Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Begin Again (Encore)

Episode Date: March 28, 2024

Originally Aired: March 20th, 2022 (Season 9 Episode 12) Our story tonight is called Begin Again, and it’s a story about a reset scheduled for the equinox. It’s also about sunrise watched from an open hatchback on a road outside of town, birds and squirrels ringing in the spring, and making your own rituals to mark a moment.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 Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Let me explain a bit about how to use this podcast. We need to engage your mind just enough to help you unstick from your day and slip into sleep. And I've got the perfect formula for it. It's a simple, soothing story that I'll tell twice, a little slower the second time.

Just rest your mind on it and follow where it goes. And probably before we get very far into it, you'll be deeply asleep. If you wake again later, you could listen again or just think through what you remember from the story or even any pleasant memory. This is brain training.

We are building up a reliable response to make sleep come easier and last longer. And it does take a bit of time to create that habit. So be patient if you are new to this. Our story tonight is called Begin Again. And it's a story about a reset scheduled for the equinox. It's also about sunrise watched from an open hatchback on a road outside of town. Birds and squirrels ringing in the spring. And making your own rituals to mark a moment.

Now, it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. If there is a thought tugging on your sleeve, take a second to acknowledge it. You don't have to pretend it isn't there. Just go ahead and think that thought one more time. Good. Now hand it to me.

I've got it now. If you really want it back when you wake up, you can have it. But chances are you'll forget. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose. And a soft sigh through the mouth. Do that again. Breathe in.

And out. Good. I'd learned it in science class when I was 11 or 12, and had somehow never forgotten it, though I could certainly use a refresher on lots of other topics we'd covered then. We must have been studying the planets. In fact, I remember that the solar system, simply as an idea in and of itself, was a popular project to make for science fair. Although we were warned against it,

as it wasn't an experiment, just a display. But every year there would be someone who'd put it off till it was too late. And out would come the styrofoam balls, the wire and poster paints. And there it would be, a map of this small corner of the universe. And who doesn't love a good map? We'd been studying the position and relative size of the planets, which was then, and continues to be, at least for me, pretty difficult to grasp. Here is Earth, okay?

I have some experience with Earth. I've taken a flight to another continent. I've driven from one coast to another. I can grasp, if lightly, how big she is. And then there is Mercury, about a third of the size of our planet, and Mars, which is about half the size,

and Venus, which is only slightly smaller than we are. Then Neptune and Uranus, four times as big, and Saturn, nine times, and Jupiter, eleven times as big. There was a poster on the wall above my seat in our classroom that I would stare at, wondering at the size of those giants. The planets sat as if on a table to show how they compared to one another.

Mercury looked like a marble, and Mars like the red ball in my tiny plastic jack's case. Earth and Venus were good-sized gumballs, the ones that came out of the candy machines by the door at the grocery store, the kind you dropped a quarter into and twisted the knob to release the candy, then quickly cupped your hand under the chute to catch your treat.

Uranus and Neptune might be soccer or basketballs, and Saturn an extra-large beach ball, though it had rings instead of seams. And still, Jupiter was even bigger. It was the pumpkin that had won the prize at the fall fair. I'd lost myself at times, staring up at that poster, trying to imagine so much space, so many stars, and the sweeping elliptical orbits of the planets. It felt like poetry, that they didn't just make perfect circles, that their paths had a long side and a short side,

like the track around the football field. We'd studied eclipses and made cardboard tube telescopes to spy Jupiter over Christmas vacation. Then, on the cusp of spring, we'd learned about the equinox. This was the bit I remembered still, because often people call the first day of the warming season spring solstice. But it isn't a solstice at all. The solstice marks the longest and shortest days of the year.

In December and June, as the sand in the hourglass gets tipped in the other direction, on the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, the glass gets tipped on its side for a day. Both bulbs hold an exactly equal count of sand. On the equinox, there are as many minutes of darkness as light and that had stayed with me all these years it felt like a factory reset

nature saying let's have a day where we wipe the slate. Let's even it all out and start again tomorrow. It reminded me of that turn of phrase, all things being equal, though instead of it being a choice of words, it was a literal description,

at least as long as sunbeams and night sky were concerned. So, looking at my calendar, all these years after sixth grade science, I was excited to see the equinox approaching. If the new year was for letting go of old things and leap day for trying something you'd never imagined you'd do, then equinox was a day for starting over, for turning my dial back to zero.

Sometimes in the winter, it dipped down a few notches, mimicking the temperature, and got stuck there. Or when I was busy, had too many projects on the go, or was too wrapped up in problems I couldn't solve. My dial got turned far up, and even a good night's sleep didn't reset it. So that's how I would spend my equinox, getting back to zero. I did it by getting up a half hour or so before the sun rose, packing a thermos of coffee and driving out past the edge of town. There is a small rise that faces east, just a turn in the road

with space to pull over. But it gave a clear view of where the sun would come up. I parked my car on the verge and popped my hatchback so I could sit in the horizon, I poured myself a cup of coffee and held it under my nose, letting the aroma and steam warm my face. I drank coffee every morning,

which meant it was already built into my life and a perfect carrier for a moment of intention. So, as the sun reflected on my lenses, I took a slow sip of coffee and thought, begin again, start again. Once my cup was empty and my stomach beginning to grumble, I climbed out of the car and took a big stretch and a couple of deep breaths of cool morning air. I felt awake. That was something more light always helped with.

The neurons in my brain seemed less sluggish, my body less bound into stillness. I walked around the car, looking up into the branches to see who else was up. I could hear birdsong, loud and optimistic, and the scrabbling of squirrels as they leapt from bough to bough. I buckled into my car and drove back into town. I found a spot to park near the library and walked down a few streets to the bakery. There were tables outside, along with one of those standing heaters that had been ignited probably when the baker had flipped the open sign on the door.

I tried to be outside for as much of the day as possible on Equinox. It was part of my reset plan. After months nestled into my house, I had to reacquaint myself with the out-of-doors. So I was grateful for the heater, as I intended to have breakfast. At one of the tables, it was warming. Inside, the shop smelled of a heavenly mix

of fresh baked bread and sweets, muffins and pastries. I scoped out the cases while I stood in line. and sweets, muffins and pastries. I scoped out the cases while I stood in line. But when I got to the front, I just said, whatever you recommend, I'll have two of. The baker gave an honest laugh. Oh, I loved when some silly thing I said made someone actually laugh. She shook out a wax paper sack

and reached with her tongs for something on the counter behind her. She turned back to me and set it down, saying, two carrot cake muffins. You won't be sorry. I said, and a latte, one will be enough. I carried my breakfast out to the table and thought about the day in front of me. I'd walk through the park and look for tulips coming up in the flowerbeds. I'd go to the bookshop and buy something to read on my front porch. I'd hike the crow's nest trail and see if any hothouse rhubarb was ready at the farmer's market.

I'd visit friends and keep my face to the sun till it set. And tomorrow, I would begin again, again. Begin again. I'd learned it in science class when I was eleven or twelve, and had somehow never forgotten it. Though I could certainly use a refresher on lots of other topics we'd covered then. We must have been studying the planets in fact

I remember that the solar system simply as an idea in and of itself was a popular project to make for science fair. Although we were warned against it,

as it wasn't an experiment, just a display. But every year, there would be someone who'd put it off till it was too late, and out would come the styrofoam balls, the wire and poster paints. And there it would be, a map of this small corner of the universe. And who doesn't love a good map? We'd been studying the position and relative size of the planets, which was then and continues to be,

at least for me, pretty difficult to grasp. Here is Earth, okay? I have some experience with Earth. I've taken a flight to another continent. I've driven from one coast to another. I can grasp, if lightly, how big she is. And then there is Mercury, about a third of the size of our planet.

And Mars, which is about half the size. And Venus, which is only slightly smaller than we are. Then, Neptune and Uranus, four times as big. And Saturn, nine times, and Jupiter, eleven times as big. There was a poster on the wall above my seat in our classroom that I would stare at, wondering at the size of those giants. The planet sat as if on a table

to show how they compared to one another. Mercury looked like marble, and Mars like the red ball in my tiny plastic jack's case. Earth and Venus were good-sized gumballs, the ones that came out of the candy machines by the door at the grocery store, the kind you dropped a quarter into

and twisted the knob to release the candy. Then quickly cupped your hand under the chute to catch your treat. Uranus and Neptune might be soccer or basketballs. And Saturn, an extra-large beach ball, though it had rings

instead of seams. And still, Jupiter was even bigger. It was the pumpkin that had won the prize at the fall fair. I'd lost myself at times, staring up at that poster, trying to imagine so much space, so many stars, and the sweeping elliptical orbits of the planets that felt like poetry that they didn't just make perfect circles that their paths had a long side and a short side, like the track around the

football field. We'd studied eclipses and made cardboard tube telescopes to spy Jupiter over Christmas vacation. Then, on the cusp of spring, we learned about the equinox. This was the bit I remembered still, because often people call the first day of the warming season spring solstice, but it isn't a solstice at all. The solstice marks the longest and shortest days of the year. In December and June, as the sand in the the glass gets tipped on its side for a day.

Both bulbs hold an exactly equal count of sand. on the equinox there are as many minutes of darkness as light and that had stayed with me all these years it felt like a factory reset nature saying, let's have a day where we wipe the slate, let's even it all out, and start again tomorrow. It reminded me of that turn of phrase,

all things being equal. Though, instead of it being a choice of words, it was a literal description. At least, as long as sunbeams and night sky were concerned. So looking at my calendar all these years after sixth grade science, I was excited to see the equinox approaching. If the new year was for letting go of old things, and leap day for trying something you'd never imagined you'd do. Then equinox was a day for starting over.

For turning my dial back to zero. Sometimes in the winter, it dipped down a few notches, mimicking the temperature and got stuck there. Or when I was busy, had too many projects on the go, or was too wrapped up in problems I couldn't solve. My dial got turned far up and even a good night's sleep didn't reset it. So that was how I would spend my equinox, getting back to zero. I did it by getting up a half hour or so before the sun rose, packing a thermos of coffee,

and driving out past the edge of town. There is a small rise that faces east. Just a turn in the road with space to pull over. But it gave a clear view of where the sun would come up. I parked my car on the verge and popped my hatchback

so I could sit in the warm, open space and wait for the light to change. As the sun was about to crest the horizon, I poured myself a cup of coffee and held it under my nose and a perfect carrier for a moment of intention. So, as the sun reflected on my lenses, I took a slow sip of coffee and thought, Begin again. Start again. Start again. Once my cup was empty and my stomach beginning to grumble, I climbed out of the car

and took a big stretch and a couple of deep breaths of cool morning air. I felt awake. That was something more light always helped with. The neurons in my brain seemed less sluggish, my body less bound into stillness.

I walked around the car, looking up into the branches to see who else was up. I could hear birdsong, loud and optimistic, and the scrabbling of squirrels as they leapt from bough to bough. I buckled into my car and drove back into town. I found a spot to park near the library and walked down a few streets to the bakery. There were tables outside, along with one of those standing heaters that had been ignited,

probably when the baker had flipped the open sign on the door. I tried to be outside for as much of the day as possible on equinox. It was part of my reset plan. After months nestled into my house, I had to reacquaint myself with the out-of-doors. So I was grateful for the heater, as I intended to have breakfast at one of the tables it was warming. Inside, the shop smelled of a heavenly mix of fresh baked breads and sweets, muffins and pastries. I scoped out the cases while I stood in line but when I got to the front I just said

whatever you recommend I'll have two of the baker gave an honest laugh oh how I loved when some silly thing I said made someone actually laugh she shook out a wax paper sack and reached with her tongs

for something on the counter behind her. She turned back to me and sent it down, saying, Two carrot cake muffins. You won't be sorry. I said, and a latte, but one will be enough. I carried my breakfast out to the table

and thought about the day in front of me. I'd walk through the park and look for tulips coming up in the flower beds. I'd go to the bookshop and buy something to read on my front porch. I'd hike the crow's nest trail and see if any hothouse rhubarb was ready at the farmer's market. I'd visit friends and keep my face to the sun till it set and tomorrow

I would begin again again sweet dreams