Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - At The Diamond (Encore)

Episode Date: September 5, 2024

Originally Aired: September 5th, 2021 (Season 8, Episode 5) Our story tonight is called At the Diamond, and it’s a story about a warm day, stretched out on a blanket under a tree. It’s also about jumping through a sprinkler on soft green grass, a dried flower with blue petals, and a home run hit out past center field.  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 follow the link: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. 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 Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this. 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 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 let me say a bit about how this podcast works. I am about to tell you a bedtime story. And the story, if you let it, will become a place to rest your mind. When your mind has a place to rest, you will drop off into sleep. It really is that simple. It's when our minds run wild that we can't find sleep. So follow along with the sound of my voice

and the simple shape of the tale. And probably before I finish, you'll be sound asleep. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the middle of the night, try just thinking your way back through whatever details from the story you can remember. This is a kind of brain training. Your sleep will improve over time, and this response will only get stronger. But be patient if you're new to this. Our story tonight is called At the Diamond, and it's a story about a warm day stretched out on a blanket under a tree.

It's also about jumping through a sprinkler on soft green grass, a dried flower with blue petals and a home run, hit out past center field. All right, it's time. Turn off your light. Set down anything you are looking at. Slide down into the sheets and get as comfortable as you can. Feel your whole body getting heavier. Deeply relaxed.

If you tend to clench your jaw, try placing the tip of your tongue at the spot where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. This is a good habit to get into as you're drifting off, as it makes it pretty difficult to clench. Now, take a slow breath in through your nose. Let it out with a sigh. Do one more. Breathe in.

And out. Good. At the diamond. It was becoming a Sunday afternoon tradition. Since the spring, when on a walk through the neighborhood, I'd seen a small crowd at the park. I'd been curious and wandered over to see what was drawing people past the playground and paths. Then I heard the crack of the bat,

and a few moments later the satisfying sound of a baseball landing in a glove. It had been years since I'd seen a game, and while this was just a neighborhood league in matching t-shirts, it reminded me of games I'd gone to as a child. Sitting high in the stands with piles of peanut shells at my feet and snow cone stains on my lips. So all summer, whenever I was free on a Sunday afternoon, I'd been making my way over to the park, sometimes cheering with the small crowd of friends from the bleachers, and sometimes stretching out on a blanket under a tree, enough out of the way to be safe from foul balls.

I was close enough to hear the score called out every once in a while. Today would be a blanket day. The sky was a bright, clear blue without a single cloud, and the air was warm and humid. At home in the back hallway, I took a blanket down from the shelf in the closet and carried it out onto watched as dried blades of grass

fluttered down to the ground among the blades were a few wildflowers I'd picked the last time I'd used it they were a faded blue with a yellow ring where the petals met the stem I scooped them up and set them on a rock

by the bird feeder thinking they might be useful in someone's nest I folded the blanket be useful in someone's nest. I folded the blanket and went back in to fill a bottle with cold tea and fish my sunglasses from the drawer in the entryway. When I stepped out onto the front step, I lifted my face to the sunshine and let it warm me to my bones. I knew there would come a day,

many months into the winter, when I would have forgotten this feeling, when it would have gone from my body and I would daydream about blinding sun and thick heat. So I took every opportunity to build the stock in my system, hoping to make it last a little longer before I forgot it. It was a few blocks to the park, and I took my time. In the next street over, a sprinkler was sending slow, rotating arcs of water into the air, tiny rainbows appearing and disappearing as it fell.

There were kids in swimsuits jumping through it, racing up to it and shrieking as the cold water fell on them, then taking clumsy leaps over the bar and lining up to do it again. The water trailed down the edge of the lawn and spread over the sidewalk, and I breathed in the scent of wet pavement on a hot day that smelled the same as when I jumped over sprinklers as a child.

It's a little different than rain on pavement, though that is lovely too. Rain carried its own perfume that water from a spigot can't produce. And I found myself looking forward to the rainstorms that come in the autumn. I could hear the crowd in the park calling out, Hey, bada-bada, the teasing rivalry of people who've played together for years.

They were likely already a few innings in, and that was fine by me. Baseball games are long, and the nice thing about that is that you can show up a ways into play and be caught up in a blink. I carried my blanket and bottle past the swing sets and merry-go-rounds. There was a long slide with a soft pile of wood chips at its bottom, and I had a sense

memory of skidding down one during recess. The soles of my sneakers pressed to the length of the chute to slow me down and make long, squealing squeaks, a sound I never got tired of as a child, though our poor teachers and helpers probably still heard it in their dreams. Past the playground, I followed the path around the back of the baseball diamond and found a shady spot under a tree. I tossed my blanket out and kicked off my shoes and stretched out.

I stuck my toes into the sun and slipped my hands behind my head to look up into the branches. So many leaves, layers and layers of them, and high up, I could see a wind I couldn't feel on the ground. I knew they couldn't, but still wondered if a leaf might have a preference. Wanting to be up high, to be tossed in the wind, or down low, near a bird's nest.

I let my eyes close and listened to the game. From what I heard, it was the bottom of the fourth inning, and the score was four to two. I didn't come to watch the play, but more to be near the atmosphere. I didn't care who won or by how much and suspected that was true for many of the people in the bleachers and milling around by the benches. I just liked being near people, doing something they enjoyed.

Hearing the score called out reminded me of days riding in my grandfather's truck. The crank windows rolled down and my legs sticking to the vinyl bench seat as I rode beside him. The baseball game seemed to be on the radio, no matter what time of day it was. And while I hadn't understood the plays as they were called, I liked riding along with him, the voices of the announcers as familiar to me as his own voice. I shifted on the blanket, feeling a root under my shoulder, and sat up to take a sip of my tea.

I'd let it brew a bit too long, and it was sharp and strong, but it perked me up in the heat. I propped up onto my elbows and watched the game for a few minutes. A ground ball went skidding past third base, and the shortstop scooped it up and tossed it back to the catcher, who caught it with practiced ease and dropped down into a squat as the next batter stepped to the plate. I liked watching the way a batter would work their feet into the dirt, shifting their weight and swiveling their heels till they felt well-planted.

Sometimes there is nothing more grounding than feeling the actual ground. The batter pulled the bat around to her back shoulder and looked out at the pitcher's mound. When the pitch came, she swung for it and sent it with a loud crack all the way over the fence. Her team hooted and called out as she ran the bases. The center fielder dropped his hat in the grass in frustration and started trotting out to get the ball.

I smiled on my blanket and laid my head back in my hands. At the diamond. It was becoming a Sunday afternoon tradition. Since the spring, when on a walk through the neighborhood, I'd seen a small crowd at the park. I'd been curious and wandered over to see what was drawing people past the playground and paths. Then I heard the crack of the bat, and a few moments later, the satisfying sound of a baseball landing in a glove. It had been years since I'd seen a game.

And while this was just a neighborhood league in matching t-shirts, it reminded me of games I'd gone to as a child, sitting high in the stands with piles of peanut shells at my feet and snow cone stains on my lips. So all summer, whenever I was free on a Sunday afternoon, I'd been making my way over to the park, sometimes cheering with a small crowd of friends from the bleachers, and sometimes stretching out on a blanket under a tree. Enough out of the way to be safe from foul balls, but close enough to hear the score called out every once in a while. Today would be a blanket day.

The sky was a bright, clear blue, without a single cloud, and the air was warm and humid. At home, in the back hallway, I took a blanket down from the shelf in the closet and carried it out onto the patio in the backyard. I shook it out and watched as dried blades of grass fluttered down to the ground. Among the blades were a few wildflowers I'd picked the last time I'd used it.

They were a faded blue with a yellow ring where the petals met the stem. I scooped them up and set them on a rock by the bird feeder, thinking that they might be useful in someone's nest. I folded the blanket and went back in to fill a bottle with cold tea and fish my sunglasses from the drawer in the entryway. When I stepped out onto the front step, I lifted my face to the sunshine and let it warm me to my bones. I knew there would come a day, many months into the winter, when I would have forgotten this feeling,

when it would have gone from my body, and I would daydream about blinding sun and thick heat. So I took every opportunity to build the stock in my system, hoping to make it last a little longer before I forgot it. It was a few blocks to the park, and I took my time. In the next street over, a sprinkler was sending slowly rotating arcs of water into the air, tiny rainbows appearing and disappearing as it fell. There were kids in swimsuits jumping through it, racing up to it, and shrieking as the cold water fell on them, then taking clumsy leaps over the bar and lining up to do it again. The water trailed down the edge of the lawn

and spread over the sidewalk. And I breathed in the scent of wet pavement on a hot though that is lovely too. Rain carried its own perfume that water from a spigot can't produce. And I found myself looking forward to the rainstorms that would come in the autumn. I could hear the crowd in the park calling out, hey, bada bada, the teasing rivalry of people who've played together for years. They were likely already a few innings in, and that was fine by me. baseball games are long

and the nice thing about that is that you can show up a ways into play and be caught up in a blink I carried my blanket and bottle past the swing sets and merry-go-rounds. There was a long slide with a soft pile of wood chips at its bottom, and I had a sense memory of skidding down one during recess, the soles of my sneakers pressed to the length of the chute

to slow me down and make long, squealing squeaks, a sound I never got tired of as a child. Though our poor teachers and helpers probably still heard it in their dreams. Past the playground, I followed the path around the back of the baseball diamond and found a shady spot under a tree. I tossed my blanket out and kicked off my shoes and stretched out. I stuck my toes into the sun and slipped my hands behind my head to look up into the branches.

So many leaves, layers and layers of them. And high up, I could see a wind I couldn't feel on the ground. I knew they couldn't, but still wondered if a leaf might have a preference. Wanting to be up high, to be tossed in the wind, or down low, near a bird's nest. I let my eyes close and listened to the game.

From what I heard, closed and listened to the game. From what I heard, it was the bottom of the fourth inning, but more to be near the atmosphere. I didn't care who won or by how much, and suspected that was true for many of the people in the bleachers and milling around by the benches. I just liked being near people, doing something they enjoyed. Hearing the score called out

reminded me of days riding in my grandfather's truck. The crank windows rolled down and my legs sticking to the vinyl bench seat as I rode beside him. The baseball game seemed to be on the radio, no matter what time of day it was. And while I hadn't understood the plays as they were called, I liked riding along with him, the voices of the announcers, as familiar to me as his own voice. I shifted on the blanket, feeling a root under my shoulder, and sat up to take a sip of my tea. I'd let it brew a bit too long, and it was sharp and strong, but it perked me up in the

heat. I propped up onto my elbows and watched the game for a few minutes. A ground ball went skidding past third base, and the shortstop scooped it up and tossed it back to the catcher, who caught it with practiced ease and dropped back down into a squat as the next batter stepped to the plate. I liked watching the way a batter

would work their feet into the dirt, shifting their weight and swiveling their heels till they felt well-planted. Sometimes there is nothing more grounding than feeling the actual ground. The batter pulled the bat around to her back shoulder and looked out to the pitcher's mound. When the pitch came, she swung for it and sent it with a loud crack all the way over

the fence. Her team hooted and called out as she ran the bases. the center fielder dropped his hat in the grass in frustration and started trotting out to get the ball. I smiled on my blanket and laid my head back in my hands. Sweet dreams.