Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Ducks in a Row

Episode Date: November 5, 2018

Our story tonight is called “Ducks in a Row” and it’s a story about a slow paced Sunday, several cups of tea, and having the time to do the things you need to. It’s also about a shared loaf of banana bread, watching a cold wind blow through the last leaves of autumn, and feeling cared for and ready for a new week. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase 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. All stories are written and read by me, Catherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. 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 an extra bit of coziness. Let me say something about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story.

It's a simple story, without much action, but full of relaxing detail. The story is like a nest, and we're enticing your fluttering mind to settle down into it. 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. That's a good rule of thumb in general when you're trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. That's a good rule of thumb in general when you're trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. Relax. 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 particularly cozy.

You're training your brain and body to wind down, and the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of patience at the beginning. If you find yourself awake again later in the night, use the story again to go right back to sleep. Now it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been working on or looking at. Take some time to snuggle yourself down

into your preferred sleeping position. Make all the adjustments you need to to feel your body relaxing into your bed. We're creating a cue for your body and brain and the signal that sends is it's time for sleep. Now, let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh through the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. In

and out. Do that one more time. In. And out. Our story tonight is called Ducks in a Row. And it's a story about a slow-paced Sunday, several cups of tea, and having the time to do the things you need to. It's also about a shared loaf of banana bread, watching a cold wind blow through the last leaves of autumn,

and feeling cared for and ready for a new week. Ducks in a row. For a while now, the days had been racing past me in a hurried blur, and I'd been reaching out trying to catch a hold of one and slow it down without much success. I had projects I wanted to finish, little pleasures to enjoy, and tasks I was ready to cross off my list. And finally, my day had come. I'd woken up and laid still in bed, listening to blustery winds moving through the trees, and a slow, relaxed smile had spread over my face,

as I realized that I had no plans, and nowhere to be, and a whole day ahead of me to set my ducks in a row. It was still early, and since the pleasures on my list were just as important to me as the items of business, I took my book and my favorite fuzzy blanket to the couch and read a few pages as I waited for the kettle to boil. When the whistle came, it sounded friendly. We were old friends, this kettle and me. I hummed to myself as I poked through the cabinet of tea options. Does everyone buy too much tea?

Earlier in the week, I'd been rushing through the aisles of my local market and gotten mesmerized by the displays of tea. I was wrapped, the varieties and the names and the packages and the ways I might feel and the places I might imagine when I drank them. I'd dropped three or four unfamiliar boxes into my basket and gone back to rushing. Now opening one up and breathing in the scent of tea leaves, an anise seed, and hazelnut, I couldn't imagine a better place to be than in my own cozy kitchen, filling my cup and watching the world wake up through the windows. I carried my cup back to the sofa, wrapped up in my blanket, and decided that this first

hour of the day would be given over to reading and sipping. The house was quiet, just the sound of the wind outside, and the occasional turning of pages. After I'd finished my second cup, and an oversized piece of toast I'd had to wrestle in and out of the toaster before covering it with jam, and reached a point of acceptable satisfaction in my book. I set it aside and thought about what should come next in the day. I had a few chores around the house that I'd been needing to tend to, some organizing and cleaning and sorting out. That would be where I would start I changed from cozy slept-in pajamas

to cozy fresh lounge pants and t-shirt put my hair up, washed my face and brushed my teeth watch out stuff that needs doing, I threatened I'm headed for you I turned on my local public radio station. They were playing their Sunday music shows full of songs that felt familiar, but that I hadn't actually heard before.

I started in my bedroom, putting on fresh sheets, making the bed, putting away errant sweaters, and gathering a collection of empty cups and glasses. I worked from room to room, lighting candles as I went so that each space felt snug and welcoming as I finished, and within an hour or so the house was tidy and set to rights. I moved into the kitchen next and got out a large pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove to simmer.

I took an orange from the fruit basket and in one long curling strip peeled the skin from the fruit. I dropped it into the pot with a handful of cloves, a few cinnamon sticks, and a spoonful of vanilla. I'd let this mix simmer away all day, filling the house with its sweet autumn flavors and softening the dry air with its steam. I cleared and cleaned my way through the fridge and pantry, setting out a bunch of browning bananas for some bread. I got out my rice steamer and filled it with the nutty brown rice I loved.

I let it cook away as I mixed together the dough for the banana bread. I separated some out and stirred in a few spoonfuls of cocoa powder. When I'd filled the tins, I spooned some into each and used a butter knife to marble the mixes together. As they baked, I cooked away. A batch of hummus, a tray of granola, toasted nuts that I tucked into little glass jars to snack on through the week. My rice was done, and I spooned a cup or so of it into a bowl. I drizzled olive oil from young, spicy olives on top, added a handful of the toasted nuts and some salt and pepper, and stirred it through. I ate it slowly, gazing out of the window,

wondering how something so simple could taste so good and feel so nourishing. I realized that when I was rushed, I felt scrappy and uncared for. Taking time made me feel much better. I watched my neighbor coming across his yard with his dog. They'd been to the park, and they looked windblown and chilled as they played tug-of-war with an old bit of rope.

My neighbor, stomping his feet in the cold, finally called it off, and they headed into the house. Once the breads were out, smelling heavenly and cooling on their racks, I cleaned up the mess I'd made and wiped down the counters. I dried my pots and pans and set them back in their proper places. I wrapped a loaf of my banana bread in some parchment paper and secured it with a piece of striped string. I tromped over to my neighbor's porch and set it on his doorstep,

ringing his bell, and feeling the sting of the wind, hurried back inside. I watched him open his door with a steaming mug in his hand. He picked up the still warm packet and held it to his nose. He breathed in the smell and smiled. He turned to my window and lifted his cup in thanks. I waved at him and watched him go back in. Have you ever driven down a dark road on a cold night and looked into the windows of the houses passing by and seeing them lit up and populated, thought to yourself,

oh good, they're in there. It's a strange comfort to feel relieved that strangers have made their way home at the end of the day, but it's no less satisfying for being strange. I felt it now. My house was tidy and snug on this windy, late autumn day. My neighbor was likely slicing a piece of warm bread to go with his coffee. My bed upstairs had fresh sheets on it, and I would be well fed and relaxed this week.

It was a job well done. Ducks in a row. For a while now, the days had been racing past me in a hurried blur, and I'd been reaching out trying to catch a hold of one and slow it down without much success. I had projects I wanted to finish, little pleasures to enjoy, and tasks I was ready to cross off my list. And finally my day had come.

I'd woken up and laid still in bed, listening to blustery winds moving through the trees. A slow, relaxed smile spread over my face as I realized that I had no plans and nowhere to be, and a whole day ahead of me to set my ducks in a row. It was early still, and since the pleasures on my list were just as important to me as the items of business, I took my book and my favorite fuzzy blanket to the couch and read a few pages as I waited for the kettle to boil.

When the whistle came, it sounded friendly. We were old friends, this kettle and me. I hummed to myself as I poked through the cabinet of tea options. Does everyone buy too much tea? Earlier in the week, I'd been rushing through the aisles of my local market and gotten mesmerized by the displays of tea. I was rapt. The varieties, and the the names and the packages

and the ways I might feel and the places I might imagine when I drank them. I'd dropped three or four unfamiliar boxes into my basket and gone back to rushing. Now, opening one up and breathing in the scent of tea leaves and anise seed and hazelnut I couldn't imagine a better place to be than in my own cozy kitchen filling my cup

and watching the world wake up through the windows I carried my cup back to the sofa the world wake up through the windows. I carried my cup back to the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket, and decided this first hour of the day would be given over to reading and sipping. The house was quiet, just the sound of wind outside and the occasional turning of pages. After I'd finished my second cup and an oversized piece of toast I'd had to wrestle in and out of the toaster before covering with jam, and reached a point of acceptable satisfaction in my book. I set it aside and thought about what should come next in my day. I'd had a few chores around the house that I'd been needing to tend to,

some organizing and cleaning and sorting out. That would be where I would start. I changed from cozy slept-in pajamas to cozy fresh lounge pants and t-shirt, put my hair up, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. Watch out, stuff that needs doing, I threatened. I'm headed for you. I turned on my local public radio station. They were playing their Sunday music shows,

full of songs that felt familiar, but that I hadn't actually heard before. I started in my bedroom, putting on fresh sheets, making the bed, putting away errant sweaters, and gathering a collection of empty cups and glasses. I worked from room to room, lighting candles as I went, so that each space felt snug and welcoming as I finished, and within an hour or so the house was tidy and set to rights. I moved into the kitchen next, and got a large pot out,

and filled it with water, and set it on the stove to simmer. I took an orange from the fruit basket and in one long, curling strip peeled the skin from the fruit. I dropped it into the pot with a handful of cloves, a few cinnamon sticks, and a spoonful of vanilla. I'd let this mixture simmer away all day, filling the house with its sweet autumn flavors and softening the dry air with its steam. I cleared and cleaned my way through the fridge and pantry, setting out a bunch of browning bananas for some bread. I got out my rice steamer and filled it with the nutty brown rice I loved.

I let it cook away as I mixed together the dough for the banana bread. I separated some out and stirred in a few spoonfuls of cocoa powder. When I'd filled the tins, I spooned some into each and used a butter knife to marble the mixes together. As they baked, I cooked away. A batch of hummus, a tray of granola, toasted nuts that I tucked into little glass jars to snack on through the week. My rice was done, and I spooned a cup or so of it into a bowl. I drizzled olive oil from young, spicy olives on top. Added a handful of the toasted nuts

and some salt and pepper and stirred it through. I ate it slowly, gazing out the window, wondering how something so simple could taste so good and feel so nourishing. I realized that when I was rushed, I felt scrappy and uncared for. Taking time made me feel much better. I watched my neighbor coming across his yard with his dog. They'd been to the park, and they looked windblown and chilled as they played tug-of-war with an old bit of rope.

My neighbor, stomping his feet in the cold, finally called it off, and they headed into their house. Once the breads were out, smelling heavenly and cooling on their racks, I cleaned up the mess I'd made and wiped down the counters. I dried my pots and pans and set them back in their proper places. I wrapped a loaf of my banana bread in some parchment paper and secured it with a piece of striped string. I tromped over to my neighbor's porch

and set it on his doorstep, ringing his bell, and feeling the sting of the wind, hurried back inside. I watched him open his door with a steaming mug in his hand. He picked up the still warm packet and held it to his nose. He breathed in the smell and smiled.

He turned to my window and lifted his cup in thanks. I waved at him and watched him go back in. Have you ever driven down a dark road on a cold evening and looked into the windows of the houses passing by and seeing them lit up and populated,

thought to yourself, Oh good, they're in there. and populated, thought to yourself, Oh good, they're in there. It's a strange comfort, to feel relieved that strangers have made their way home at the end of the day, but it's no less satisfying for being strange. I felt it now. My house was tidy and snug on this windy late autumn day.

My neighbor was likely slicing a piece of warm bread to go with his coffee. My bed upstairs had fresh sheets on it, and I would be well fed and relaxed this week. It was a job well done. Sweet dreams.