Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Fireflies on a Summer Night (Encore)

Episode Date: July 18, 2022

Our story tonight is called “Fireflies on a summer night” and it’s a story about the magic language of lighting bugs. It’s also about the cool quiet feeling of being all by yourself in the moonlight, words that start with the letter G, and a persistent enduring belief in magic. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Bob and I are heading out on our summer vacations this week, so we are revisiting one of my all-time favorite stories and a beautiful summer story. We'll have a brand new episode for you next week. Now, let me tell you a little about how to use this podcast. I have a tried and true method

for quieting down your brain and easing you into sleep. I'll tell you a bedtime story. It's simple and soothing, and I'll tell it twice, going a little slower on the second read-through. All you have to do is listen. Let your mind follow along with the shape of the story and the sound of my voice, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and ready for another day. If you wake in the middle of the night, you can listen again, or just think back through any bits of the story that you can remember. Now, turn off your light.

No more screens. Slide down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. Arrange your body into your favorite sleeping position. Take a slow, deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Fireflies on a Summer Night,

and it's a story about the magic language of lightning bugs. It's also about the cool, quiet feeling of being all by yourself in the moonlight. Words that start with the letter G, and a persistent, enduring belief in magic. Fireflies on a summer night. Children are born believing in magic. As a child, I persisted in believing. Adults tried to tell me that it wasn't real, that it was only something that happened in stories. But to me, there were so many signs of it it everywhere that it seemed like they were only trying to convince themselves. After all, what about when you slipped your finger

into the coin return on a payphone and found a quarter? What about when you opened a book to just the right page, and your eyes fell on just the right word or drawing? What about when you found a stone that fit into your palm and hugged exactly around the curve of your thumb. And if magic isn't real, then what about fireflies? I would wait for them on summer nights,

watching from the steps of the back deck or my bedroom window. And when they came, I thought they might be coming for me. Could we speak to each other? Them in their language of slow blinking glimmers. Me and mine of quiet wonder. I'd step out in dewy grass and watch and wait.

I never tried to seal them into jars, knowing even then that nobody likes to be boxed in. Instead, I might reach out a hand and see if anyone wanted to rest on it for a moment. And when one did, when they stayed and blinked at me for a minute or so, I would wonder, how is this not magic? I guess I still persist in believing, even now that I am all grown up.

I still see it everywhere. What about when you're walking on the sidewalk, and you catch the eye of a stranger riding on a bus, and you both hold on to each other for as long as you're in sight. What about when you step into your favorite café on a blustery, chill day and find there's just one plate left of exactly what you were craving. What about when you learn that the iron in your blood was born in the belly of a star, before the earth even was? And have you ever jumped into a lake on a hot summer day,

and while you're completely surrounded by water, forgotten every other moment of your life? Go on. Keep telling me how magic just happens in books. Tonight was just the sort of evening that fireflies would be thick in the trees. I thought I might go looking for them. I slipped sandals onto my bare feet and quietly closed the door behind me. Where should I look for them? In the garden?

In the cluster of trees behind the shed? No. In the park. Tonight, they'll be in the park. I strode down the driveway, the air still hot from the day, and slipped down the street. Some houses had lights on inside,

the top of a head and the edge of a book, visible under the glow of a reading lamp. Some were quiet and dark, everyone already abed. Days in the sun always meant good sleep. And a few had porches, with dogs lying on the warm wooden boards, a neighbor or two sitting on a swing, enjoying the night air. I raised a hand, answering the low calls of evening.

In the park, I circled slowly through the paths, smiled at an older lady sitting with her gray-faced dog on a bench, gave some privacy to a couple cuddled up by the fountain, and made my way toward the edge of the pond. There was a tiny pier stretching out into water, and I padded down it to the bench at the very end. The air was thick with the sound of frogs and night breezes and insects buzzing.

On the other side of the lake, I saw them, lighting up around the stems of hostas and flashing in front of the trunks of tall maples. I stood up and walked to the railing, leaning my elbows on the wooden parapet. They glowed. They glimmered. Have you ever noticed how many very nice words for describing what light can do?

Start with GL. Glint. Glimmer. Gleam. Gloss. Glisten. Glaze. And maybe the best.

Gloaming. and maybe the best gloaming it was well past the gloaming now full dark was around me I put my chin in my hand and just watched them I'd heard once that there are mile-long stretches on the Nile where the fireflies all blink in unison.

Can you imagine? How bright and how dark, and how much like language that must feel. They called that emergence, when order emerges from chaos. Maybe it was just another way to say magic. After a while, I made my way back down the wooden planks of the pier, back past the fountain, past the circle paths and benches,

and back down the streets of my neighborhood. In a neighbor's yard, I saw the flames of a bonfire, a circle of chairs pulled up, and friends laughing and telling stories. On another night I might have joined them, but tonight I was happy to be alone, to listen smilingly to their voices and make my way to my own quiet house. I closed the front gate behind me and sat a moment on my front porch. The night sky was clear and full of stars

and the visible glow of Mars. I knew Mars would set an hour after midnight, and soon after Jupiter and Saturn would rise. Then on the cusp of dawn, Venus would shine, and faintly behind her would be mercury. They could set and rise without me. I thought of the softness of my sheets, my pillow cool and sweet-scented from the moving night air, and I made my way inside. I turned the lock on the door and took a slow, deep breath. Next would be sleep and dreaming. More magic.

Fireflies on a summer night. Children are born believing in magic. As a child, I persisted in believing. Adults tried to tell me that it wasn't real, that it was only something that happened in stories. But to me, there were so many signs of it everywhere that it seemed like they were only trying to convince themselves. After all, what about when you slipped your finger into the coin return on a payphone and found a quarter.

What about when you opened a book to just the right page and your eyes fell on just the right word or drawing? What about when you found a stone that fit into your palm and hugged exactly around the curve of your thumb? And if magic isn't real, then what about fireflies? I would wait for them on summer nights, watching from the steps of the back deck or my bedroom window. And when they came, I thought they might be coming for me. Could we speak to each other?

Them and their language of slow blinking glimmers. Me and mine of quiet wonder. I'd step out in dewy grass and watch and wait. I never tried to seal them into jars, knowing, even then, that nobody likes to be boxed in. Instead, I might reach out a hand and see if anyone wanted to rest on it for a moment. And when one did, when they stayed and blinked at me for a minute or so, I would wonder, how is this not magic? I guess I still persist in believing, even now that I'm all grown up.

I still see it everywhere. What about when you're walking on the sidewalk and catch the eye of a stranger riding on a bus and you both hold on to each other for as long as you're in sight? What about when you step into your favorite cafe on a blustery, chill day and find there's just one plate left of exactly what you were craving?

What about when you learn that the iron in your blood was born in the belly of a star before the earth even was? And have you ever jumped into a lake on a hot summer day, and while you're completely surrounded by water, forgotten every other moment of your life? Go on. Keep telling me how magic just happens in books. Tonight was just the sort of evening that fireflies would be thick in the trees.

I thought I might go looking for them. I slipped sandals onto my bare feet and quietly closed the door behind me. Where should I look for them? In the garden? In the cluster of trees behind the shed? No air still hot from the day, and slipped down the street. Some houses had lights on inside, the top of a head and the edge of a book, visible under the glow of a reading lamp. Some were quiet and dark, everyone already abed.

Days in the sun always meant good sleep. And a few had porches, with dogs lying on the warm wooden boards, a neighbor or two sitting on a swing, enjoying the night air. I raised a hand, answering the low calls of evening. In the park, I circled slowly through the paths, smiled at an older lady sitting with her gray-faced dog on a bench, gave some privacy to a couple cuddled up by the fountain, and made my way toward the edge of the pond.

There was a tiny pier stretching out into water, and I padded down it to the bench at the very end. The air was thick with the sound of hostas and flashing in front of the trunks of tall maples. I stood up and walked to the railing, leaning my elbows on the wooden parapet. They glowed. They glimmered. Have you ever noticed how many very nice words for describing what light can do? Start with GL. Glint, glimmer, gleam. Gloss, glisten, glaze.

And maybe the best one, gloaming. It was well past the gloaming now. Full dark was around me. I put my chin in my hand and just watched them. I'd heard once that there are mile-long stretches on the Nile where the fireflies all blink in unison. Can you imagine how bright and then how dark and how much like language that must feel. They called that emergence.

When order emerges from chaos. Maybe it was just another way to say magic. After a while, I made my way back down the wooden planks of the pier, back past the fountain, past the circle paths and benches, and back down the streets of my neighborhood. In a neighbor's yard, I saw the flames of a bonfire, a circle of chairs pulled up, and friends laughing and telling stories. On another night, I might have joined them, but tonight I was happy to be alone, to listen smilingly to their voices and make my way to my own quiet house.

I closed the front gate behind me and sat a moment on my front porch. The night sky was clear and full of stars and the visible glow of Mars. I knew Mars would set an hour after midnight and soon after Jupiter and Saturn would rise. Then on the cusp of dawn, Venus would shine, and faintly behind her would be Mercury. They could set and rise without me. I thought of the softness of my sheets, my pillow cool and sweet-scented from the moving

night air, and I stood and made my way inside. I turned the lock on my door and took a slow, deep breath. Next would be sleep and dreaming. More magic. Sweet dreams.