Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - First This, Then That

Episode Date: March 25, 2019

Our story tonight is called First This, Then That and it’s a story about a bit of Spring cleaning on a sunny day. It’s also about watching birds at their feeder, sharing things with your neighbors, and the joy of finding something forgotten in an old coat pocket. 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, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Nothing Much Happens is a proud member of the Curious Cast podcast network. If you enjoy our stories, please share them any way you can, with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. And follow us on Facebook and Instagram for some extra coziness. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story.

And the story is a place to rest your mind so that it doesn't wander and race and keep you up. All you need to do is listen and let the simple details catch you. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you find that you are still awake at the end of the second telling, not to worry. That's just fine. You could listen again.

Or just walk yourself back through any of the details that you remember. And before you know it, you'll be sinking down into deep and restful sleep. This is a kind of brain training, and the more you do it, the more your sleep will improve. So be patient if you are new at this. Now it's time to switch off the light. Set aside anything you've been working on, playing with, and settle your body into the most comfortable position that you can find. Take a slow, deep and out through your mouth.

Do that one more time. Breathe in, and out. Good. Our story tonight is called First This, Then That. And it's a story about a bit of spring cleaning on a sunny day. It's also about watching birds at their feeder, sharing things with your neighbors, and the joy of finding something forgotten in an old coat pocket.

First this, then that. Years ago, a friend had offered me a useful piece of advice. I was rushing, overwhelmed with too much on my plate, and starting to grasp and sputter and run out of steam. She reached out and touched my arm, looked into my eyes, and said, first this, then that. We took a breath together, and I laughed. Her simple suggestion felt like sun breaking through gloom. Of course, I was letting my mind race ahead, and it rightfully felt overwhelmed. Instead, I needed to do one thing at a time

to find my way from where I was to where I meant to be. It was something I still said to myself when I had a lot of work to get through, but also when I had something to enjoy. It had become a mental touchstone, a method of simply slowing down, so that whatever I was doing could be intentional instead of accidental. I said it to myself this morning as I pushed aside curtains and lifted blinds in one window after another. The early spring sun was warm and bright, and somehow of a completely different quality than the winter sun of just the week before.

I couldn't open the windows yet to let the fresh air in. It was still a bit too cold. But I could let the light in, and I did. Every window in every room. And as I walked from one to another, I let the sun dazzle my eyes. I stood in the slanting light and thought, first this, then that. The house felt different, filled with bright daylight, and it made me want to clear out the remnants of winter with a day of spring cleaning.

Not everyone looks forward to days like that but I do. I like putting things in their place tidying and organizing and stepping back at the end to see how neatly things could stand. I'd learned a long time ago that when my rooms were disorganized and cluttered, my mind seemed to feel the same way. When things were in their place, I felt energized and clear-headed.

So I was happy to roll up my sleeves and set my house to rights. I'd filled the bird feeders early in the morning and noticed my coat rack on the way back in. It was covered with scarves and heavy coats and hats with mittens and gloves hanging from pockets and a pile of boots at its foot. I stood in front of it with hands basket, and sorted out the rest. I made peace with the fact that I had indeed lost one of my favorite mittens and let go of its lone sister. I felt into pockets and tossed out movie stubs and creased notes, and in the very last

pocket pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill. Yes, I laughed aloud at how the feeling of finding money in a forgotten pocket never becomes less joyous. It is as sweet at ten as it is at thirty, or, I hoped, at eighty. Next, I move through kitchen cupboards, consolidating near-empty boxes of tea, and pulling down cookbooks that would be better enjoyed by someone else. We had a neighborhood drop-off for such things, a tiny pantry to leave a book you'd finished with, the walk you'd meant to learn to cook with but never had, or a sweater that still had a lot of love to give but just didn't fit like it used to.

Last week I'd popped in on a walk and found a little book of poetry by writers I'd never heard of. It was just the size to slip into the pocket of my spring jacket, and I'd been opening it at bus stops and the line of the coffee shop and reading a few verses. After all, summer is for music, autumn for books, the winter is for films. And spring. Spring is for poetry. I'd been filling a handlebag as I worked my way through closets and cupboards, and now had a little collection of things, ready to find another home. I set it at the back door, thinking that if the sun lasted a bit longer, I could walk it down to the pantry before the day was over. My work was nearly done. My rooms were fresh and clean, and wanting to be lived in.

I set the kettle on the stove and lit the flame. While the water heated, I picked through a bunch of flowers in an old ceramic vase on the counter. I'd bought them at the corner grocery a few days before, heavy stems of lilies with some greenery tucked in around them. They were just starting to open, and I pinched away the filament and anther. The pollen stained my fingers, and I rinsed them under the tap, thinking of the sleeping bulbs about to wake in my garden, the birds building nests in the still-naked branches,

the underground burrows of rabbits growing their families. I thought that spring in Italian was primavera. Prima, meaning first, and vera, meaning true or real. Yes, the year was a few months old by now, but the spring was the first real moment. I took my cup to a chair facing the full bird feeder. There were cardinals and morning doves and grey jays picking through seeds

and hopping in the black dirt. We were all putting our houses in order today. The afternoon light was warm on my skin as I stretched out in the chair. I let my hand reach for a book, thinking that I might read a page or two. But the sunlight on my face was irresistibly pushing down my lids. I leaned my head back into the cushion with a slow sigh.

My work was done. Now I could rest. First this, then that. Years ago, a friend had offered me a useful piece of advice. I was rushing, overwhelmed with too much on my plate, and starting to grasp and sputter and run out of steam. She'd reached out and touched my arm, looked into my eyes, and said, First this, then that. We took a breath together, and I laughed. Her simple suggestion felt like sun breaking through gloom.

Of course, I was letting my mind race ahead, and it rightfully felt overwhelmed. Instead, I needed to do one thing at a time. felt overwhelmed. Instead, I needed to do one thing at a time to find my way from where I was to where I meant to be. It was something I still said to myself when I had a lot of work to get through,

but also when I had something to enjoy. It had become a mental touchstone, a method of simply slowing down so that whatever I was doing could be intentional instead of accidental. I said it to myself this morning, as I pushed aside curtains and lifted blinds in one window after another. The early spring sun was warm and bright, and somehow of a completely different quality than the winter sun of just the week before. I couldn't open the windows yet

to let the fresh air in. It was still too cold. But I could let the light in. And I did. Every window, in every room. And as I walked from one to another, I let the sun dazzle my eyes. I stood in the slanting light and thought,

first this, then that. The house felt different, filled with bright daylight, and it made me want to clear out the remnants of winter with a day of spring cleaning. Not everyone looks forward to days like that, but I do. I like putting things in their place, tidying and organizing, and stepping back at the end to see how neatly things could stand.

I'd learned a long time ago that when my rooms were disorganized and cluttered, my mind seemed to feel the same way. When things were in their place, I felt energized and clear-headed. So I was happy to roll up my sleeves and set my house to rights. I'd filled the bird feeders early in the morning and noticed my coat rack on the way back in.

It was covered with scarves and heavy coats and hats with mittens and gloves hanging from the pockets and a pile of boots at its foot. I stood in front of it with hands on hips and said, First, this. I went through the pile, moved coats into the back of the closet, folded away the scarves into a basket,

and sorted out the rest. I made peace with the fact that I had indeed lost one of my favorite mittens and let go of its lone sister. I felt into pockets and tossed out movie stubs and creased notes and in the very last pocket pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill. Yes, I laughed aloud at how the feeling of finding money in a forgotten pocket never becomes less joyous. It is as sweet at ten as it is at thirty, or, I hoped, at eighty. Next, I moved through kitchen cupboards, consolidating near-empty boxes of tea and pulling down cookbooks

that would be better enjoyed by someone else. We had a neighborhood drop-off for such things. A tiny pantry to leave a book you'd finished with. The walk you'd meant to learn to cook with but never had, or a sweater that still had a lot of love to give but just didn't fit like it used to. Last week, I'd popped in on a walk and found a little book of poetry by writers I'd never heard of. It was just the right size to slip into the pocket of my spring jacket. And I'd been opening it up at bus stops, on the line at the coffee shop, and reading a few

verses. After all, summer is for music, autumn for books, the winter is for films, and spring, spring is for films, and spring, spring is for poetry. I'd been filling a handlebag as I worked my way through closets and cupboards, and now had a little collection of things ready to find another home. I set it at the back door, thinking that if the sun lasted a bit longer, I could walk it down to the pantry before the day was over. My work was nearly done. My rooms were fresh and clean and wanting to be lived in.

I set the kettle on the stove and lit the flame. While the water heated, I picked through a bunch of flowers in an old ceramic vase on the counter. I'd bought them at the corner grocery a few days before. Heavy stems of lilies, with some greenery tucked in around them. They were just starting to open, and I pinched away the filament, an anther. The pollen stained my fingers, and I rinsed them under the tap, thinking of the sleeping bulbs about to wake in my garden.

The birds building nests in the still-naked branches. The underground burrows of rabbits growing their families. I thought that spring, in Italian, was primavera. Prima meaning first, and vera meaning true or real. Yes, the year was a few months old by now, but the spring was the first real moment. I took my cup to a chair, facing the full bird feeder.

There were cardinalsinals and morning doves and grey jays picking through seeds and hopping in the black dirt. We were all putting our houses in order today. The afternoon light was warm on my skin as I stretched out in the chair.

I let my hand reach for a book, thinking that I might read a page or two. But the sunlight on my face was irresistibly pushing down my lids, and I leaned my head back into the cushion with a slow sigh. My work was done. Now I could rest. Sweet dreams.