Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - At the Hideaway

Episode Date: April 6, 2020

Our story tonight is called “At the Hideaway” and it’s a story about getting away to a tiny cabin in the woods. It’s also about seeing signs of Spring, a long walk, and finding a way to feel connected even when we’re far apart. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase 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 follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter

for a bit of extra coziness. 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 today has been like 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 are 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. Now it's time to turn off the light. Put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. In time, all of this becomes a signal for your brain. A signal that says it's time for sleep. Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Nice. Do that one more time.

Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Hideaway. And it's a story about getting away to a tiny cabin in the woods. It's also about finding signs of spring, a long walk, and a way to feel connected, even when we're far apart. The hideaway.

The car was packed. We looked over our shoulders as we sat in the front seat, to see that our dog was safely buckled into his spot in the back. He thumped his tail against the seat and shifted his weight excitedly from paw to paw. He was ready to go, and so were we. We had clothes and food and books and everything we needed to hide away for a bit at the cabin. So we turned back toward the road and set out. The roads were clear and dry after a week of grey skies and mist and rain.

The sun was coming out, and the air was warming. As we drove, I looked for, and found, a few signs of spring, an edge of slightly greener growth around curbs and yards the first timid shoots of tulips rising in the verge beside the highway a V of geese pushing through the air high above us and lower to the ground shifting translucent clouds of starlings, newly returned after the winter. We listened to an audiobook as we drove, a few hours past fields and farmlands, to our

little hideaway. It was a book we'd promised not to listen to unless we were together, and had been making our way through one chapter at a time for a while. When there was a twist in the plot, a sudden, unforeseen trapdoor sprung open by the author. What fun it was to turn to each other, our eyes wide and our mouths agape, to see our own surprise reflected on the other person's face.

It almost made the time pass too quickly. The long drive was wrapping up, and we still hadn't figured out who'd done it. The car trundled down the long dirt road that ended in front of our cabin, ringed all around by tall pine trees. And we sat, in a silent silent pact in the car, listening until we got to the end of the chapter. To be continued, I said, as we finally switched it off and opened the doors to let the dog out to run.

The air here was so different from the air in the city. There I'd been scouring for signs of spring, but here it was apparent in each breath. There was that woodsy, piney smell of rain-soaked earth and last year's leaves breaking down where they'd piled under the trees, and also the brand new smell of growing grass and fresh wind. We unpacked the car as the dog chased through the cabin and back out into the open woods. We'd brought fresh foods to fill the fridge, but already had a well-stocked pantry here. Beside the sacks of dried beans and packs of pasta were neat rows of home-canned tomatoes, jams and jellies.

I'd had a glut of vegetables from the garden last summer and had made every kind of pickle I could think of. I'd dried the fresh herbs from the pots that had sat out on our deck, and even gathered and shelled a few pounds of pecans from our own trees. Soon all was settled inside, and we decided to make the most of the sunshine and head

out for a long walk with a dog. In the city, he had to make the most of our small fenced-in yard and stay on his leash when we walked. But here he had acres to run through and walked free beside us along the edge of the woods, sometimes stopping to sniff or trade one stick for another, and then racing to catch back up. We could all be a little more free here. We walked for well over an hour, checking in on some favorite places along the way.

There was the spot where the creek turned in a rushing rhythm through the trees, where we'd built a makeshift bridge of fallen logs and flat rocks, the place where we nearly always saw deer grazing and turkeys walking in that strange straight-legged prance of theirs, their heads rocking forward and back as they picked their way through the grass. As evening came on, we made our way back to the cabin, and stood looking out and down the side of the valley, visible from the deck. There were only a few houses spread out along the hillside, some high and some low.

Lights shone from windows far away, and it felt good to know that, even though our neighbors and friends were distant, they were there, still there, safe in their homes, reading and chatting and cooking dinner. From a house far up on the hill, we saw a flicker, and then the steady glow of Christmas lights being plugged back in.

Why not? They lined the peak of the roof and wrapped around a few of the neighboring trees. We both laughed as the lights came on and slid our arms around one another's shoulders in the twilight. The cool night air was chasing us in, and I was looking forward to a good hot dinner and listening to the next chapter of our book. We'd brought up packets of seeds to start

and made plans to make the garden bigger while we cooked. We had plenty of space to fill, and now that I was an old hand at canning, I thought we may as well grow as much as we could. We'd can what we couldn't eat, and share some with our neighbors on the hill. Those would be the projects of the coming days. Starting seeds, turning over dirt, and making more vegetable beds.

We'd take long walks and throw and stay late in bed in the mornings sipping coffee and listening to our book We'd find a few boxes of Christmas lights in the closet and string them up around the doors and windows to shine for our neighbors to see in the darkness We'd write onto the calendar the signs of the changing season to shine for our neighbors to see in the darkness. We'd write onto the calendar the signs of the changing season and keep track of rainfall and sunny days.

We'd take care of each other and do our best for each other. Because that never stops being important. The hideaway. The car was packed. We looked over our shoulders as we sat in the front seat, to see that our dog was safely buckled into his spot in the back. He thumped his tail against the seat and shifted his excitedly from paw to paw. He was ready to go.

And so were we. We had clothes and food and books and everything we needed to hide away for a bit at the cabin. So we turned back toward the road and set out. The roads were clear and dry. After a week of gray skies and mist and rain, the sun was coming out and the air was warming. As we drove, I looked for and found a few signs of spring, an edge of slightly greener growth around curbs and yards, the first timid shoots of tulips rising in the verge beside the highway, a V of geese pushing through the air high above us, and lower to the ground,

shifting translucent clouds of starlings, newly returned after the winter. We listened to an audiobook as we drove a few hours past fields and farmlands to our little hideaway. It was a book we'd promised not to listen to unless we were together, and had been making our way through, one chapter at a time, for a while. When there was a twist in the plot, a sudden, unforeseen trap door sprung open by the author.

What fun it was to turn to each other, our eyes wide and mouths agape, and see our own surprise reflected on the other person's face. It almost made the time pass too quickly. The long drive was wrapping up, and we still hadn't figured out who done it. The car trundled down the long dirt road that ended in front of our cabin, ringed all around by tall pine trees. And we sat in a silent pact in the car, listening, until we got to the end of the chapter. To be continued, I said,

as we finally switched it off and opened the doors and let the dog out to run. The air here was so different from the air in the city. There I'd been scouring for signs of spring, but here it was apparent in each breath. There was that woodsy, piney smell of rain-soaked earth and last year's leaves breaking down where they piled under the trees, and also the brand-new smell of growing grass and fresh wind.

We unpacked the car as the dog chased through the cabin and back out into the open woods. We'd brought fresh foods to fill the fridge, but already had a well-stocked pantry here. Beside the sacks of dried beans and packs of pasta were neat rows of home-canned tomatoes, jams, and jellies. I'd had a glut of vegetables from the garden last summer, and had made every kind of pickle I could think of. I'd dried the fresh herbs from the pots that sat on our deck, and even gathered and shelled a few pounds of pecans from our own trees. Soon, all was settled inside,

and we decided to make the most of the sunshine and head out for a long walk with the dog. In the city, he had to make the most of our small, fenced-in yard and stay on his leash when we walked. But here he had acres to run through and walked free beside us along the edge of the woods, sometimes stopping to sniff or trade one stick for another, and then racing to catch back up. We could all be a little more free here. We walked for well over an hour, checking in on some favorite places along the way. There was the spot where the creek turned in a rushing rhythm through the trees, where where we'd built a makeshift bridge of fallen logs and flat rocks,

the place where we nearly always saw deer grazing and turkeys walking in that strange, straight-leg prance of theirs, their heads rocking forward and back as they picked their way through the grass. As evening came on, we made our way back to the cabin and stood looking out and down the side of the valley, visible from our deck. There were only a few houses spread out along the hillside, some high and some low. Lights shone from windows far away, and it felt good to know that even though our neighbors and friends were distant,

they were there, still there, safe in their homes, reading and chatting and cooking dinner. From a house far up on the hill, we saw a flicker and then the steady glow of Christmas lights being plugged back in. Why not? They lined the peak of the roof and wrapped around a few of the neighboring trees. We both laughed as the lights came on and slid our arms around one another's shoulders in the twilight. The cool night air was chasing us in, and I was looking forward to a good hot dinner and listening to the next chapter of our book. We'd brought up packets of seeds to start and made plans to make the garden bigger while we cooked.

We had plenty of space to fill. Now that I was an old hand at canning, I thought we may as well grow as much as we could. We'd can what we couldn't eat, and share the rest with our neighbors on the hill. Those would be the projects of the coming days. Starting seeds, turning over dirt, and making more vegetable beds. We'd take long walks and throw sticks for the dog to fetch. We'd try new recipes for dinner and stay late in bed in the mornings, sipping coffee and listening to our book.

We'd find a few boxes of Christmas lights in the closet and string them up around the doors and windows to shine for our neighbors to see in the darkness. We'd write on the calendar the signs of the changing season and keep track of rainfall and sunny days. We'd take care of each other and do our best for each other because that never stops being important. Sweet dreams.