Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Fresh Snow (Encore)

Episode Date: December 7, 2023

Originally Aired: January 26th, 2020 (Season 5 Episode 2) Our story tonight is called Fresh Snow, and it’s a story about time spent outside as the flakes fall. It’s also about a late-night bath, a peppermint stick in a cup of hot chocolate, and the easy comfort of long-held friends.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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. You can also follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness.

And if you still need more Nothing Much in your life, head to nothingmuchappens.com, where you can find some special pieces inspired by the show. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you, and the story is a soft landing place for your mind. Whatever your day has been like, it can end in soothing rest just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of our tale. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. Let the details you hear

pull you into the world of the story as if you were seeing and hearing and tasting what it has to offer if you wake again in the middle of the night turn your mind right back to those details and before you know it you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed. This is a simple but effective form of brain training. And as the habit builds, you'll notice that you drop off sooner and stay asleep longer.

Now it's time to turn off the light and to put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. In time, all of this becomes a signal for your brain and that signal says, it's time for sleep. Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose

and a soft sigh through the mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out good our story tonight is called fresh snow and it's a story about time spent outside as the flakes fall. It's also about a late-night bath,

a peppermint stick and a cup of hot chocolate, and the easy comfort of long-held friends. Fresh Snow Fresh snow had fallen overnight, another three or four inches of the light, fluffy kind, that while it couldn't be packed into a snowball or rolled to stack one on top another with a carrot nose and twig arms, was really lovely to kick through with winter boots, or stride across with snowshoes,

or slide over with a pair of freshly waxed skis. In fact, I'd spent the day before trekking in my snowshoes with friends, on a long trail that wound through the woods and beside a frozen lake. We'd stopped every now and then to catch our breath and take in the shades of white and blue and icy dark gray that lay in layers on the landscape. At the edge of the lake, whose surface was streaked and marbled with brighter, thicker layers of ice like a shining clear granite, I'd notice the upturned stems of Queen Anne's lace.

The petals had fallen away months ago, but the stems and woody veins remained and now held a tiny pocket of fresh snow like wine in a glass. Though the day was cold, the steady push of my legs and pull on my poles had kept me plenty warm, and I'd loved the feeling of cool air on my cheeks as we made our slow progress through foothills and bare brush back toward the ski lodge. We'd followed the long walk, with an equally long lingering rest around the fireplace in

the lodge. It was a cozy space lined with brick and stone, tall windows that looked out at the slopes and old worn wood floors. The ceilings were high with knotty beams running the length of the room and the fire was sunken in a pit with soft benches all around. We'd unbundled from our coats and hats and gloves and met up there for hot drinks. I'd propped my feet in their insulated socks up on the brick surrounding the fire and let out a deep, contented sigh. My friends chatted about the things we'd seen on our walk.

The long, low profile of a fox. Its ruddy brown fur standing out against the white as he glided through the trees. The bubbles caught in the surface of the lake, and tiny dots high up on the slopes, cutting a smooth zigzag down the mountain. A tray of drinks arrived, coffees and cocos and toddies, with sweet and strong-smelling steam rising

off of them. I'd ordered a hot chocolate, and it came with a peppermint stick, which slowly melted into the chocolate as I stirred. It had been a pleasure just to sit and listen to my friends as they talked. It was something I valued more as I got older. Friends I could just quietly be with. I didn't need to talk or push the moment forward. We were all just happy to be around each other. We'd happily read books shoulder to shoulder on a sofa for an hour, or watch an old movie till someone fell asleep, and someone else cover them up with a blanket.

There was a good place to be in your life when you realized you didn't need to prove anything to the people you were sharing your time with. You didn't need to be clever or have a joke to tell. Just showing up as yourself was enough. That night, after the fire had died down, after we trooped off to dinner and sleepily to our rooms, I'd run a hot bath for myself.

My muscles were well worked from our snowshoeing, and a good long soak sounded just right. As the water filled the tub, I'd trailed in a good amount of Epsom salts. I smiled to myself in the dark room. It seemed to sign I was definitely getting older. When packing for a weekend away, I'd been sure to bring Epsom salts and peppermint oil for sore muscles. Well, that was fine by me. Getting older seemed to me just another way to say making friends with yourself.

I turned off the water and set a towel by the tub. I left the room dark. There was a window, which seemed oddly placed, up high on the opposite wall. But once I'd slid down into the water, I saw that it was perfectly aligned for gazing out at the mountain from the tub. That's when it had started to snow. I had been watching the moment the first flakes formed and fell. The whole world seemed quiet as it came down. The wind kicked up a bit,

and I watched as small cyclones of whirling snow spun until they spun themselves out. At last, with my fingertips turning pruney in the water, I drained the tub and wrapped myself in a thick robe. When I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over my shoulder, I imagined my friends were all well into their dreams by now. The snow kept falling through the night. And when I woke up today, I'd seen those fresh three or four inches. We met back up around the breakfast table and agreed today would be for skiing.

The lodge made their own homemade granola, toasted oats, cinnamon, and walnuts, and I filled my bowl with it adding a sliced banana and coconut milk we ate hardy to carry us through the morning on the slopes and soon we were zipping back into our gear and clicking our skis into place. I had come late to skiing, and my first season I'd taken lessons, cautiously juddering down tiny hills while six-year-olds blazed past me shouting encouragement. Since then, I'd figured out that the more I relaxed, the less rigidly I held myself on my skis, the smoother the ride would be. It still took me a few runs to settle into a rhythm, but soon I was gliding from one run to another, feeling the fresh air rush past me and pulling it deep into my lungs. My friends and I would sometimes catch up with each other

and race to the bottom or ride the chairlift up. I loved watching the chairlift climb, the swinging legs of excited little ones against the blue sky as we headed up to do it all over again. I knew we would make our way up and down until we had thoroughly worn ourselves out and follow it up just as we had thoroughly worn ourselves out, and follow it up just as we had yesterday,

with feet up in front of the fire, and hot chocolate, and a good dinner, and then I could have another bath, and another long look out of that window, and another night's deep sleep. Fresh snow. Fresh snow had fallen overnight.

Another three or four inches of the light, fluffy kind, that, while it couldn't be packed into a snowball or rolled to stack one atop another with a carrot nose and twig arms, was really lovely to kick through with winter boots, or stride across with snowshoes, or slide over with a pair of freshly waxed skis. In fact, I'd spent the day before trekking in my snowshoes with friends on a long trail that wound through the woods and beside a frozen lake. we'd stop every now and then to catch our breath and take in the shades of white and blue and icy dark gray that lay in layers on the landscape.

At the edge of the lake, whose surface was streaked and marbled with brighter, thicker layers of ice, like a shining, clear granite, I'd noticed the upturned stems of Queen Anne's lace. The petals had fallen away months ago, but the stems and woody veins remained, and now held a tiny pocket of fresh snow, like wine in a glass. Though the day was cold, the steady push of my of cool air on my cheeks as we'd made our slow progress through foothills and bare brush back toward the ski lodge. We'd followed the long walk with an equally long lingering rest around the fireplace in

the lodge. It was a cozy space lined with brick and stone, tall windows that looked out at the slopes and old worn wood floors. The ceilings were high with knotty beams running the length of the room, and the fire was sunken in a pit with soft benches all around. We'd unbundled from our coats and hats and gloves and met up there for hot drinks. I'd propped my feet in their insulated socks up on the bricks surrounding the fire and let out a deep, contented sigh. in their insulated socks up on the bricks surrounding the fire,

and let out a deep, contented sigh. My friends chatted about the things we'd seen on our walk. The long, low profile of a fox. Its ruddy brown fur standing out against the white as he'd glided through the trees. The bubbles caught in the surface of the lake and tiny dots high up on the slopes cutting a smooth zigzag down the mountain. A tray of drinks arrived,

coffees and cocos and toddies with sweet and strong-smelling steam rising off of them. I'd ordered a hot chocolate, and it came with a peppermint stick which slowly melted into the chocolate as I'd stirred. It had been a pleasure just to sit and listen to my friends as they talked. It was something I valued more as I got older. Friends I could just quietly be with.

I didn't need to talk or push the moment forward. We were all just happy to be around each other. We'd happily read books shoulder to shoulder on a sofa for an hour, or watch an old movie until someone fell asleep and someone else covered them up with a blanket. It was a good place to be in your life when you realized you didn't need to prove anything to the people you were sharing your time with.

You didn't need to be clever or have a joke to tell. Just showing up as yourself was enough. That night, after the fire had died down, after we trooped off to dinner and then sleepily to our rooms, I'd run a hot bath for myself. My muscles were well worked from our snowshoeing, and a good long soak sounded just right. As the water filled the tub, I'd trailed in a good amount of Epsom salts. I smiled to myself in the dark room.

It seemed a sign I was definitely getting older. When packing for a weekend away, I'd been sure to bring Epsom salts and peppermint oil for sore muscles. Well, that was fine by me. Getting older seemed to me to just be another way to say making friends with yourself. I turned off the water and set a towel by the tub. I left the room dark.

There was a window which seemed oddly placed, up high on the opposite wall. But once I'd slid down into the water, I saw that it was perfectly aligned for gazing out at the mountain from the top. That's when it had started to snow. I had been watching the moment the first flakes formed and fell. The whole world seemed quiet as it came down. The wind kicked up a bit, and I watched as small cyclones of whirling snow spun until they spun themselves out. At last, with my fingertips turning pruney in the water, I drained the tub and wrapped myself in a thick robe.

When I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over my shoulder, I imagined my friends were all well into their dreams by now. The snow kept falling through the night, and when I woke up today, I'd seen those fresh three or four inches. We met up back around the breakfast table and agreed today would be for skiing. The lodge made their own homemade granola, toasted oats, cinnamon, and walnuts, and I filled my bowl with it, adding a sliced banana and coconut milk. We ate hearty to carry us through the morning on the slopes, and soon we were zipping back into our gear and clicking our skis into place. And my first season, I'd taken lessons, cautiously juddering down tiny hills while six-year-olds blazed past me, shouting encouragement.

Since then, I'd figured out that the more I relaxed, the less rigidly I held myself on my skis, the smoother the ride would be. It still took me a few runs to settle into a rhythm, but soon I was gliding from one run to another, feeling the fresh air rush past me and pulling it deep into my lungs. My friends and I would sometimes catch up with each other and race to the bottom or ride the chairlift back up together.

I loved watching the chairlift climb, swinging legs of excited little ones against the blue sky, as we headed up to do it all over again. I knew we would make our way up and down until we had thoroughly worn ourselves out. And follow it up, just as we had yesterday, with feet up in front of the fire, and hot chocolate, and a good dinner, and that I could have another bath and another long look out of that window, and another night's deep sleep. Sweet dreams.