Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Getaway

Episode Date: March 11, 2019

Our story tonight is called “Getaway” and it’s a story about taking a break from the cold and ice. It’s also about the feeling of falling asleep in the sun with a paperback book in your hand, the sound of the waves at night, and the pleasant longing for your own bed at the end of time away. So get cozy and ready to sleep. This episode mentions alcohol. 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 Grown-Ups, 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. 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 who likes relaxation and good sleep. And follow us on Facebook and Instagram

for some extra coziness. Now let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I have a story to tell you. The story is simple, and nothing much happens in it. And that is the idea. Instead of letting your overworked brain run roughshod over you, you guide it someplace calm and relaxed,

and its natural response is to shut off and allow you to sleep. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find you are still awake at the end of the second telling, not to worry. That's just fine. Just walk yourself back through any of the details that you can remember.

And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling relaxed and refreshed. Each time you do this, you're training your brain to shut off faster and finding deep, restful sleep will soon become the norm for you. Now it's time to turn off the light. Set down anything you've been looking at and settle your body into your bed as deeply and cozily as you can. Let's take a deep, slow breath in through the nose

and out through your mouth good do that one more time breathe in and out. Our story this week is called Get Away, and it's a story about taking a break from the cold and the ice. It's also about the feeling of falling asleep in the sun with a paperback book in your hand, the sound of waves at night, and the pleasant longing for your own bed

at the end of time away. Get Away We'd had it in the books since the end of summer. Knowing that by the time midwinter came we would need it, a getaway, an escape from the bitter cold and grey curtain sky to someplace sunny and hot, someplace with ocean breezes and wild calling birds and hammocks strung from the leaning trunks of palm trees. In the days before we left, I found myself, like a child in the last few days of school before summer vacation,

coaxing the days forward, crossing them off the calendar at night and giddily moving through my chores, making light work of packing bags and emptying the fridge. We'd had a few strange meals of odds and ends, getting through the last of the groceries and not wanting to waste any.

A cup each of the last bit of soup. Plates of French toast to use up a loaf of bread. A salad made almost entirely of tiny tomatoes that I'd thought for sure we'd have eaten by now. And for dessert as many bananas as we could swallow. We didn't mind. We laughed over the silly menu and clinked our glasses, half full each of the last bit of wine from the bottle.

When the day came, we were up early, blinking and yawning, quietly pulling on clothes and loading our bags into the car. A long day of travel and a blur came next, broken up with winks from one to the other, a secret signal that meant, hey, we're on vacation. And we'd smile, and before we knew it, we were touching down and taking that first step out into the hot, humid air

of a totally new place. It is a wonder of the modern world. Wake up in one place, in one season, in one fixed position of the earth. And then, just a few hours later, be someplace that's quite the opposite. Someplace that doesn't resemble a bit the place you started. Soon we were settling in.

A room with the view of the ocean. A vast bed with thick pillows and crisp white linens. A balcony whose doors we slid open to fill the room with the sound of rolling waves. We stood leaning out, arms around each other's shoulders, and looked up and down the length of the beach, still in our jeans and sweaters from the cold world we'd woken up in. What a feeling, to be right at the very beginning of a getaway. The days stretched out in front of us, and we had only to fill them as we went,

with rest, and play, and books, and dips in the ocean, and walks on the beach. I clapped my hands in excitement. Last one in the water is a rotten egg. We scampered, tossing off our cold-weather gear, rooting through our bags for sunscreen and swimsuits and flip-flops. Soon we had our routine down. Sleep as late as we could manage Order a pot of coffee and plates of fruit and toast

And eat them on the balcony with our heels propped on the railing Then dress and go for a long walk Up and down the length of the beach, hand in hand with bare feet stepping along the very edge of the water, talking or not, sometimes just standing and looking out at the breaking waves, watching birds swoop and dive, fish jump,

and families walk and swim. Then we'd find a shady spot, something to sip on and work our way through paperback after paperback. When the heat was built up in our bodies, we'd wade back into the waves to wash it away, splash and play and float, till we were hungry or thirsty,

or ready to go back to basking in the sun. In the afternoon, as the sun was starting to slide toward the horizon, we'd drag our salty, sandy selves back to our room for cool showers on our sun-kissed skin, and then stretch out across the cool, clean sheets, and somehow fall into the third or fourth nap of the day. Sometimes we'd make a bit of effort, dress up for a dinner out on an open-air patio, plates of local foods, glasses of wine, or a slow, swaying dance, cheek to cheek,

under strings of light in warm night air. And sometimes we'd gladly order some room service and watch TV through our toes and lay abed, listening to the waves crash on the beach. As the week waned, I felt myself restored. My skin and hair felt healthy and nourished by the sun and the salt, and I felt as though I could welcome a few more weeks of cold, snowy days back at home, now that I'd restocked my shelves with the bone-deep memories of how it felt

to be thoroughly warm and pleasantly worn out by the sun. At home, we'd soon see birds returning to nest, rivers swelling with spring melt. And in a month or so, the bare, dark earth would break with the first shoots of daffodils and crocus. Soon after that, the rhubarb would be showing up in the farmer's market stalls, and we'd be thumbing through seed catalogs and planning out the garden. I thought I'd like to be back in our own bed again, and that it might feel good to have the clothes washed and put tidily away. How good to have some place to get away to,

to step out of the day-to-day for a bit and break all the rules of work, and then to have some place just as lovely, though in a very different way, to return to, to look forward to going, and to coming back. Get away.

We'd had it in the books since the end of summer, knowing that by the time midwinter came, we would need it. A getaway, an escape from the bitter cold and grey curtained sky to someplace sunny and hot, someplace with ocean breezes and wild calling birds and hammocks strung from the leaning trunks of palm trees. In the days before we left, I found myself like a child in the last few days of school before summer vacation, coaxing the days forward,

crossing them off the calendar at night, and giddily moving through my chores, making light work of packing bags and emptying the fridge. We'd had a few strange meals of odds and ends, getting through the last of the groceries and not wanting to waste any. A cup each of the last bit of soup,

plates of French toast to use up a loaf of bread, a salad made almost entirely of tiny tomatoes. I'd thought for sure we'd have eaten by now. And for dessert, as many bananas as we could swallow. We didn't mind, laughed over the silly menu, and clinked our glasses, half full each of the last bit of wine from the bottle. When the day came, we were up early,

blinking and yawning, quietly pulling on clothes and loading our bags into the car. A long day of travel in a blur came next, broken up with winks from one to the other, a secret signal that meant, hey, we're on vacation.

And we'd smile. And before we knew it, we were touching down and taking that first step out into the hot, humid air of a totally new place. It is a wonder of the modern world. Wake up in one place, in one season, in one fixed position of the earth. And then, just a few hours later,

be someplace that's quite the opposite. Someplace that doesn't resemble a bit the place you started. Soon we were settling in, a room with the view of the ocean, a vast bed with thick pillows and crisp white linens. A balcony, whose door we slid open to fill the room with the sound of rolling waves. We stood, leaning out,

arms around each other's shoulders, and looked up and down the length of the beach, still in our jeans and sweaters from the cold world we'd woken up in. What a feeling, to be right at the very beginning of a getaway. The days stretched out in front of us, and we had only to fill them as we went, with rest and play, and books, and dips in the ocean,

and walks on the beach. I clapped my hands in excitement. Last one in the water is a rotten egg. We scampered, tossing off our cold-weather gear, rooting through our bags for sunscreen and swimsuits and flip-flops. Soon we had our routine down.

Sleep as late as we could manage. Order a pot of coffee and plates of fruit and toast and eat them on the balcony with our heels propped up on the railing. Then dress and go for a long walk up and down the length of the beach, hand in hand with bare feet stepping along the very edge of the water, talking or not, sometimes just standing and looking out at the breaking waves. We watched birds swoop and dive,

fish jump, and families walk and swim. Then we'd find a shady spot, something to sip on, and work our way through paperback after paperback. When the heat was built up in our bodies, we'd wade back into the waves to wash it away, splash and play and float

till we were hungry or thirsty or ready to go back to basking in the sun. In the afternoon, as the sun was starting to slide toward the horizon, we'd drag our salty, sandy selves back to our room for cool showers on our sun-kissed skin, and then stretch out, cross the cool, clean sheets, and somehow fall into the third or fourth nap of the day. Sometimes we'd make a bit of an effort, dress up for a dinner out on an open-air patio,

plates of local foods glasses of wine or a slow swaying dance cheek to cheek under strings of light in warm night air and sometimes we'd gladly order some room service and watch TV through our toes and lay abed, listening to the waves crash on the beach.

As the week waned, I felt myself restored. My skin and hair felt healthy and nourished by the sun and the salt, and I felt as though I could welcome a few more weeks of cold, snowy days back at home, now that I had restocked my shelves with the bone-deep memories of how it felt to be thoroughly warm and pleasantly worn out by the sun. At home, we'd soon see birds returning to nest, rivers swelling with spring melt, and in a month or so, the bare dark earth would break with the first shoots of daffodils and crocus.

Soon after that, the rhubarb would be showing up in the farmer's market stalls, and we'd be thumbing through seed catalogs and planning out the garden. I thought I'd like to be back in our own bed again, and that it might feel good to have the clothes washed and put tidily away. How good to have some place to get away to, to step out of the day-to-day for a bit and break all the rules of work. And then to have some place just as lovely,

though in a very different way, to return to. To look forward to going and to coming back. Sweet dreams.