Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Fog and Light (Encore)

Episode Date: February 1, 2024

Originally Aired: February 24th, 2019 (Season 3 Episode 3) Our story tonight is called Fog and Light, and it’s a story about a day of simple pleasures meant to clear out the winter blues. It’s also about a little girl in a red hat, the Latin names for rare flowers, and good advice from an old friend.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 Katherine 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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. I have a story to tell you, and this story exists to give you a calm, happy place to rest your mind. It's like a nest to settle your fluttering self into.

And here's how it'll work. I'll read her story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. You just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple details of the story. Before you know it, your thinking mind will be rocked to sleep, and you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed. If you wake in the middle of the night, revisit any details you can remember, and you'll fall right back to sleep. We're creating some habits here, and habit building takes a bit of practice, so have some patience if you are new to this.

Our story tonight is called Fog and Light, and it's a story about a day of simple pleasures meant to clear out the winter blues. It's also about a little girl in a red hat, the Latin names for rare flowers, and good advice from an old friend. Now it's time to close everything up. Turn off your light. Snuggle your body down into your favorite sleeping position. Pull the blanket over your shoulder and tuck your pillow in just the way you like it. Take a deep breath in through your nose,

and out through your mouth. Good. Let's do that one more time. In, and out. Good. Let's do that one more time. In. And out. In. Fog and light. A foggy day, and the streetlights, still lit from the night before,

glowed in pockets of patchy yellow on the avenues. I was walking, rain boots splashing through the puddles of melting snow, on my way to a favorite coffee shop. The gray, wet weather had been laying me low, but I had a plan for lifting my spirits, and coffee was just the start of it, though an important part nonetheless. It was a little funny-shaped space of bricks and old wood,

wedged into the front corner of a busy building. I served just a few things, teas and coffees, and on the counter there was a cake stand, with wedges of cake, or cookies, or muffins, tucked under a huge glass dome. The bell over the door rang as I stepped in, and I got in line behind a little girl wearing a red winter cap, with her hand in the hand of her mother. She turned and looked up at me, mouth agape, curious with eyes wide. She was out on a school day and glimpsing the busy world of adults that she rarely saw.

I smiled at her, and she turned around fast, suddenly shy. I wondered if she'd had to go to the dentist or the doctor, so missed school, and now was being taken out for a treat. Her mother ordered her a hot chocolate, not too hot, and a cookie from under the glass dome. She carried her cookie purposefully to a little table in the corner, and sat down waiting for her drink, and pointed out the window at a man walking a dog, calling to her mama that the dog had spots, and a red collar like Kitty.

Already, I was feeling better. When it was my turn to order, I asked for a simple espresso and slid down the bar to wait for it. I love lingering over a big cup of coffee or tea, but the rich taste of properly made Italian espresso I love lingering over a big cup of coffee or tea, but the rich taste of properly made Italian espresso could cut through any grey mood and have me imagining myself in sunny Campania on a fine spring day.

And this little shop did make it properly. It was served up in a tiny white cup and saucer, with barely more than three sips inside, an impossibly small spoon resting in the saucer to stir in the sugar, and beside it, a small glass of fizzy mineral water. The cup had come out of a warmer, so as I lifted it to breathe in the smell, the ceramic was warm on my lips.

First, just smell, with eyes closed. Then a slow sip, and let it rest on your tongue. It was dark and strong without being bitter or burnt and I let it sink through my system and restore me. I drank down my mineral water, dropped another dollar in the tip jar, and ducked back out into the fog. I checked in on how my plan was going. So far, so good. I'd had

a cup of something delicious. And I'd watched a little girl's face when she saw a dog. My light was already burning brighter. The next step of my plan took me through the sodden park, with ducks waddling across the paths and around the tiny amphitheater where I'd sat for summer concerts the year before to a very special place that seemed like a miracle to find in a busy city. It was domed and glass

and reminded me for a moment of the cake stand at the coffee shop. I stood and just looked for a bit, turning my head from side to side, to see how the fog was clinging to the trees, how thick it seemed, like a shawl I was pulling around the park. Was I pulling it? I shook my head at my fancy and pulled open the heavy glass door and let the hot, humid air hit my face and neck. This little glass building held a hundred varieties of orchids.

I stood still in the entryway, closed my eyes, and breathed now, on a hook by the door, and started to wind my way through the paths of flowers. The warm human air felt soft in my lungs, and the colors and shapes of the orchids, their varied climbing tendrils and lush petals, pushed all thought from my head. I just looked, and tried not to touch,

and enjoyed. I read their names as I moved through and said them slowly, trying to make them stick. Mastavillia, Brassavola nodosa, Maxillaria, Vanda corellia, Sypcosis,

and Rinchostylus. I'd had a friend years ago who had lived a long life and was in her final years. She'd loved orchids, and when I would come to visit, she would show me her collection. She confessed that she never really mastered the art

of keeping them alive, past the loss of their first blooms. Oh well, she shrugged. I love them, so I just buy more. And I'll keep at it as long as I'm alive. And she had. I thought that she would have loved this place and tried looking at the blooms for her, in her place,

as if she could perceive the pleasure of it through me. I'd learned from her example and kept myself supplied with the small pleasures that made my days a bit sweeter. A tiny cup of espresso, a pair of rain boots to splash through puddles, and days like this, planned to lift a sometimes heavy heart.

Leaving the tiny conservatory, zipping up my coat in the cooler air, I noticed the fog was lifting. There was brightness, a hint of yellow in the sky above me. I slid my hands into my pockets and found in one a peppermint lip balm and in the other a tin box of cinnamon mints. So many small pleasures to dip into even while we waited for the first flush of the coming spring.

Fog and light. A foggy day, and the streetlights, still lit from the night before, glowed in pockets of patchy yellow on the avenues. I was walking, rain boots splashing through the puddles of melting snow, on my way to a favorite coffee shop. The gray wet weather had been laying me low, but I had a plan for lifting my spirits. And coffee was just the start of it, though an important part nonetheless. It was a funny-shaped space of bricks and old wood, wedged into the front corner of a busy building. It served just a few things, teas and coffees,

and on the counter there was a cake stand with wedges of cake or cookies or muffins tucked under a huge glass dome. The bell over the door rang as I stepped in and I got in line behind a little girl wearing a red winter cap with her hand in the hand of her mother she turned and looked at me

mouth agape, curious, with eyes wide. She was out on a school day and glimpsing the busy world of adults that she rarely saw. I smiled at her, and she turned around fast, suddenly shy. I wondered if she'd had to go to the dentist or the doctor, so missed school, and now was being taken out for a treat. Her mother ordered her a hot chocolate, not too hot, and a cookie from under the glass dome. She carried her cookie purposefully

to a little table in the corner and sat down, waiting for her drink, and pointed out the window at a man walking a dog, calling to her mama that the dog had spots and a red collar, like Kitty. Already, I was feeling better. When it was my turn to order, I asked for a simple espresso and slid down the bar to wait for it.

I love lingering over a big cup of coffee or tea, but the rich taste of properly made Italian espresso could cut through any grey mood

and have me imagining myself in sunny Campania on a fine spring day. And this little shop did make it properly. It was served up in a tiny white cup and saucer, with barely more than three sips inside. An impossibly small spoon resting in the saucer to stir in the sugar, and beside it a small glass of fizzy mineral water.

A cup had come out of a warmer, so as I lifted it to breathe in the smell, the ceramic was warm on my lip. First, just smell, with eyes closed. Then a slow sip, and let it rest on your tongue. It was dark and strong without being bitter or burnt. And I let it sink through my system and restore me. I drank down my mineral water, dropped another dollar in the tip jar, and ducked back out into the fog. I checked in on how my plan was going. So far, so good. I'd had a cup of something delicious,

and I'd watched a little girl's face when she saw a dog. My light was already burning brighter. The next step of my plan took me through the sodden park, with ducks waddling across the paths and around the tiny amphitheater where I'd sat for summer concerts the year before, to a very special place that seemed like a miracle to find in a busy city. It was domed in glass and reminded me for a moment of the cake stand at the coffee shop.

I stood and just looked for a bit, turning my head from side to side, to see how the fog was clinging to the trees, how thick it seemed, like a shawl I was pulling around the park. Was I pulling it? I shook my head at my fancy and pulled open the heavy glass door,

let the hot, humid air hit my face and neck. This little glass building held a hundred varieties of orchids. I stood still in the entryway, closed my eyes, and breathed in the smell of warm earth

and the rich vanilla scent of the blooms. I hung my coat, unneeded now, on a hook by the door, and started to wind my way through the paths of flowers. The warm, humid air felt soft in my lungs, and the colors and shapes of the orchids, their varied climbing tendrils and lush petals, pushed all thought from my head.

I just looked and tried not to touch and enjoyed. I read their names as I moved through and said them slowly, trying to make them stick. Mastavillia. Brassavola nodosa. Maxillaria vanda corellia, Sypcosis, and Rhin costilis. I'd had a friend years ago who had lived a long life

and was in her final years. She loved orchids, and when I would come to visit her, she would show me her collection. She confessed that she'd never really mastered the art of keeping them alive, past the loss of their first blooms. Oh well, she shrugged. I love them, so I just buy more, and I'll keep at it as long as I'm alive.

And she had. I thought that she would have loved this place and tried looking at the blooms for her in her place as if she could perceive the pleasure of it through me. I'd learned from her example and kept myself supplied with the small pleasures that made my days a bit sweeter. A tiny cup of espresso, a pair of rain boots to splash through puddles,

and days like this, planned to lift a sometimes heavy heart. Leaving the tiny conservatory, zipping up my coat in the cooler air, I noticed the fog was lifting. zipping up my coat in the cooler air. I noticed the fog was lifting. There was brightness, a hint of yellow in the sky above me. I slid my hands into my pockets and found in one a peppermint lip balm and in the other and found in one a peppermint lip balm,

and in the other a tin box of cinnamon mints. So many small pleasures to dip into, even while we waited for the first flush of the coming spring. Sweet dreams.