Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Clean Slate

Episode Date: January 25, 2021

Our story tonight is called “Clean Slate” and it’s a story about a room of one’s own. It’s also about a jade plant on a window sill, a bit of still useful old technology, and figuring out what’s worth keeping and what’s not. 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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. If you love these stories, there is a whole world waiting for you in my book,

also called Nothing Much Happens. See the busy bakery on a Saturday morning in a beautiful illustration. Make the sandwiches we eat at the allotment. And read 16 news stories that will never be on the podcast. It's available all over the world, and you can learn more at nothingmuchhappens.com. Now, let me tell you a bit about how to use this podcast.

It's designed to help you quiet down your mind and ease into sleep. It does that by giving your mind a place to rest that isn't the tangle of thoughts you might have been caught in all day. The story is simple, and not much happens in it. So just follow along with my voice and the soft details of the story. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed and recharged. I'll tell the story twice, and the second time through I'll go a little slower. We're training your brain along the

way, and the more you use the stories, the faster you'll settle and sleep. So have a bit of patience if you are new to this. Now turn off your light, put away anything you've been looking at, and snuggle your body down into your favorite sleeping position. Pull the blanket over your shoulder and tuck your pillow in just the way you like it. If you tend to clench your jaw when you sleep, place the tip of your tongue at the spot where your top teeth meet the gums on the inside. This will help to keep your jaw relaxed. Now, take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Let's do one more. In and out.

Good. Our story tonight is called Clean Slate. And it's a story about a room of one's own. It's also about a jade plant on a windowsill, a bit of still-useful old technology, and figuring out what's worth keeping and what's not. Clean slate. It was a plan I'd had for a while,

to clean out that back room, the one that was full of possibility, but also full of random clutter, and make it into a space for myself. I'd started a few weeks ago, sorting through boxes and rehoming the mismatched lamps and forgotten things that ended up there just because we didn't know what to do with them at the time. Sometimes we do that, don't we? Something lands in our hands or our hearts, and we don't know where to put it, how to let go of it. So we stash it for another day.

But even behind a closed door, it can tug at you. You might be able to walk past it for weeks, or even months. But at some point the day comes that you say, enough, I want this space back. So, I've been adamant, a box or two a day, sorting out the things I wanted and letting go of the things I didn't. And soon I had a clean, empty space. I'd even vacuumed into the corners and gotten the ancient bobby pins and paper clips out from between the planks and the floor. I dusted down the floorboards and polished the window panes till they sparkled. And for a bit, I just enjoyed the emptiness. It felt restful to me.

I'd seen an article once. The headline had made me laugh. It said, 75 Ways simplify your life. 75 seemed like much too high a number to result in the simplification of anything. But the gist of all those words could be boiled down to these. Figure out what matters to you. Let go of the rest. And I supposed, before I put things back into this clean, quiet room, I wanted to have a clear idea of what mattered. I wanted a space for my watercolors,

my easel and my canvases, a desk to lay my sketch pad on, neat drawers to organize my pencils and sticks of charcoal I wanted a place to keep my favorite books the ones I re-read often depending on the season and the changing temperament of my heart

someplace comfortable to curl up of my heart. Someplace comfortable to curl up, to read or nap or daydream. Some things to inspire me. Some things to calm me. Something to remind me of where I had been and others to spur me toward where I might go. I started with a rug, rolling it out over the oak floor.

It was woven with warm fibers and shades of cerulean and aureate that would keep the chill from my feet on cold days. I turned it this way and that, till I found the right spot for it. Then, and with a bit of help, brought in my desk. I'd found it in the antique shop downtown, and I'd been carefully cleaning it, brightening up the wood with polish and shining up the drawer pulls. The style was called a secretary desk. It had a hinged panel that lowered down in the front to create a level work surface.

Cubbies and small drawers just the size for my supplies, a hollowed-out space to lay your pencil in. And when you folded it up, you could lock it with a tiny key. When I'd found it in the shop, the key was missing, and I was a bit heartbroken over it. Keys fall into that category of objects

that, for me, hold a bit of magic in them. And even though I had no reason or need to lock up my desk, I wanted it all the same. The shopkeeper, hearing my disappointment, reached up onto a shelf behind his register and pulled down a box full of old keys. He explained that most of these antique locks were built around only a few styles or cuts, and with a little trial and error, we were sure to find one that fit. He tipped the box out onto the counter, and we poked through the dozens of brass and iron openers. With each one I touched, I wondered what lock it had originally fitted

into, and whose secrets and treasured items it had protected, and how all of those stories had ended. Finally, we found a small key with an iridescent greenish patina he guessed must be made of copper. It smoothly turned the lock, and since then I'd threaded a green ribbon through its bow and had it ready in my pocket. I took my time filling the drawers, thinking about where I would want everything for ease of use when I was sketching or writing. My boxes of colored pencils, my sharpener, my sealing wax and stamps.

They all fit with a curious exactness into the drawers. I slid a fresh journal into one of the cubbies and laid a just-sharpened pencil in the groove and lifted the lid into place. I turned the key in the lock and left it there, the ribbon showing against the warm polished wood. Next, I set an old-fashioned desk lamp on the top ledge of the secretary, the kind with a green glass shade and pull chain, already looking forward to the sun setting,

to needing to pull it, and enjoying the pool of light it would cast. Then we brought in a sweet little loveseat that had been hanging out unused in an odd corner of the house for years. It had a single arm and a curving retro shape that seemed designed for just one person to stretch out on. And that made it perfect for this room. I added a small table to rest my future cups of tea on and plumped the cushions on the sofa. I'd bought myself a new and incredibly soft throw and draped it over the arm. Next, I set up my easel by the window

to catch the morning light. I had a collection of photos and illustrations, as well as the first full paintings I'd ever done, that had been waiting their turn, gathering dust in a closet. And now I framed them all, and hung them over my love seat. I'd had these pieces because I liked them. I wanted to look at them. Why had they spent so much time in the dark. That clutter of stuff hadn't left room for the things I loved. I made a quiet promise to myself that this room would only house things

that were useful or beautiful or both. I added a bookshelf and filled most of it with my well-loved favorites, but saved one shelf for new books. I checked out a few from the library this week just to slide onto this shelf and have something undiscovered to look forward to.

On the windowsill, I set out a small pot with a young jade plant that I'd propagated from one that sat on my mother's windowsill. She told me that these thick-leaved succulents were symbols of fresh growth and prosperity. Finally, I put out a candle on top of the desk. It smelled of vetiver and cedar. In that same antique

shop I'd also found a small round pot. It looked like an inkwell that was made of rough ceramic, and stenciled in bright blue ink against the white stoneware was the name of a hotel in Morocco. The shopkeeper took a green-tipped match from his pocket and struck it against the rough surface of the pot, and the match crackled into life. Useful and beautiful. Check. It went onto the desk beside the candle, and I filled its blue-rimmed pot with the special tipped matches I'd bought at the drugstore. I struck a match.

I lit the candle. I turned the key and opened the desk and slid the blank journal out. I picked up my pencil. It was easy now to remember what mattered to me. It felt like it would be easier going forward to let go of everything else. I started to draw. Clean slate.

It was a plan I'd had for a while, to clean out that back room, the one that was full of possibility, but also full of random clutter, and make it a space for myself. I'd started a few weeks ago, sorting through boxes and rehoming the mismatched lamps and forgotten things that had ended up here just because we didn't know what to do with them at the time. Sometimes we do that, don't we? Something lands in our hands or our hearts, and we don't know where to put it, how to put it,

how to let it go. So we stash it for another day. But even behind a closed door, it can tug at you. You might be able to walk past it for weeks, even months. But at some point, the day comes when you say, enough, I want this space back. So, I'd been adamant. A box or two a day,

sorting out the things I wanted, and letting go of the things I didn't. And soon, I had a clean, empty space. I'd even vacuumed into the corners and gotten the ancient bobby pins and paper clips out from between the planks in the floor. I dusted down the floorboards and polished the window panes till they sparkled. And for a bit, I just enjoyed the emptiness. It felt restful to me. I'd seen an article once.

A headline had made me laugh. It said, 75 ways to simplify your life. 75 seemed like much too high a number to result in the simplification of anything. But the gist of all those words could be boiled down to these. Figure out what matters to you. Let go of the rest. And I supposed, before I put things back into this clean, quiet room, I wanted to have a clear idea of what mattered. I wanted a space for my watercolors, my easel and my canvases, a desk to organize my pencils,

and sticks of charcoal. I wanted a place to keep my favorite books, the ones I re-read the most, depending on the season and the changing temperament of my heart. I needed some place comfortable to curl up to read or nap or daydream. I needed some things to inspire me some things to calm me something to remind me of where I had been

and something to spur me toward where I might go. I started with a rug, rolling it out over the oak floor. It was woven with warm fibers in shades of cerulean and aureate that would keep the chill from my feet on cold days. I turned it this way and that, till I found the right spot for it. Then, and with a bit of help, brought in my desk.

I'd found it in the antique shop downtown, and I'd been carefully cleaning it, brightening up the wood with polish and shining up the drawer pulls. The style was called a secretary desk. It had a hinged panel that lowered down in the front to create a level work surface. Cubbies and small drawers, just the size for my supplies. A hollowed-out space to lay your pencil in. And when it folded up, you could lock it with a tiny key. When I'd found it in the

shop, the key was missing, and I was a bit heartbroken over it. Keys fall into that category of objects that, for me, hold a bit of magic in them. And even though I had no reason or need to lock up my desk, I wanted it all the same. The shopkeeper, hearing my disappointment, reached up onto a shelf behind his register and pulled down a box full of old keys. He explained that most of these antique locks were built around only a few styles of cuts. And with a little trial and error, we were sure to find one that fit.

He tipped the box out onto the counter, and we poked through the dozens of brass and iron openers. With each one I touched, I wondered what lock it had originally fitted into, and whose secrets and treasured items it had protected, and how all those stories had ended. Finally, we found a small key with an iridescent, greenish patina. He guessed, must be made of copper. It smoothly turned the lock, and since then,

I'd threaded a green ribbon through its bow and had it ready in my pocket. I took my time filling the drawers, thinking about where I would want everything for ease of use when I was sketching or writing. My boxes of colored pencils. My sharpener. My sealing wax and stamps.

They all fit with a curious exactness into the drawers. I pushed a fresh journal into one of the cubbies and laid a just-sharpened pencil in the groove and lifted the lid into place. I turned the key in the lock and left it there the ribbon showing against the warm polished wood

next I set an old fashioned desk lamp on the top ledge of the secretary the kind with the green glass shade and pull chain, already looking forward to the sun setting, to needing to pull it, and enjoying the pool of light it would cast. Then we brought in a sweet little loveseat that had been hanging out unused in an odd corner of the house for years. It had a single arm and a curving retro shape that seemed designed for just one person to

stretch out on. And that made it perfect for this room. I added a small table to rest my future cups of tea on and plumped the cushions on the sofa. I'd bought myself a new and incredibly soft throw and draped it over the arm. Next, I set up my easel by the window to catch the natural light. I had a collection of photos and illustrations,

as well as the first full painting I'd ever done. They'd all been waiting their turn, gathering dust in a closet. And now I framed them all and hung them over my love seat. I'd had these pieces because I liked them. I wanted to look at them. Why had they spent so much time in the dark? That clutter of stuff hadn't left room for the things I loved. I made a quiet promise to myself

that this room would only house things that were useful, or beautiful, or both. I added a bookshelf and filled most of it with my well-loved favorites, but saved one shelf for new books. I checked out a few from the library this week, just to slide onto this shelf and have something undiscovered to look forward to. On the windowsill, I set out a small pot with a young jade plant that I'd propagated from one that sat on my mother's windowsill. She told me that these thick-leaved succulents were symbols of fresh growth and prosperity. Finally, I set out a candle on top of the desk.

It smelled of vetiver and cedar. In that same antique shop, I'd also found a small round pot. It looked like an inkwell, but was made of rough ceramic and stenciled in bright blue ink against the white stoneware with the name of a hotel in Morocco. The shopkeeper took a green-tipped match from his pocket and struck it against the rough surface of the pot, and the match crackled into life, useful and beautiful.

Check. It went onto the desk beside the candle, and I filled its blue-rimmed pot with the special-tipped matches I'd bought at the drugstore. I struck a match. I lit the candle. I turned the key and opened the desk and took the blank journal out. I picked up my pencil. It was easy now to remember what mattered to me.

It felt like it would be easier going forward to let go of everything else. I started to draw sweet dreams.