Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Bonfire

Episode Date: September 7, 2020

Our story tonight is called Bonfire and it’s a story about an evening on the beach toward the end of the summer. It’s also about bare feet in the sand, kite tails flapping in the air, and the subtle signs of the shifting season. So get cozy and ready to sleep. 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. Now is a particularly good time to follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter. We're going to be running a sweet little contest. And if you win, you might find yourself and some of your favorite cozy things in an upcoming episode of the podcast.

A beautiful book of our bedtime stories is coming out all over the world in a few months. And in fact, it's already out and available for sale in Germany. It will have many of your favorite stories, along with 16 new stories that will only ever appear in the book. To learn more or to pre-order your copy, go to nothingmuchappens.com. Now, let me say something about how this podcast works.

Busy minds need a place to rest, and if they don't get it, they can run wild and race all night. The story I'm about to tell you is that resting spot. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. As you listen, use the sound of my voice and the details of the story to build up a world you can step into whenever you need relaxation and rest. And if you find yourself awake again later in the night, you can listen again or just think back through any bits of the story that you can remember.

This interrupts your mind's tendency to click back on and will allow you to go right back to sleep. Over time, this response will become more automatic, and you will fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer than ever before. Now, it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been looking at. You've officially looked at a screen for the last time today.

Slide down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. You are safe. You have done enough for the day. Now it's time to rest. Take a deep breath in through your nose and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Bonfire. And it's a story about an evening on the beach toward the end of the summer.

It's also about bare feet in the sand, kite tails flapping in the air, and the subtle signs of a shifting season. Bonfire. The days were just starting to get a bit shorter. I'd noticed it first in the mornings, shuffling into the kitchen to set the kettle on the stove, and finding the dusky darkness still flooding the yard. Through the window I'd heard the first movements of chipmunks and birds after a summer of them being up well ahead of me by this hour of the morning. Dark mornings always remind me of the first days back to school in the fall as a child. In those years, summer days ran together, and weeks might go by without me knowing what day it was. Bike rides, beach days, the summer fair in the park,

sleeping late and staying awake for fireworks and fireflies. They all blended together like drawings in a flipbook. But when the sun got up later, and the mornings were dark and cool, it meant it was time for new shoes and pencil cases and paper sack lunches made the night before, with notes tucked in for reading at the cafeteria table. Along with the dim mornings, the nights were coming a bit sooner, and a few trees, just a few,

up in their highest branches, were drying and changing. Did you know trees change from their tops down? As their growth cycle slows, their crowns, being furthest from their roots, are the first to show the shift. So here we were, darker mornings, earlier nights, and changing leaves. Autumn was beginning, and so it was the perfect time for one of the last bonfires of the year.

The day had had flashes of heat when the clouds cleared and the sun beat down. But between those bursts, the air was cool, and as I circled through the sandy lot at the edge of the beach, I was glad I'd brought a sweater. I pulled it over my head as I stepped out of the car and thought it might be the first time in a few months that I'd worn anything but T-shirts and tank tops. I pushed my keys into my back pocket, rolled the cuffs of my jeans up a bit, and stepped barefoot into the sand. It was cool on the surface, but as my feet sank deeper in, I found pockets of warmth left from the day. We had planned to meet up around sunset, but I'd come a bit early just to walk the beach

and watch the sky change. There were still a few folks sitting out on beach towels, determined to get the very last bit of summer sun into their systems, though they'd resorted to wrapping spare towels around their shoulders and sat close together, their sandy knees touching. I watched a couple kids clearly unconcerned with the cooling evening air as they ran back into the waves shouting and laughing.

A younger brother toddled behind them, carrying a pail with a big round sun painted on its side. And he stopped at the edge of the water and pushed handfuls of wet sand into it. He dragged it back up the beach to his family's blanket, where he tipped it out onto his mother's already buried feet, clapping his small hand against the bottom of the pail to empty it. His mother patiently let him mound up the sand

and pat it smooth and when he sat back to look at his work and started to giggle she laughed with him further down the beach I followed a zigzag of paw prints from the many dogs that had walked it that day. Some were tiny, chihuahuas and Yorkies, I guessed, and some were huge and

trailed down to the water and back again and again. I could imagine a retriever watching a stick spinning end over end as it was tossed out me squint, and I turned away from it to look further down the shore, on long strings that sometimes disappeared in appeared in the evening air. I saw a fleet of floating, flying objects. A dragon with a long tail, as red as the setting sun. A diamond-shaped clownfish, with white stripes edged in black. And a rainbow-patterned box box turning and fluttering in the wind. I hadn't flown a kite since I was in grade school, and as I watched, I wondered why.

It seemed an excellent way to spend a bit of time. I stood a while, my toes in the sand, and my head tilted back to watch them. Down on the ground, the breeze was slight, but higher up there must have been a good bit of wind, and it back in the direction I had come. I saw an arm waving in the distance and the glowing spark of a just begun fire. I waved back and cupped my hand around my mouth to call out a greeting. The bonfire was beginning.

I pushed my feet through the sand, step by step, and by the time I made it to the circle of logs and camp chairs, the fire had caught and the wood was crackling. I caught my friends in long hugs. Their bodies were warm from the fire, but their cheeks cool from the evening air. We turned to watch the sun set as we chatted and caught up. It inched its way down the horizon, the surface of the water turning red and orange with the

reflection. We'd seen it a thousand times, and would hopefully see it a thousand more. But still, there was something special about the moment when the sun slipped completely out of sight. We held our breath. We called out, Here it goes. It's going.

It's gone. And then closed our eyes and watched it replay in the afterimage on our lids. Someone brought a guitar, and as twilight settled in, I propped my feet closer to the fire and hummed along to familiar songs and smelled the unmistakable spicy air of the season to come. Darker mornings, earlier nights, changing leaves,

and cool, crisp weather. I was ready. Bonfire. The days were just starting to get a bit shorter. I'd noticed it first in the mornings, shuffling into the kitchen to set the kettle on the stove, and finding the dusky darkness

still flooding the yard. Through the window I'd heard the first movements of chipmunks and birds after a summer of them being up well ahead of me by this hour of the morning. Dark mornings always remind me

of the first days back to school in the fall as a child. In those years, summer days ran together. And weeks might go by without me knowing what day it was. Bike rides, beach days, the summer fair in the park, sleeping late and staying awake for fireworks and fireflies. They all blended together like drawings in a flipbook. But when the sun got up later, and the mornings were dark and cool, it meant it was time for new shoes and pencil cases and paper sack lunches made the night before,

with notes tucked in for reading at the cafeteria table. Along with the dim mornings, the nights were coming a bit sooner, and a few trees, just a few, up in their highest branches, or drying and changing. Did you know trees change from their tops down? As their growth cycle slows, their crowns, being furthest from their roots, are the first to show the shift. So here we were, darker mornings, earlier nights, and changing leaves.

Autumn was beginning, and so it was the perfect time for one of the last bonfires of the year. The day had had flashes of heat when the clouds cleared and the sun beat down. But between those bursts, the air was cool, and as I circled through the sandy lot at the edge of the beach, I was glad I'd brought a sweater. I pulled it over my head as I stepped out of the car and thought it might be the first time in a few months

that I'd worn anything but T-shirts and tank tops. I pushed my keys into my back pocket, rolled the cuffs of my feet sank deeper in, I found pockets of warmth from the day. We had planned to meet up around sunset, but I'd come a bit early, just to walk the beach and watch the sky change. There were still a few folks sitting out on beach towels, determined to get the very last bit of summer sun into their systems. Though they'd resorted to wrapping spare towels around their shoulders and sat close together, their sandy knees touching. I watched a couple of kids,

clearly unconcerned with the cooling evening air, as they ran back into the waves, shouting and laughing. A younger brother toddled behind them, carrying a pail with a big round sun painted on its side. And he stopped at the edge of the water and pushed handfuls of wet sand into it. He dragged it back up the beach to his family's blanket,

where he tipped it out onto his mother's already buried feet, clapping his small hand against the bottom of the pail to empty it. His mother patiently let him mound up the sand and pat it smooth. And when he sat back to look at his work and started to giggle, she laughed with him. Further down the beach, I followed a zigzag of paw prints from the many dogs that had walked it that day. Some were tiny, chihuahuas and Yorkies, I guessed, and some were huge and trailed down to the water and back again and again. I could imagine a retriever watching a stick spinning end over end

as it was tossed out into the water, and the thudding paws racing into the waves to fetch it back again. The lowering sun was making me squint, and I turned away from it to look further down the shore. On long strings that sometimes disappeared in the evening air, I saw a fleet of floating, flying objects. A dragon with a long tail as red as the setting sun. A diamond-shaped clownfish with white stripes edged in black, and a rainbow-patterned box, turning and fluttering in the wind.

I hadn't flown a kite since I was in grade school. And as I watched, I wondered why. It seemed an excellent way to spend a bit of time. I stood a while, my toes in the sand, and my head tilted back to watch them. Down on the ground, the breeze was slight, but higher up there must have been a good bit of wind, and it seemed stronger the higher they rose. I was lost in the watching for a while.

Then heard my name called out, and turned back in the direction I had come. I saw an arm waving in the distance and the glowing spark of a just begun fire. I waved back and cupped my hand around my mouth to call out a greeting. The bonfire was beginning. I pushed my feet through the sand, step by step. And by the time I made it to the circle of logs and camp chairs, the fire had caught and the wood was crackling. I caught my friends in long hugs. Their bodies were warm from the fire, but their cheeks cool from the evening air. We turned to watch the sunset as we chatted and caught up. We watched it inch its way down the horizon,

the surface of the water turning red and orange with the reflection. We'd seen it a thousand times, and would hopefully see it a thousand more. But still, there was something special about the moment when the sun slipped completely out of sight. We held our breath. We called out, Here it goes. It's going. It's gone.

And then closed our eyes and watched it replay in the afterimage on our lids. Someone brought a guitar and as twilight settled in, I propped my feet closer to the fire and hummed along to familiar songs and smelled the unmistakable spicy air of the season to come. Darker mornings, earlier nights,

changing leaves, and cool, crisp weather. I was ready. Sweet dreams.