Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Christmas Eve (Encore)

Episode Date: December 21, 2023

Originally Aired: December 23rd, 2018 (Season 2 Episode 12) Our story tonight is called Christmas Eve, and it’s a story about being with the ones you love at a special time of year. It’s also about plates of home-baked treats, thinking back to the holidays of childhood and the everyday miracle that is dogs.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the CuriousCast podcast network. 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 for a bit of extra coziness. Just like your body needs a bed to rest in, your mind needs a quiet nest to settle into

so that it doesn't wander around keeping you up at night. That's what this story provides. It's a simple, sweet place to rest your thoughts. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story, and walk yourself back through the details that you can remember,

especially any bit that felt cozy or enjoyable. This is a kind of training for your brain. You're training it to focus and rest, and the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a little patience at the beginning. Now turn off your light. Put down your devices and get as comfortable as you can. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. Sometimes it even helps to say to yourself,

I'm about to go to sleep and I'll sleep deep all night. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose, and a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. In. And out. Our story tonight is called Christmas Eve.

And it's a story about being with the ones you love at a special time of year. It's also about plates of home-baked treats, thinking back to the holidays of childhood, and the everyday miracle that is dogs. Christmas Eve. I'd woken up with that feeling of vague specialness. That something was happening. That there was something to feel excited about. I lay still for a few moments, and then smiled into my pillow.

It was Christmas Eve. A day, a time, I loved and waited all year for. I sat up slowly in the darkness. I could hear the soft, slow breaths of my sweetheart sleeping. And not wanting to interrupt the slumber, I slipped out of bed. My dog was lying across the foot of the bed, and she opened one brown eye to look at me.

I squatted down beside her and whispered in her ear, It's Christmas Eve. She listened, and I scratched her neck and leaned in to kiss the broad, flat space between her eyebrows. As I moved to the door, she jumped down and followed me out. We closed the bedroom behind us and tiptoed toward our morning routine. As the kettle boiled, I watched her through the kitchen window, inspecting the backyard and weaving through the trees strung with lights.

A few birds waking and hopping through the branches above. I opened my front door just to look up and down the street and see the houses lit up from the night before. Strings of lights outlined the peaks of roofs, wove around windows, encircled tree trunks and branches. I heard the whistling kettle and went back in to fill my cup and found my dog waiting at the back door. Next we went to turn on the Christmas tree and set ourselves up on the couch. I spread out a blanket and she sidled up next to me and laid with her head on my lap. The house was so quiet and so dark but for the glow of the tree I laid my hand into the thick fur of her back as we sat

and sipped from my cup I'd had a dog years ago who didn't have much use for snuggling and affection. She was happy to lay in her own bed and just be in the room with you. But once a day or so, she would amble up to me and press her warm forehead against my thigh. I'd rub the back of her neck, and after a moment she'd walk away and get back to whatever dog business occupied her time. Now, on the sofa with this little girl, I sat and said a silent thank you to every dog everywhere for their friendship. I had a sneaking suspicion that grew stronger as I grew older,

that the point of everything is just to make friends, just to share moments, to be there with whoever was there, and to pay attention to all of it. That's what I intended to make today about. We were having a little party, some food, a fire in the fireplace, and some music. I dusted off the piano and hoped someone would play a few songs. I felt a warmth spreading in my chest, thinking that faithful friends who were dear to us would gather near to us, once more.

I'd spent the day before happily in the kitchen, my apron dusty with flour and powdered sugar, and the counters filling with baked treats. Glossy, golden, braided breads, star-shaped cookies spread with frosting and dotted with tiny silver balls, and pastry cookies rolled with walnuts and cinnamon and glazed with apricot jam. I'd even baked a few homemade dog biscuits for Santa Paws to deliver to our little pooch. I'd also made trays of finger foods, little tempting tarts filled with sun-dried tomatoes and pine nuts and caramelized onions. I'd serve bowls of roasted Brussels sprouts,

their outer leaves dark brown, crisp and salty, and cold plates of dips, and seasoned rice rolled into grape leaves. Some people dread being in the kitchen all day, but for me, especially at this time of year, it was merry work. I'd turned on an old favorite Christmas movie, Black and White, one I'd seen a hundred times, and let it play while I worked my way through the dishes. When everything was done and the kitchen was set back to rights, I'd stepped back and sighed with satisfaction. My friends and family would be well-fed. My home would be a haven for the people I loved. They would feel safe and relaxed and cared for. And that was just about my favorite thing.

Back on the couch, my dog softly snoring beside me, I thought through the rest of the day. There was time for a walk outside together, time for me to hole up somewhere and wrap a few gifts. We could sample all the treats I'd made, catch each other under the mistletoe. And as evening darkness came on, we would don our gay apparel, light the fire

and the candles, lay out the trays of food, open the bottles of wine, and wait for our friends to come trekking up the driveway. As a little girl watching old Christmas movies from the couch, I'd expected my grown-up holidays to be full of train trips through snowy countrysides, nights out in swinky cocktail clubs. I thought people might suddenly break out into tap dances

in ski chalets, or at least that there would be, I guess, Muppets? As an actual adult, my holidays were infinitely simpler. Just a time to do some favorite things. To be closer to the people I called family, to wonder at the beauty of fresh snow or a lighted Christmas tree through a stranger's window, and to sit with a hot cup of something lovely

on the couch with my dog and be grateful for another year together. Christmas Eve. I'd woken up with that feeling of vague specialness. That something was happening. That there was something to feel excited about. I lay still for a few moments and then smiled into my pillow.

It was Christmas Eve. A day, a time, I loved and waited all year for. I sat up slowly in the darkness. I could hear the soft, slow breaths of my sweetheart, sleeping And not wanting to interrupt the slumber I slipped out of bed My dog was lying across the foot of the bed And she opened one brown eye to look at me

I squatted down beside her and whispered in her ear, It's Christmas Eve. She listened and I scratched her neck and leaned in to kiss the broad, flat space between her eyebrows. As I moved to the door, she jumped down and followed me out. We closed the bedroom behind us and tiptoed toward our morning routine.

As the kettle boiled, I watched her through the kitchen window, inspecting the backyard and weaving through the trees strung with lights. A few birds waking and hopping through the branches above her. I opened my front door just to look up and down the street and see the houses lit up from the night before. Strings of light outline the peaks of roofs,

wove around windows, and circled tree trunks and branches. I heard the whistling kettle and went back in to fill my cup and found my dog waiting at the back door. Next, we went to turn on the Christmas tree and set ourselves up on the couch. I spread out a blanket, and she sidled up next to me

and laid with her head on my lap. The house was so quiet and so dark, but for the glow of the tree. I laid my hand into the thick fur of her back as we sat, and I sipped from my cup. I'd had a dog years ago who didn't have much use for snuggling and affection. She was happy to lay in her own bed and just be in the room with you. But once a day or so, she would amble up to me and press her warm forehead against my thigh

I'd rub the back of her neck and after a moment she'd walk away and get back to whatever dog business occupied her time now on the sofa with this little girl occupied her time. Now, on the sofa with this little girl, I sat and said a silent thank you

to every dog, everywhere, for their friendship. I had a sneaking suspicion that grew stronger as I grew older, that the point of everything is just to make friends, just to share moments, to be there with whoever was there, and to pay attention to all of it. That's what I intended to make today about.

We were having a little party. Some food, a fire in the fireplace, and some music. I'd dusted off the piano and hoped somebody would play a few songs. I felt a warmth spreading in my chest, thinking that faithful friends, who were dear to us, would gather near to us once more. I'd spent the day before happily in the kitchen,

my apron dusty with flour and powdered sugar, and the counters filling with baked treats, glossy golden braided breads, star-shaped cookies spread with frosting and dotted with tiny silver balls, and pastry cookies rolled with walnuts and cinnamon and glazed with apricot jam. I'd even baked a few homemade dog biscuits for Santa Paws to deliver to our little pooch. I'd also made trays of finger foods, little tempting tarts filled with sun-dried tomatoes,

pine nuts, caramelized onions. I'd serve bowls of roasted Brussels sprouts, their outer leaves dark brown, crisp and salty, and cold plates of dips and seasoned rice rolled into grape leaves. Some people dread being in the kitchen all day. But for me, especially at this time of year, it was merry work. I turned on an old favorite Christmas movie, Black and White,

one I'd seen a hundred times and let it play while I worked my way through the dishes. When everything was done and the kitchen was set back to rights, I'd stepped back and sighed with satisfaction. My friends and family would be well fed. My home would be a haven for the people I loved. They would feel safe and relaxed and cared for. And that was just about my favorite thing.

Back on the couch, my dog softly snoring beside me, I thought through the rest of the day. There was time for a walk outside together, time for me to hole up somewhere and wrap a few gifts. We could sample all the treats I'd made, catch each other under the mistletoe. And as evening darkness came on, we would don our gay apparel,

light the fire and the candles, lay out the trays of food, open the bottles of wine, and wait for our friends to come trucking up the driveway. As a little girl, watching old Christmas movies from the couch, I'd expected my grown-up holidays to be full of train trips through snowy countrysides, nights out in swanky cocktail clubs. I thought people might suddenly break out into tap dances in ski chalets,

or, at least, that there would be, I guess, Muppets? As an actual adult, my holidays were infinitely simpler. Just a time to do some favorite things. To be closer to the people I called family. To wonder at the beauty of fresh snow.

Or a lighted Christmas tree through a stranger's window, and to sit with a hot cup of something lovely on the couch with my dog and be grateful for another year together. Sweet dreams.