Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Auld Lang Syne

Episode Date: January 3, 2022

Our story tonight is called Auld Lang Syne, and it’s a story about daybreak on a new year. It’s also about a little book with a page missing, what we let go of and what we keep and the scent of woodsmoke on a January morning. 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 Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. You can subscribe to our ad-free and bonus episodes by merch and my book, all at nothingmuchhappens.com. Every episode is someone's first,

so I like to explain how this podcast works. I'm going to tell you a story to help you relax and drop off into sleep. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. The story is like a landing pad for your mind, a soft place for it to rest. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or the second telling, don't worry. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself back through the details that you remember, especially any bit that felt particularly cozy. By doing this, you train your brain and body to wind down. And the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep.

So have a little patience at the beginning. Now, lights out campers. It's time to snuggle yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find. Notice how your sheets feel. How good it is to be in your bed and about to fall asleep. I'll be right here, keeping watch with my voice. So please, let go.

Relax. Let's take a slow, deep breath in through the nose and sigh through your mouth. Nice. One more like that. Breathe in and out. Good.

Our story tonight is called Auld Lang Syne. And it's a story about daybreak on a new year. It's also about a little book with a page missing. What we let go of and what we keep. And the scent of wood smoke on a January morning. Auld Lang Syne I hummed the melody under my breath. I had been for a few days

since we'd all sung it, stumbling over some of the words, around the bonfire as the sun came up. I'd always loved that song, which at first puzzled me with its lyrics, though its undercurrent had always been perfectly clear. Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? It was a song often sung by friends at the end of the year, so it felt like a resounding no should follow that line. The answer came in the chorus, if you knew the translation. For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld time's sake. It was about reminiscences, about things shared and not forgot, less maybe the things we needed to let go of. That was what that morning had been about. We'd sat in the pre-dawn light on logs and patio chairs that had had the snow swept off of them. We were bundled in our coats, and the fire lit our faces. I could smell the earthy spice of the smoke,

and under it the cold, clean scent of snow. We'd each brought a little notebook or journal and something to write with. I'd brought a favorite of mine, small, just about the size of my palm, and covered in simple brown paper. I'd been given it a year or so ago. A gift from a friend who'd seen it in a craft fair and thought of me. At first glance, it was too plain, and I'd

been on the verge of being insulted. That such a bare, boring object had brought me But when I opened it, I found that each page was a different color. Some had outlines of flowers and insects printed on them. Others showed the shapes of continents and boats on the ocean. Some were lined for writing. Others showed the shapes of continents and boats on the ocean. Some were lined for writing, and others held a network of squares for drawing. the gamut from pale pastels to rich dark ruby red and velvet green. For those pages I used pens with silver or gold ink. I treasured it because it was first a beautiful object all by itself. And then because my friend had recognized me in it.

Simple, unassuming on the outside. Full of secret magic when you looked closer. And that felt very good. Along with my favorite journal, I brought my favorite pen. Well, honestly, I have a few favorites there, some for their color or the way the ink flows when I'm writing, but I loved this one for its short brass body and the long pretty feather attached to the end. It was a fake feather, certainly, and dyed in a swirl of pretty colors.

I liked to pause as I journaled and let the plume brush over my cheek or drag it between my fingers. I guessed that writers who'd used real quills when those were the tools of the day had done the same, eased a moment of writer's block with the soft distraction of fluffy barbules against an upper lip. By the fire, we'd each of us

bent our heads down to our paper and written while the logs crackled and snapped. What was I letting go of? What didn't need to follow me into the new year? I looked around the circle of friends who were pondering the same thing. A couple were writing feverishly, whole paragraphs

that clearly had a bit of force behind them. Another who'd forgotten to bring a notebook and had been handed a stack of sticky notes from the junk drawer wrote one word, folded the sheet in half, and sat back in her chair, waiting for us all to finish. I closed my eyes, listened to the fire and the sound of my own breath. I felt my booted feet resting on the patio stones, and noticed the touch of my scarf against my neck. I did this sometimes when I wanted to focus, when my mind felt like water rushing through

a colander, drifting in a hundred small streams rather than one potent current. I spent a few breaths just cluing back into what my senses were picking up. Then, with my eyes still closed, I opened up a sort of question mark space in my mind and heart, and waited. It didn't take long. Within a second or two, a thought stepped forward and raised its hand to suggest what should be written on the paper. And I felt the transference of weight from my shoulders

to somewhere outside of my body as I wrote. In fact, I sat taller after and rolled my shoulders down my back and let out a slow sigh. I didn't like the idea of ripping paper from my journal. I didn't like the idea of ripping paper from my journal. I didn't like the jagged edge of a torn sheet among my pretty flowers and sailing ships. So I'd written my words on the center page that was held in place with a couple of metal brads. I eased up their fasteners and slid the whole page out. I tucked my feathered pen into the book and closed it back up. Around the circle, my friends were folding up their papers, tucking journals into pockets,

and sipping coffee from travel mugs. Somebody cleared their throat and asked, Are we ready? We nodded at each other across the fire. The sky was turning a pale orange, and the day was about to break. One of my friends had folded his paper into an airplane, and he sent it sailing into the fire. It made us all laugh and broke the serious feeling into something more manageable.

Someone else crumpled their page into a ball and tossed it as if sinking a basket on the court into the flames. Next went the sticky note and my folded sheet. One of my friends bent over his book and tore out the whole lot of pages. We laughed again as he dumped them into the fire. We stood up, stomping our feet to bring the blood flowing back into our chilled toes, and watched the pages curl and turn to ash. The fire was doused, and the air steamed with the last bits of what we'd let go of. We smiled at each other,

not really knowing what to say, but, for my part, I felt less bogged down and more at ease. That made me think that as helpful as it is to let old things go, it is also smart

to plant new and useful things in their place. We shouldn't just shed. We should sow. So I thought about what I'd like to see more of, do more of, taste more of, feel more of in the new year, and pulled those hopes and plans into me with deep breaths. Then I raised my mug and toast to my friends and the new year, and sang in a small but unafraid voice, should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind, and they generously joined in with me. We only knew the one verse and the chorus, but we sang it through twice,

as we trailed out through the yard and into the street to walk to town for breakfast. We'll take a cup of kindness yet for Auld Lang Syne. Auld Lang Syne. I hummed the melody under my breath. I had been for a few days since we'd all sung it, stumbling over some of the words around the bonfire as the sun came up. I'd always loved that song, which at first puzzled me with its lyrics,

though its feeling, its undercurrent, had always been perfectly clear. Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? It was a song often sung by friends at the end of the year. So it felt like a resounding no should follow that line. The answer came in the chorus, if you knew the translation. For auld lang syne, my dear, for old time's sake. It's about reminiscences,

about things shared and not forgot, less maybe the things we needed to let go of. That was what that morning had been about. We'd sat in the pre-dawn light on logs and patio chairs that had had the snow swept off of them. We were bundled in our coats, and the fire lit our faces. I could smell the earthy spice of the smoke and under it the cold, clean scent of snow. We'd each brought a little notebook or journal and something to write with.

I'd brought a favorite of mine, small, just about the size of my palm, and covered in simple brown paper. I'd been given it a year or so ago, a gift from a friend who'd seen it at a craft fair and thought of me. At first glance, it was too plain, and I'd been on the verge of being insulted that such a bare, boring object had brought me to mind. But when I opened it, I found that each page was a different color. Some had outlines of flowers and insects printed on them. Others showed the shapes of continents and boats on the ocean.

Some were lined for writing, and others held a network of squares for drawing. The shades ran the gamut from pale pastels to rich dark ruby red and velvet green. For those pages, I used pens with silver or gold ink. I treasured it, because it was first a beautiful object all by itself, and then because my friend had recognized me in it, simple, unassuming on the outside, full of secret magic when you looked closer.

And that felt very good. Along with my favorite journal, I brought my favorite pen. Well, honestly, I have a few favorites there. Some for their color or the way the pretty feather attached to the end. It was a fake feather, certainly,

and dyed in a swirl of pretty colors. I liked to pause as I journaled and let the plume brush over my cheek or drag it between my fingers. I guessed that writers who used real quills when those were the tools of the day had done eased a moment of writer's block with the soft distraction of fluffy barbules against an upper lip. By the fire, we'd each of us

bent our heads down to our paper and written while the logs crackled and snapped. What was I letting go of? What didn't need to follow me into the new year? I looked around the circle of friends who were pondering the same thing. A couple were writing feverishly, whole paragraphs that clearly had a bit of force behind them.

Another who'd forgotten to bring a notebook and been handed a stack of sticky notes from the junk drawer, wrote one word, folded the sheet in half, and sat back in her chair, folded the sheet in half, and sat back in her chair, waiting for us all to finish. I closed my eyes,

listened to the fire and the sound of my own breath. I felt my booted feet resting on the patio stones and noticed the touch of my scarf against my neck. I did this sometimes when I wanted to focus. When my mind felt like water rushing through a colander, drifting in a hundred small streams rather than one potent current. I spent a few breaths just cluing back in to what my senses were picking up.

Then, with eyes still closed, I opened up a sort of question mark space in my mind and heart, and waited. It didn't take long. Within a second or two, a thought stepped forward and raised its hand to suggest what should be written on the paper. And I felt the transference of weight from my shoulders to somewhere outside of my body as I wrote. In fact, I sat taller after and rolled my shoulders down my back and let out a slow sigh. I didn't like the idea of ripping paper from my journal.

I didn't like the jagged edge of a torn sheet among my pretty flowers and sailing ships. So I'd written my words on the center page that was held in place with a couple of metal brads. I eased up their fasteners and slid the whole page out. I tucked my feathered pen into the book and closed it back up. Around the circle, my friends were folding up their papers, tucking journals into pockets and sipping coffee from travel mugs. Somebody cleared their throat and asked,

Are we ready? We nodded at each other across the fire the sky was turning a pale orange and the day was about to break one of my friends had folded his paper into an airplane, and he sent it sailing into the fire. It made us all laugh and broke the serious feeling into something more manageable. Someone else crumpled their page into a ball and tossed it, as if sinking a basket on the court, into the flames. Next went the sticky note

and my folded sheet. One of my friends bent over his book and tore out the whole lot of pages. We laughed again as he dumped them into the fire. We stood up, stomping our feet to bring the blood flowing back into our chilled toes, and watched the pages curl and turn to ash. The fire was doused, and the air steamed with the last bits of what we'd let go of. we smiled at each other, not really knowing what to say.

But for my part, I felt less bogged down and more at ease. That made me think that as helpful as it is to let old things go, it is also smart to plant new and useful things in their place. We shouldn't just shed we should sew so I thought about what I'd like to see more of do more of taste more of feel more of in the new year,

and pulled those hopes and plans into me with deep breaths. Then I raised my mug in toast to my friends and the new year, and sang in a small but unafraid voice, Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind. And they generously joined in with me. We only knew the one verse and the chorus, but we sang it through twice as we trailed out through the yard and into the street to

walk to town for breakfast. We'll take a cup of kindness yet for old Lang Syne. Sweet dreams.