal from my drawer and my pen and my blanket I'd taken my nearly full journal from my drawer, and my pen, and my blanket,

and went to the window seat that looked down into the small, sloping valley at the edge of my backyard. In the summer, when I would sit here with the window open and let the birdsong and the warm breeze in, I could imagine myself in a treehouse, as all I could see were layers and layers of leaves. These were old trees. Their toes dug deep into the rich, low land, and their tops level with my window. Now I looked out at their bare branches, spread like reaching fingers across the sky.

Nests from last summer were suddenly visible as dark clumps in the joints of those fingers. And I wondered where their former residents were at this moment. Spreading their wings in bright sunlight. Splashing in a friendly birdbath in a southerly backyard, or sleeping with a wing tucked over a head in a new nest somewhere warm. I spent a while sitting there, writing in my journal, and looking out the window. I wrote about small things from the week,

some that I wanted to remember, and some that I was ready to forget, and putting them down on the paper helped me to do that. It gave them a place to live that wasn't my head. Eventually, I set the book aside and I pulled the blanket closer around me. Sometimes from this spot, I could see deer browsing through the trunks of the trees, dipping their heads and nosing the snow aside from a mouthful of berries. But today, all was still. Everyone was staying home. Eventually, I slipped my feet back into my slippers and padded down into the kitchen.

It was a bit past lunchtime, nearly two in fact. And that made me think of the Italian way of eating a good-sized meal at this time of the day. Something that would stay with you and nourish you for a good long while. I went to my cupboard and pulled down a jar of green lentils, a tiny can of tomato paste, and a box of pasta. Pasta con lenticchio today. A comforting pasta soup that was simple to make and delicious and satisfying.

I tipped the lentils into a colander to rinse them, and as they ran over my fingers, I had a sudden memory of being very young, maybe four years old, in a classroom with a paint-smeared smock tied around me. There were bins of rice and grains, and we could dip our tiny hands into them and feel the tickle over our skin

as all the kernels and seeds collided. I remembered that I had liked the way it felt and had happily stayed there, just sliding my hands through the bins and quietly humming to myself. I supposed I hadn't changed that much in the years since. I still liked the pleasure of my own company and could easily entertain myself with simple, enjoyable things. I took a small pot from a shelf and set it on the stove. I measured in water and olive oil, a clove of garlic, and a spoonful of tomato paste.

I added the rinsed lentils and turned on the hob. As the water warmed and came to a boil, the smell of the tomato and garlic filled my little kitchen. I turned it a bit lower and let it simmer away for a bit to let the lentils soften. I liked a small pasta noodle for this, like titali, which are short tubes and whose name meant thimble. I liked that. Thimble soup on a cold day. The broth had become a bit thicker as the lentils cooked, and was a rich, reddish brown. I tipped in the pasta and gave it a stir. As it cooked, I set a place for myself at the table. A glass of mineral water, a napkin,

salt and pepper, and a tiny dish of red pepper flakes. I was rationing them and had been doling them out in tiny increments for a while now. You can buy them anywhere, but these particular peperoncini had been bought in a little shop in Maiori by a friend and therefore had a special flavor that probably had more to

do with sentiment than taste buds. I imagined her on her summer vacation with a floppy hat and giant sunglasses, stepping out of the bright Mediterranean sun into a shop with packets of spices strung on a hook by the door, remembering how much I like to add these to my soups and sauces and taking one down for me. how much I like to add these to my soups and sauces, and taking one down for me.

When the pasta was cooked, I ladled it out into a bowl and carried it to my place. I pinched a few flakes of pepper in, and stirred it through. The lentils had nearly dissolved, and the surface of the broth was speckled with olive oil. The clove of garlic had gone soft and sweet as it cooked, and I spooned it into my first bite with a few pasta thimbles and a good bit of the tomato stock. The day, this meal, the time at the window with my book and pen, they were restoring me. It's easy these days

to feel like you are under the microscope, over-examined or scrutinized. And then to feel like you need a bit of time to be invisible to the rest of the world. And with a lot of care and tenderness, to simply mind your own business.

That's what I would continue to do today. Tend to myself. And let the world revolve without me for a bit. Sweet dreams.