Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - All the Way Around the Lake (Encore)

Episode Date: January 9, 2025

Originally Aired: January 11th, 2021 (Season 7, Episode 1) Our story tonight is called All the Way Around the Lake, and it’s a story about a slow walk on a cold day. It’s also about crossing bridges, a paper birch tree on an island, and remembering things that were forgotten.   Order your own NMH weighted pillow now! shop.nothingmuchhappens.com/products/weighted-pillows    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 NMH Premium channel on Apple podcast or follow the link below  nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription    Listen to our new show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much on your favorite podcast app. nothingmuchhappens.com/stories-from-the-village     Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this    Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: • Eversio Wellness: Chill Now • Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle • Alice Mushrooms Nightcap • Nutrachamps Tart Cherry Gummies • A Brighter Year Mini Coloring Book • NuStrips Sleep Strips • Woolzies Lavender Roll-On

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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person, and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest

and sweet dreams. Now I have a story to tell you. It's a soft place to rest your mind, and I think it works best if you imagine yourself in it. So as you listen and follow along with the sound of my voice, pull the details of the story around you like a blanket. Before you know it, you'll be in deep, restorative sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again, or just pull those details back into your mind.

Think through any part of the story that you can remember, and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called All the Way Around the Lake, and it's a story about a slow walk on a cold day. It's also about crossing bridges, a paper birch tree on an island and remembering things that were forgotten. Okay, it's time. Turn off your light. Set everything down. Get as comfortable as you can. You have done enough for today, and now it is time to sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose. And let it out your mouth. Again, slow in, out with sound. Good.

All the way around the lake. I was nearly there, taking the last few turns down the dirt roads on the far side of the orchard, out nearly to the county line. Snow had fallen steadily for the last day or so, and while the skies were still low and gray, the wind had gone and the day felt bright. We often say to each other, when clouds blanket the sky, where did the sun go? roads blink at the sky, where did the sun go? But, of course, it hasn't gone anywhere. It persists, steadily sending its warmth and light to us, even when we cannot see it. I'd been forgetting things like that lately, and it was laying me low. And I was looking at the world through the darkest, most smudged lens.

A friend, hearing that heaviness in my voice over the phone, asked when the last time was that I'd been outside for a good, long walk. I stopped to think and felt my face break into a smile. I almost laughed, seeing clearly for the first time in a few days. Thank you, was all I said, and hung up the phone, and went to find my boots. I turned into the lot, just a clear plowed space off the side of the road with a dozen cars parked in it. As I stepped out onto the frozen gravel, I made sure I had my hat, my mittens, my muffler pulled over my chin, then felt into my pockets for other necessities and found a lip balm and a pack of tissues for the effects of this lovely, fresh, cold air on my nose.

I had everything I needed and set off down the trail toward the lake. Immediately, just being outside, I felt better. I took deep breaths of the piney, icy air, and it felt like a vitamin hitting my system, instantly boosting my mood and energy. The path went through the woods for a while, and I stopped now and then to look up at the hundreds of bare branches against the sky. I saw bundles of twigs and leaves tucked into the crooks of tree boughs, avian summer homes now shuttered for the season. Black squirrels, their thick, fluffy tails dancing behind them,

were checking their inventory. Up one tree, across to another, down to the roots, and then digging in the snow. and there was the lake. Ah, another dose of what I'd been missing. I stopped to take in a long look. There was an edge of ice along the shore, a yard or so wide. It was bright and white with heaps of snow, and the water beside shone dark against it. Out in the middle of the lake was a tiny island, only as big around as a kitchen table, but with one tall paper birch tree standing on it. These trees, with their thin, flat bark,

tend to attract folks with pocket knives who feel the need to carve in initials and dates. Even the oldest graffiti in the world, in tombs in Egypt, in labyrinths in Sudan, Enlabyrinths in Sudan, carved on stone walls of basilicas in Smirna, mostly just say, so-and-so was here. It seems to be a universal compulsion to leave a mark. Still, I was glad that paper birch was safe from all of that out there, where it could drop its seeds to be carried on the water to some other fertile place. It seemed to me that planting a seed was a better way to leave a mark than carving out a scar. That lake scent of water and cold felt clear and clean in my nose and lungs.

I kept walking. I was going all the way around the lake today. It would take an hour or more, and that was fine with me. I passed a family walking with their dogs, and we smiled at each other behind our scarves. Their dogs looked built for cold weather, with thick fur and broad chests, and pulled their people forward, their eager paws digging into the snow like they were pulling a sleigh. The path turned back into the woods for a bit, and scattered across it were a few fallen branches from a pine tree. I think it is the very best scent in the world, fresh pine. And I felt so incredibly lucky to be just where I was right then.

I nearly laughed aloud at how far my mood had shifted just by spending a little time outside. Walking in the snow felt a bit like walking in sand, and while I knew that was good therapy for my legs, I reminded myself I wasn't on a deadline and walked slower and spent more time just looking at the landscape. The lake came back into view, and here it was solid ice with geese and ducks walking and sitting on the surface. They honked and quacked at each other, or sat unbothered by the cold, and turned their faces to the dim light of the sun behind the clouds. Among the mallards was one white farm duck. Every year I would look for him. A standout in the crowd and the only

member of his flock I could identify. But still, I would eagerly search for him each spring. I hadn't found him this year, and hoped he was just watering at another lake, or that I was missing him by chance on my walks. Now, here he was, and I was so glad to see him. Maybe that's silly, or maybe it's the very best human instinct, just to check on others, even strangers, to see that they have made it safely back home. I was more than halfway round the lake now, and came to a spot free from ice where the water flowed.

There was a bridge made of stones and mortar that spanned a section of the lake where it split off into another. In the summer, you could look down to see a shoal of carp, each two or three feet long, with silver bellies floating lazily in the shallows. I stood listening to the water as it rushed under the bridge, dropping into the lower lake behind me. There's some magic about bridges, isn't there? It's where you fall in love at first sight in a movie. Where you stand to toss over a corked bottle with a secret inside.

Or pensively skim stones. And if you were walking across a bridge on a summer night, just as a bloom of fireworks streaked the sky above you, would you ever forget it? Whether it is made of steel girders, 277 feet up, with tugboats and freighters passing underneath, or planks of creaking wood in a dense forest, or stones and mortar over hibernating carp. There is something about crossing a bridge that takes you out of your head and drops you right back into your body. I was nearing the end of my walk.

Another 10 minutes now and I'd be back to my car. I was warmed up from the exercise, but felt the chill in my feet and in the tip of my nose. I'd needed a tune-up, and I'd gotten one. I was recalibrated and ready to go back. I'd take off my layers and make a huge cup of hot chocolate and settle down in my chair that faces the backyard. I'd lift the cup to my lips and blow at the steam

and look out at the red glow behind the clouds and remind myself that even when I can't see it, the light is there. All the way around the lake, I was nearly there, taking the last few turns down the dirt roads on the far side of the orchard, out nearly to the county line. Snow had fallen steadily for the last day or so, and while the skies were still low and gray, the wind had where did the sun go? But of course, it hasn't gone anywhere. It persists, steadily sending its warmth and light to us, even when we cannot see it. I'd been forgetting things like that lately, and it was laying me low. I'd been looking at the world through the darkest, most smudged lens.

A friend, hearing that heaviness in my voice over the phone, asked when the last time was that I'd been outside for a good, long walk. I stopped to think and felt my face break into a smile. I almost laughed, seeing clearly for the phone and went to find my boots. I turned into the lot, just a clear plowed space off the side of the road, with a dozen cars parked in it. As I stepped out onto the frozen gravel, I made sure I had my hat, my mittens, my muffler pulled over my chin, then felt into necessities and found a lip balm and a pack of tissues for the effects of this lovely, fresh, cold air on my nose. I had everything I needed and set off down the trail toward the lake.

Immediately, just being outside and it felt like a vitamin hitting my system, instantly boosting my mood and energy. The path went through the woods for a while, and I stopped now and then to look up at the hundreds of bare branches against the sky. I saw bundles of twigs and leaves tucked into the crooks of tree boughs, avian summer homes now shuttered for the season. Black squirrels, their thick, fluffy tails, dancing behind them, were checking their inventory. Up one tree, across to another, down to the roots, and then digging in the snow. The path turned and there was the lake. Another dose of what I'd been missing.

I stopped to take in a long look. There was an edge of ice along the shore, a yard or so wide. It was bright and white, with heaps of snow, and the water beside shone dark against it. Out in the middle of the lake was a tiny island, only as big around as a kitchen table, but with one tall paper birch tree standing on it. These trees, with their thin, flat bark, tend to attract folks with pocket knives, who feel the need to carve in initials and dates. Even the oldest graffiti in the world,

in tombs in Egypt, in labyrinths in Sudan, carved on stone walls of basilicas in Smyrna, mostly just say, so-and-so was here. It seems to be a universal compulsion to leave a mark. Still I was glad that paper birch was safe from all of that out there. where it could drop its seeds to be carried on the water to some other fertile place. It seemed to me that planting a seed was a better way to leave a mark than carving out a scar. That lake scent of water and cold felt clear and clean in my nose and lungs. I kept walking.

I was going all the way around the lake today. It would take an hour or more, and that was fine with me. I passed a family walking with their dogs, and we smiled at each other behind our scarves. Their dogs looked built for cold weather, with thick fur and broad chests, and pulled their people forward, their eager paws digging into the snow like a bit, and scattered across it were a few fallen branches from a pine tree. I think it is the very best scent in the world, fresh pine, and I felt so incredibly lucky to be just where I was right then. I nearly laughed aloud at how far my mood had shifted, just by spending a little time outside.

Walking in the snow felt a bit like walking in sand, and while I knew that was good therapy for my legs, I reminded myself I wasn't on a deadline and walked slower and spent more time just looking at the landscape. The lake came back into view, and here it was solid ice, with geese and ducks walking and sitting on the surface. and ducks walking and sitting on the surface. They honked and quacked at each other, unbothered by the cold, and turned their faces to the dim light of the sun behind the clouds. Among the mallards was one white farm duck.

Every year I would look for him, a standout in the crowd, and the only member of his flock I could identify. But still, I would eagerly search for him each spring. I hadn't found him this year, and hoped he was just watering at another lake, or that I was missing him by chance on my walks. Now, here he was, and I was so glad to see him. Maybe that's silly. Or maybe it's the very best human instinct. Just to check on others, even strangers, and see that they have made it safely back home.

I was more than halfway around the lake now, and came to a spot free from ice where the water flowed. There was a bridge made of stones and mortar that spanned a section of the lake where it split off into another. In the summer, you could look down to see a shoal of carp, each two or three feet long, with silver bellies floating lazily in the shallows. I stood listening to the water as it rushed under the bridge, dropping into the lower lake behind me. There's some magic about bridges, isn't there. It's where you fall in love at first sight in a movie. Where you stand to toss over a corked bottle with a secret inside. Pensively skim stones. And if you were walking across a bridge on a summer night, just as a bloom of fireworks streaked the sky above you, would you ever forget it? Whether it is made of steel girders, 277 feet up, with tugboats and freighters passing underneath,

or planks of creaking wood in a dense forest, or stones and mortar over hibernating carp. There is something about crossing a bridge that takes you out of your head and drops you right back into your body. I was nearing the end of my walk. Another ten minutes and and in the tip of my nose. I needed a tune-up, and I'd gotten one. I was recalibrated and ready to go back. I'd take off my layers and make a huge cup of hot chocolate and settle down in my chair that faces the backyard. I'd lift the cup to my lips and blow at the steam, and look out at the red glow behind the clouds, and remind myself that even when I can't see it, the light is there.

Sweet dreams.