Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Dandelions and Mayapples

Episode Date: May 1, 2023

Our story tonight is called Dandelions and Mayapples and it’s a story about a trip down to the creek on a spring afternoon. It’s also about a bench on the bank where the sound of the water echoes, rhododendrons, and stone steps, and giving yourself the grace to ebb and flow. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to BookAidhttps://bookaid.org/. They work for a world where everyone has access to books that will enrich, improve and change their lives.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 Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. You can subscribe to our premium feeds to listen to bonus, extra long, and ad-free episodes, as well as get autographed copies of my book or some cozy merch,, all at nothingmuchappens.com. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to BookAid at bookaid.org.

They work for a world where everyone has access to books that will enrich, improve, and change lives. Now, here is how this podcast works. I'm going to tell you a story, and it has just enough in it to catch your busy mind and hold it still for a bit so that you can peacefully fall asleep. All you need to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to start the story over. We are training your brain to fall asleep and return to sleep quickly. And with a bit of practice, it'll begin to happen within seconds. Now, switch off your light.

Snuggle down into your favorite sleeping position. And let your whole body soften. You are being held by the earth right now. And you are safe. And I am here to watch over until you wake. Take a deep breath in through your nose, and let it out with a soft sigh. One more, please, in and out.

Good. Our story tonight is called Dandelions and May Apples, and it's a story about a trip down to the creek on a spring afternoon. It's also about a bench on the bank where the sound of the water echoes, rhododendrons and stone steps, and giving yourself grace to ebb and flow. Dandelions and may apples.

A week or two ago I'd spotted them down by the creek. Their yellow heads visible among the bright green new grass, even from a ways away. On the day I'd seen them, it had snowed again. Just a flurry of flakes. That seemed to melt before they made it all the way to the ground. But among the budding trees and forsythia branches, it had felt like a prank a cruel joke after warm days

in which we'd all cautiously started to believe that winter was finally over and I guess it was not just because the sun had come out the very next day, and the warmth and sweet air along with it, but because nature and the seasons, just like most everything else, don't go in a straight line.

Just because spring had pivoted on her heel for a moment, it didn't mean anything wasn't as it should be. Spring has a bit of winter in her, after all. I think of this a lot, of how nature spirals, pivots, retreats and begins again, and how often we forget

that we are meant to do the same. How we would never look at the sky or at a formation of rock and earth and think, well, that's not right. It just is. And so am I. And so are you. So when the clouds had finished dropping their last snowflakes, at least for a while,

and the sun was out again, I peered through the window in my room at the top of the house and spied the dandelions, still yellow and blooming beside the creek. I have a lovely view from from this window, and it was changing seemingly by the minute as the trees budded and flowers emerged. I pushed it up by the sash and the air that rolled in was warm and fresh smelling. and the air that rolled in was warm and fresh-smelling. What was I doing up here? I asked myself. I could be out there.

So I raced down the stairs until I was at the back door, stepping into my shoes and onto the patio. I hadn't planted anything yet besides one small pot of pansies that stood beside the door, and I stopped to admire them, purple and yellow and white with green leaves.

I picked up the watering can where I'd left it a day or two ago and gave them a quick drink. On the patio stones were long black marks, and I remembered watching a deer from my window scraping her hooves along the stones. I imagined her using them as I used an emery board on my nails. I was glad the doe had gotten some self-care Sunday, I thought with a chuckle. Beyond the edge of the patio were stairs made of flat stones wedged into the earth, and I stepped onto them cautiously.

They felt solid and secure, but I hadn't climbed them since last autumn. So I went slowly, checking that each one was without wiggle as I went. When we'd first moved in, these steps weren't even visible from the house, and I could only guess how old they were. It had been such a treat to find them when we were exploring the yard that first summer. We'd cleared out some brush and cut away an invasive vine to find what had felt like a secret garden.

Beyond the steps was another surprise. A bench, cast iron, and still with a few flakes of white paint clinging to its seat and back. I remembered finding it that day and going to sit on it. It was in the shade of a giant maple and near enough the creek to enjoy the sound,

but far back enough that when she overran her banks each spring, your toes wouldn't get wet. Sitting there, I'd been struck with the thought of someone sitting in the exact same spot many, many years before, having their picture taken, shading their eyes against the bright glint of the sunshine, and smiling at the camera. Had I just stepped into someone else's memory? Or was it just a fanciful thought born of the romance of the spot and the warm air. I hadn't known, but hoped that, somewhere up in my attic, I'd one day find an old box with the photo I'd just imagined waiting inside it. The sound of the creek pulled me over, and I peered down into it.

Clear water flowed over stones, and a sandy bottom scored with ripples. Upstream, the creek curved and the water rushed and ran. And I walked closer, wanting to bottle the sound of it and to carry it around with me in my pocket. I stood there for a bit, just watching it flow, thinking about how the stones in the creek bed

were sometimes exposed when the water was low, and how you could use them as a bridge to step across. But now they were submerged, and though I knew they didn't, I imagined them sighing as the cool water flowed over them. I kept walking, following the creek upstream. The trees were only just budding out, so even in the deeper woods, the light was bright. Along with the dandelions growing from every patch of green were daffodils, some all yellow, and others with a yellow cup of petals inside,

and an outer ring of bright white petals around them. On the far side of the creek was a rhododendron with long, shiny leaves. It was a giant, ranging along the water for yards, and up toward the thick branch of a beech tree almost as far. It must have been planted a hundred years ago to grow this big, and around its roots were dozens of mayapples. I recognized them by their shape. They were tiny, only five or six inches tall, but shaped like little umbrellas. As they grew over the summer, the umbrellas would open up, and their leaves would stand out rather than droop down.

Eventually, they would grow small, green, lemon-shaped fruits, which were edible but didn't have much flavor. Luckily, wildlife, turtles, and others liked them just fine, and they would make for good meals when the time was right. On my way back toward home, toward the stone steps and the patio, I reached out and touched trees along the path. I bent down near the stream and let my fingers trail through the cold water. The dandelions were all yellow. None had turned to fluff yet, ready for a wish to be made.

But mine had already been granted. The static in my head had quieted, replaced by the sound of the creek. I was calm and happy and restored. Dandelions and Mayapples A week or two ago, I'd spotted them down by the creek. Their yellow heads visible among the bright green new grass, even from a ways away. On the day I'd seen them,

it had snowed again. Just a flurry of flakes that seemed to melt before they made it all the way to the ground. But among the budding trees and forsythia branches, it had felt like a prank, a cruel joke after warm days, in which we'd all cautiously started to believe that winter was fully over.

And I guess it was, not just because the sun had come out the very next day, and the warmth and sweet air along with it, but because nature and the seasons, just like most everything else, don't go in a straight line just because spring had pivoted on her heel for a moment I didn't mean anything wasn't as it should be. Spring has a bit of winter in her, after all. I think of this a lot,

of how nature spirals, pivots, retreats and begins again, and how often we forget that we are meant to do the same. How we would never look at the sky or at a formation of rock and earth and think, well, that's not right. It just is. And so am I.

And so are you. So when the clouds had finished dropping their last snowflakes for a while at least, and the sun was out again. I peered through the window in my room at the top of the house and spied the dandelions, still yellow and blooming beside the creek. I have a lovely view from my window, and it was changing seemingly by the minute as the trees budded and flowers emerged.

I pushed it up by the sash, and the air that rolled in was warm and fresh-smelling. What was I doing up here? I asked myself. I could be out there. So I raced down the stairs until I was at the back door, stepping into my shoes and onto the patio. I hadn't planted anything yet, besides one small pot of pansies that stood beside the door,

and I stopped to admire them, purple and yellow and white with green leaves. I picked up the watering can where I'd left it a day or two ago and gave them a quick drink. On the patio stones were long black marks, and I remembered watching a deer from my window scraping her hooves along the stones. I imagined her using them as I used an emery board on my nails. Glad the doe had gotten her own self-care Sunday, I thought with a chuckle. Beyond the edge of the patio were stairs made of flat stones wedged into the earth,

and I stepped onto them cautiously. They felt solid and secure, but I hadn't climbed them since last autumn. So I went slowly, checking that each one was without wiggle as I went. When we'd first moved in, these steps weren't even visible from the house, and I could only guess how old they were. It had been such a treat to find them when we were exploring the yard that first summer.

We'd cleared out some brush and cut away an invasive vine to find what had felt like a secret garden. Beyond the steps was another surprise. A bench, cast iron, and still with a few flakes of white paint clinging to its seat and back. I remembered finding it that day, going to sit on it. It was in the shade of a giant maple, and near enough the creek to enjoy the sound, but far back enough that when she overran her banks each spring, your toes wouldn't get wet. Sitting there, I'd been struck with the thought of someone else sitting in the exact same spot many, many years before. Having their picture taken. Shading their eyes against the bright glint of the sunshine.

And smiling at the camera. Had I just stepped into someone else's memory? Or was it just a fanciful thought, born of the romance of the spot and the warm air. I hadn't known, but hoped, that somewhere, up in my attic, I'd one day find an old box with the photo I'd just imagined waiting inside it. The sound of the creek pulled me over, and I peered down into it. Clear water flowed over stones,

and a sandy bottom scored with ripples. Upstream, the creek curved, and the water rushed and ran. And I walked closer, wanting to bottle the sound of it, and to carry it around with me in my pocket. I stood there for a bit, just watching it flow, thinking about how the stones in the creek bed were sometimes exposed when the water was low and how you could use them as a bridge to step across. But now they were submerged.

And though I know they didn't, I imagined them sighing as the cool water flowed over them. I kept walking, following the creek upstream. The trees were only just budding out, so even in the deeper woods, the light was bright. Along with the dandelions growing from every patch of green, were daffodils,

some all yellow, and others with a yellow cup of petals inside and an outer ring of bright white petals around them. On the far side of the creek was a rhododendron with long, shiny leaves. It was a giant, ranging along the water for yards, and up toward the thick branch of a beech tree nearly as far. It must have been planted a hundred years ago to grow this big and around its roots were dozens

of may apples. I recognized them by their shape. They were tiny only five or six inches tall, but shaped like little umbrellas. As they grew over the summer, the umbrellas would open up, and their leaves would stand out rather than droop down. green, lemon-shaped fruits, which were edible, but didn't have much flavor. Luckily, wildlife, turtles and others,

liked them just fine, and they would make for good meals when the time was right. On my way back toward home, toward the stone steps and the patio, I reached out and touched trees along the path. I bent down near the stream and let my fingers trail through the cold water. The dandelions were all yellow. None had turned to fluff yet, ready for a wish to be made. But mine had already been granted. The static in my head had quieted, replaced by the sound of the

creek. I was calm and happy and restored. Sweet dreams.