Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Cinder and the Springtime

Episode Date: May 6, 2024

Our story tonight is called Cinder and the Springtime, and it’s a story about a gift given to returning neighbors on a bright warm day. It’s also about moss and pine needles, a bicycle basket made special for a friend, practical magic and gratitude for the ones we share our space with. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Hot Mess Express. A women-led nonprofit with chapters across the United States. They serve the women in their community with no judgment through cleaning, organizing, and offering a fresh start.  Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or follow the link below nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription.  Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favoritepodcast app. Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Hot Mess Express, a woman-led nonprofit with chapters across the United States.

They serve the women in their community with no judgment through cleaning, organizing, and offering a fresh start. Learn more about them in our show notes. I'd like to thank a few recent subscribers to our premium feed. So thank you, Alice and Anna. Thank you, Harold. Thank you, Eddie and Dawn. Subscribing really does make what we do here possible, as well as bringing you our complete catalog of episodes ad-free.

We have dozens of bonus episodes, as well as a growing number of our extra-long, slightly-more-happens episodes. We just added another marmalade and crumb one. And you get all of this for about a dime a day. If you're interested in joining, you'll find a link in our notes, or just search NMH Premium on Apple Podcasts. Now, this method works by giving your brain something to attach to.

It becomes like an anchor. Your ship drops anchor, and instead of traveling all over the place, your mind is held in one soft, relaxing place, and you sleep. All you need to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on.

With time, you'll wake less, and even when you do, you'll return to sleep within moments. Our story tonight is called Cinder and the Springtime, and it's a story about a gift given to returning neighbors on a bright warm day. It's also about moss and pine needles, a bicycle basket made special for a friend, practical magic and gratitude for the ones we share our space with. Now, it's time. Turn out your light.

Set down your device and get as comfortable as you can. Tuck yourself in with all the loving care little you needs tonight. Relax your jaw and your shoulders and let your body be heavy. Whatever you've gotten done today, it was enough. You have done enough. Draw a deep breath in through the nose and sigh from your mouth.

One more. In. Let it go. Good. Cinder and the springtime. Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together outside my bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves, and even spotted one or two in the side yard when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off whenever they saw me,

but I hoped they were checking out the neighborhood and would put down roots somewhere close. Then I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves on the windowsill, and I couldn't believe my luck. I would have a front row seat for the spring squabs. Day by day, they'd worked on the nest, hopping to the sill with pine needles or bits of hay in their beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the concise construction, to watch it be built up in layers, to see how the scraps were woven together, building materials tried and rejected, then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse into their lives and instincts. They had gotten used to me passing by the window. And though they frequently froze

for a few seconds, staring with their liquid black eyes, when I turned away to brush my teeth at the sink, they likewise turned back to their work. My gray cat, Cinder, knew they were there, but kept away from the window so that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not believe that, that a cat would understand the situation and act in that way. But she was not like other cats.

She was like an auntie, but in animal form. She found the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and matched them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed a soul to bring light into their home, someone to catch all the love they needed to give. That is frequently the cause of heartache, love with no one to give it to. So Cinder and I play matchmaker among our neighbors and friends and the creatures she finds. And believe it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare those doves any more than she would have left a lost bunny out in the cold.

So last spring, the doves had raised a little clutch of two eggs. And when the babies grew big enough and learned to fly, they started again with two more. The collective noun for mourning doves, at least the one that stood out because of how ill-suited it felt, was piteousness. A piteousness of mourning doves. No, that wasn't right at all. It had been a jubilance of doves, as far as I could tell. And when the jubilance flew south for the winter, the little nest sat empty and had filled with snow. It lasted, though. They'd built it so well that even after the spring melt and the strong winds blew, it sat sturdily on the sill.

Then, this morning, as I groggily washed my face at the basin, I heard a coo, that unmistakable call of a dove, and I quickly pressed a towel to my face and edged over to the window. There on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak, was my friend. She was patching up the family estate I stood there with a towel under my chin a huge smile on my face feeling the cool tile under my feet but the warmth of the spring sun through the window, and

how good it was to share my home with souls like Cinder and this family of doves. It made me think of something my grandmother would do in the springtime, as birds and animals returned to her own yard. She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around the garden, leave them at the base of her birdbath and near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was a spring offering, and one that really helped. I'd read a note in her handwriting, in a margin of her grimoire, that if a rite or ritual didn't actually accomplish something useful or good, well then, she didn't much see the point.

And I found that her type of practical magic suited me best as well. Some people like to offer up the hair from their brushes and combs for birds to use. But Grandma had written that if the hair was longer than an inch, it could actually harm birds much more than help them. So better to look for moss and lichen, pine needles, and perhaps witchiest of all, cobwebs. So Cinder and I started indoors, winding the duster into the corners of the ceilings and shaking the webs out over the back porch. When I reached for my sweater and bike helmet. Cinder meowed at my ankles. I'd had a special

basket installed for her at the bicycle shop in the alley downtown. It had a cushioned bottom and a seatbelt that attached to her harness so we could ride together. Are you up for a ride? I asked, and leaned down to stroke her back. She pressed her head into my hand and purred softly. A few minutes later, we were buckled into place, rolling down the street toward the dirt roads a few blocks over. Cinder sat comfortably in her basket, her whiskers flickering in the breeze as I pedaled. When we turned down a dirt road

where a stretch of woods extended along beside us, I slowed down, first to avoid the ruts that the spring rain had deepened, and second to listen and smell and feel for the things we were looking for. At a certain point, like a compass arrow pulled toward north, or a dowsing rod drawn to a vein of water, the handlebars turned toward the verge, and I found a spot to stop

and unbuckle cinder from her basket. She jumped up onto my shoulder where she liked to sit like a queen, and we walked into the woods. I had a small tote bag with me, and we wandered along, pausing to fill it with handfuls of pine needles and milkweed fluff. I found some savan-leaved club moss,

but the clump was so paltry, I hesitated to take any. I thought that if it had been further into the warm weather, a few weeks into June, when the cottonwood flies, I could have taken that. weeks into June, when the cottonwood flies. I could have taken that. I'd have had enough to stuff pillows.

Then Cinder and I turned our heads in unison toward a brighter corner of the wood, intuition calling us over. Ah, a broad patch of mossy stonecrop, sometimes called golden sedum. As I plucked handfuls to take home for the birds to weave into their nests, Cinder walked through the soft carpet. Do morning doves like sedum? I asked her. Her tail flicked lazily, as if to say,

I suppose we shall see. If they did, I thought I'd write it into the grimoire. An idea for a rite of spring some descendant might read about one day. Recognizing my handwriting, for a rite of spring some descendant might read about one day. Recognizing my handwriting like I recognized Gran's, and being encouraged to step out into the garden and offer up some gift to the birds. Cinder and the springtime. Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together

outside my bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves, and even spotted one or two in the side yard when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off whenever they saw me, but I hoped they were checking out the neighborhood and would put down roots somewhere close. Then I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves on the windowsill

and couldn't believe my luck. I would have a front row seat for the spring squabs. Day by day, they'd worked on the nest, hopping to the sill with pine needles or bits of hay in their beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the concise construction, to watch it be built up in layers,

to see how the scraps were woven together, building materials tried and rejected, then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse into their lives and instincts. They had gotten used to me passing by the window, and though they frequently froze for a few seconds, staring with their liquid black eyes. When I turned away to brush my teeth at the sink,

they likewise turned back to their work. My gray cat, Cinder, knew they were there, but kept away from the window so that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not believe that, that a cat would understand the situation, but in animal form. She found the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and matched them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed a soul to bring light into their home, someone to catch all the love they needed to give.

That is frequently the cause of heartache. Love with no one to give it to. So Cinder and I play matchmaker among our neighbors and friends. And the creatures she finds. And believe it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare those doves any more than little clutch of two eggs, and when the babies grew big enough and learned to fly, they started again with two more. The collective noun for mourning doves,

at least the one that stood out because of how ill-suited it felt, was piteousness. A piteousness of mourning doves. No, that wasn't right at all. It had been a jubilance of doves, as far as I could tell. And when the jubilance flew south for the winter,

the little nest sat empty and had filled with snow. Still, it lasted. They'd built it so well that even after the spring melt and the strong winds blew it sat sturdily on the sill then this morning

as I groggily washed my face at the basin, I heard a coo, that unmistakable call of a dove, and I quickly pressed a towel to my face and edged over to the window. There, on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak was my friend, and she was patching up the family estate. I stood there with the towel at my chin, a huge smile on my face,

feeling the cool tile under my feet, but the warmth of the spring sun through the window, and how good it was to share my home with souls like Cinder and this family of doves. It made me think of something my grandmother would do in the springtime as birds and animals returned to her own yard. She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around the garden, leave them at the base of her birdbath and near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was a spring offering, and one that really helped.

I'd read a note in her handwriting, in a margin of her grimoire, that if a rite or ritual didn't actually accomplish something useful or good. Well, she didn't much see the point. And I found that her type of practical magic best suited me as well. Some people like to offer up the hair from their brushes and combs for birds to use. But Grandma had written that if hair was longer than an inch,

it could actually harm birds much more than help them. So better to look for moss and lichen, pine needles, and perhaps, witchiest of all, cobwebs. So Cinder and I started indoors, winding the duster into the corners of the ceiling and shaking all the webs out over the back porch. When I reached for my sweater and bike helmet, Cinder meowed at my ankles. I'd had a special basket installed for her at the bicycle shop in the alley downtown. It had a cushioned bottom and a seatbelt that attached to her harness

so we could ride together. Are you up for a ride? I asked and leaned down to stroke her back. She pressed her head into my hand and purred softly. A few minutes later, we were buckled into place, rolling down the street toward the dirt roads a few blocks over. Cinder sat comfortably in her basket, her whiskers flickering in the breeze as I pedaled. When we turned down a dirt road where a stretch of woods extended along beside us, I slowed down,

first to avoid the ruts that the spring rain had deepened. And second, to listen and smell and feel for the things we were looking for. At a certain point like a compass arrow pulled toward north or a dowsing rod drawn to a vein of water the handlebars turned toward the verge

and I found a spot to stop The handlebars turned toward the verge, and I found a spot to stop and unbuckle cinder from her basket. She jumped up onto my shoulder, where she liked to sit like a queen. And we walked into the woods. I had a small tote bag with me. And we wandered along, pausing to fill it with handfuls of pine needle and milkweed fluff. I found some savin-leaved club moss,

but the clump was so paltry, I hesitated to take any. I thought that if it had been further into the warm weather, a few weeks into June, when the cottonwood flies, I could have taken that. I'd have had enough to stuff pillows. Then, Cinder and I turned our heads in unison toward a bright corner of the wood, intuition calling us over. Ah. intuition calling us over. Ah, a broad patch of mossy stone crop, sometimes called golden sedum. As I plucked handfuls to take home for the birds to weave into their nests,

Cinder walked through the soft carpet. Do morning doves like sedum? I asked her. Her tail flicked lazily, as if to say, I suppose we shall see. If they did, I thought I'd write it into the grimoire. An idea for a rite of spring some descendant might read about one day. Recognizing my handwriting like I'd recognized Grant's. And be encouraged to step out into a garden

and offer up some gift to the birds. Sweet dreams.