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

Episode Date: May 3, 2021

Our story tonight is called Daydreamer and it’s a story about drifting from one thought to the next, giving into a bit of nostalgia and imagining what might be. It’s also about help from a stranger, the sound of the school bus coming down the street, and an open window on a spring morning. 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. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. You've asked for an ad-free version of the podcast, for more stories more frequently. And very kindly, you've asked how you can show your support for what Bob and I create, and we listened.

Starting today, and for about the cost of a latte, you can get access to all seven seasons of Nothing Much Happens, with zero ads and bonus episodes every month that won't be available anywhere else. Now, the podcast will always be free and available right where you are listening now. But if you'd like to get more Nothing Much Happens and ensure that we can keep creating for you. Well, we'd love to have you. Sign up right now at nothingmuchappens.com. And by the way, this subscription makes a lovely Mother's Day gift. Now, every episode is someone's first, so I like to let you know how this works. I'm going to give your mind a place to rest, a simple story that I'll tell twice, going a little bit slower the

second time through. Just follow along with my voice, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed and energized. This is brain training, and you'll notice that the more you do it, the more your sleep will improve. Now turn off your light. Set down anything you were looking at slide down deep into the sheets and get as comfortable as you can feel your whole body getting heavier deeply relaxed

now take a slow breath in through your nose and let it out with a sigh Now take a slow breath in through your nose. And let it out with a sigh. Do one more. Breathe in. And let it go. Good. Our story tonight is called Daydreamer. And it's a story about drifting from one thought to the next, giving in to a bit of nostalgia,

and imagining what might be. It's also about kindness from a stranger, the sound of the school bus coming down the street, and an open window on a spring morning. Daydreamer I'd been sleeping with the windows open for a week or so. A few nights had been cool, but I'd just added a thick quilt to the bed and happily dozed with the night air circling over me. On those mornings,

I'd been a bit quicker than usual to get my cup of coffee and climb back into the still warm bed, sipping from my cup as the light turned pink outside, and feeling myself warming and waking and wondering what the day would be like. It is one of the best moments of the day, the first moment, as every possibility lies open to you and nothing has yet been decided.

Daydreaming, I've realized as I've gotten older, is underrated. So I spent that first moment of the day just letting my mind float on possibilities, like an upturned leaf floating on the current of a stream. I leaned back against the pillows and smelled the good toasted scent of my coffee. It was a dark roast and reminded me of the smell of cacao beans. I thought of a meal I'd eaten a few years before that had ended with a cup of sweet chai and a square of bitter dark

chocolate. The sweet and the bitter had gone so well together. I'd nibbled tiny bites and taken small sips to make it last as long as I could. It was, I thought, just like the cool night air and the warm quilt. Opposites, but friends. The difference between them pulling out the best parts of each other. I heard the rumble of an engine and looked down through the window beside my bed to spy a school bus climbing up the street. It stopped at the house next door,

and I heard the pneumatic hiss of the side door opening, and my neighbor hurrying his little one out to climb the steps. She had a poster board rolled up into a tube and fastened with paper clips at either end, under one arm, and a lunchbox dangling from the other hand. I smiled, watching her make her way up the stairs, remembering that she had told me proudly a few days before that she had been working on her science fair project. I thought back to my own science fair days and remembered walking up and down the aisles of tables set up in the gym, excited to see how a lemon could plants might have grown differently because they'd been fed their sunlight in east-facing windows or west.

And of course, the showstopper, an ambitious parent-child team-built papier-mâché volcano, hand-painted with tiny pots of poster paint and erupting with baking soda and vinegar. I wondered what her little mind was curious about. What bit of the natural world had she explored when I vowed to ask her when she got off the bus this afternoon. I went back to daydreaming as I watched the bus stop at the corner

and pick up another small scientist carrying a giant cardboard display carefully over their head. I thought about that bus full of children and what they dreamed of doing when they got older. They'd be all different sorts of people. Some would travel to faraway places, and others might live their whole lives in our little neighborhood.

Some would make art, or become athletes, discover, invent, teach, be parents themselves. Or maybe, when I smiled thinking of it, drive a school bus and someday be there to help a student up the steps with a science fair project in their arms. It made me think of a night many years before, when I'd been in a city I didn't know well,

and I'd thought I'd just missed the last bus home. A man my grandfather's age had seen me running to catch it. And when I finally stopped at a corner to think what to do next, he came to ask if I was all right. He leaned on his cane as he listened to my story. Last bus, my friends, having caught the one going the other way. Too far to walk and not sure how to get home. There would be another bus, he promised.

You'll get home just fine, he said. He waited with me, asking me about school and my summer plans, distracting me from my worries, and sure enough, a quarter of an hour later, a number four bus pulled up to the stop. I thanked him for helping me, and he watched me go up the steps and settle in a seat. The window was pulled down a few inches, and as the door closed and the driver prepared to pull away, he called out to watch for my stop and be careful.

I still thought about him all these years later. That he'd cared for a stranger enough to sit with me and wait that he'd taken a bit of his own time to make sure I got home safely I certainly hoped he had too I still hadn't moved from my warm quilt but my mind had been back in time, thousands of miles away, and cast a bit into the future as well.

Where would that drifting leaf float off to next? I saw the mail carrier walking up to a mailbox a few houses away. And even from my nest up high in my bedroom, I spotted a square, bright red envelope

as it was pulled from the mail pouch and tucked into the box. What, I wondered, was in that envelope? A birthday card? An invitation to a fancy party? A love letter confessing someone's deepest desires and hopes. The leaf went tumbling down a waterfall, rushing past a hundred possibilities. That's the promise of a letter sealed tightly in an envelope, isn't it? The same as the promise of the first moment of a new day.

It could take you anywhere. I decided the letter in that red envelope was from a long-lost cousin, informing the recipient of a family fortune now up for grabs. If only they would come for a weekend at great-uncle's house I imagined a long dining room table with an inch of dust on the dishes and a secret passageway that went from the false panel in the library to a door hidden by a tapestry in the hall upstairs. I conjured up a groundskeeper with a secret,

and an initial carved into the base of a stone statue at the center of a hedge maze. I took the last sip of my coffee, laughing at myself and the story I'd started in my mind. Not laughing in jest or derision, but in delight. This is the secret we forget as we get older, that we can go anywhere in our minds, and that daydreaming can be its own adventure and escape. When we can't travel, when we can't go back or forward in time, we can dream. And a dream doesn't have to be real to feel true. Daydreamer. I'd been sleeping with thick quilt to the bed and happily dozed

with the night air circling over me. On those mornings, I'd been a bit quicker than usual to get my cup of coffee and climb back into the still warm bed, sipping from my cup as the light turned pink outside, and feeling myself warming and waking and wondering what the day would be. It is one of the best moments of the day, the first moment, As every possibility lies open to you. And nothing has yet been decided. Daydreaming, I've realized, as I've gotten older, is underrated. So I spent that first moment of the day just letting my mind float on possibilities, like an upturned leaf floating on the current of a stream. I leaned back against the pillows

and smelled the good toasted scent of my coffee. It was a dark roast and reminded me of the smell of cacao beans. I thought of a meal I'd eaten a few years before that had ended with a cup of sweet chai and a square of bitter dark chocolate. The sweet and the bitter had gone so well together. I'd nibbled tiny bites and taken small sips to make it last as long as I could. It was, I thought, just like the cool night air and the warm quilt. Opposites, but friends. The difference between them pulling out the best parts of each other. I heard the rumble of an engine and looked down through the window beside my bed to spy a school bus climbing up the street. It stopped at the house next door, and I heard the pneumatic hiss of the

side door opening, and my neighbor hurrying his little one out to climb the steps. She had a poster board rolled up into a tube and fastened with paper clips at either end, under one arm, and a lunchbox dangling from the other hand. I smiled, watching her make her way up the stairs, remembering that she had told me proudly a few days before that she had been working on her science fair project. I thought back to my own science fair days

and remembered walking up and down the aisles of tables set up in the gym, excited to see how a lemon could be a battery, how a dozen tiny plants might have grown differently because they'd been fed their sunlight in east-facing windows or west. And of course, the showstopper, an ambitious parent-child team-builtâché volcano, hand-painted with tiny pots of poster paint, and erupting with baking soda and vinegar. I wondered what her little mind was curious about. What bit of the natural world had she explored and vowed to ask her when she got off the bus this afternoon? I went back to daydreaming as I watched the bus stop at the corner

and pick up another small scientist carrying a giant cardboard display carefully over their head. I thought about that bus full of children and what they dreamed of doing when they got older. They'd be all different sorts of people. Some would travel to faraway places, and others might live their whole lives in our little neighborhood. Some would make art or become athletes. Discover, invent, teach, be parents themselves, or maybe, and I smiled thinking of it,

drive a school bus, and someday, be there to help a student up the steps with a science fair project in their arms. It made me think of a night many years before when I'd been in a city I didn't know well, and I'd thought I'd just missed the last bus home. A man my grandfather's age had seen me running to catch it. And when I finally stopped at a corner to think what to do next, he came to ask if I was all right. He leaned on his cane as he listened to my story.

Last bus. My friends having caught the one going the other way. Too far to walk. And not sure how to get home. There would be another bus, he promised. You'll get home

just fine, he said. He waited with me, asking me about school and my summer plans, distracting me from my worries. And sure enough, a quarter of an hour later, a number four bus pulled up to the stop.

I thanked him for helping me, and he watched me go up the steps and settle in a seat. The window was pulled down a few inches, and as the door closed and the driver prepared to pull away, he called out to watch for my stop and be careful. I still thought about him all these years later,

that he'd cared for a stranger enough to sit with me and wait, that he'd taken a bit of his own time to make sure I got home safely. I certainly hoped he had, too. I still hadn't moved from my warm quilt. But my mind had been back in time, thousands of miles away, and cast a bit into the future as well. Where would that drifting leaf

float off to next? I saw the mail carrier walking up to a mailbox a few houses away, and even from my nest up high in my bedroom, I spotted a square, bright red envelope as it was pulled from the mail pouch and tucked into the box. What, I wondered, was in that envelope? A birthday card. An invitation to a fancy party. A love letter

confessing someone's deepest desires and hopes. The leaf went tumbling down a waterfall, rushing past a hundred possibilities. That's the promise of a letter, sealed tightly in an envelope, isn't it? It's the same as the promise of the first moment of a new day. I could take you anywhere. I decided the letter in that red envelope was from a long-lost cousin, informing the recipient of a family fortune, now up for grabs, if only they would come for a weekend at Great-Uncle's house in the country.

I imagined a long dining room table with an inch of dust on the dishes, and a secret passageway that went from the false panel in the library to a door hidden by a tapestry in the hall upstairs. I conjured up a groundskeeper with a secret, and an initial carved into the base of a stone statue in the center of a hedge maze. I took the last sip of my coffee, laughing at myself and the story I'd started in my mind. Not laughing in jest or derision, but in delight. This is the secret we forget as we get older,

that we can go anywhere in our minds, and that daydreaming can be its own adventure and escape. When we can't travel, when we can't go back or forward in time, we can dream. And a dream doesn't have to be real to feel true. Sweet dreams.