Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Grey Cat & Grimoire

Episode Date: October 7, 2024

Our story tonight starts our month of Halloween stories. It’s called Grey Cat and Grimoire, and it takes us into the cozy curios shop where a scarf is being knitted and a very old book with a green velvet cover sits on a stand. It’s also about lavender in the mop water, the domino effect of good deeds, rain dripping through maple leaves, and something hidden waiting to be found. Vote for Nothing Much Happens in the Signal Awards!  We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Girls in the Game. At Girls in the Game, every girl finds her voice, discovers her strength, and leads with confidence through fun and active sports, health, and leadership programs.  Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free andearly episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or follow the link belownothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription  Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: • Eversio Wellness: Chill Now• Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle• Alice Mushrooms Nightcap• Nutrachamps Tart Cherry Gummies• A Brighter Year Mini Coloring Book• NuStrips Sleep Strips• Woolzies Lavender Roll-On Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favoritepodcast app.  Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, 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'll hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Before we start the show, we are very excited to announce that we have been nominated in the Signal Awards for Best Bedtime Podcast. There is a link in our show notes, and voting is only open until October 17th. So, if you'd take a sec to click over there and vote for us, we would so appreciate it. And if we win, I'll cook up something special for all you sleepyheads.

I can't give you the recipe to Chef's Coffee Cake. I've been sworn to secrecy. But I'll think of something, and I'll share it. Now, we give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to Girls in the Game. At Girls in the Game, every girl finds her voice, discovers her strength, and leads with confidence through fun and active sports, health, and leadership programs. Learn more in our show notes. What's behind the curtain this month for our Premium Plus subscribers? Oh, nothing much.

I never get tired of that joke. This month our bonus story is called Needle and Thread, and it takes you to a new location in the village. We also have our Autumn Favorites episode of Much More Happens, which compiles over nine hours of fall stories into one giant episode to keep you snoozing cozily all night. All of this, plus ad-free everything, and the knowledge you are keeping us going, for just a dime a day. Subscribe at nothingmuchappens.com

or through the link in our show notes. Now, let's do our sleep training I'll tell you a story and just by listening you'll shift your brain from its wandering default response to its task positive response and that's where you can fall asleep

know that the more regularly you do this, the more automatic and speedy the response. So be patient if you are new to this. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. And if you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode back on. You'll drift right back off. Our story tonight starts our month of Halloween stories. It's called Gray Cat and Grimoire, and it takes us into the cozy

curio's shop, where a scarf is being knitted, and a very old book with a green velvet cover sits on a stand. It's also about lavender in the mop water the domino effect of good deeds rain dripping through maple leaves and something hidden waiting to be found now snuggle down into your sheets lights out and devices down please Now, snuggle down into your sheets.

Lights out and devices down, please. Let it sink in that you are safe in bed, that the day is done, and that whatever you got done in it is enough. It truly is. Nothing remains now but rest and peace. Draw a slow, deep One more. Inhale and release it. Good. and grimoire. From inside the curio shop, Cinder and I looked out on a gray, quiet afternoon. I sat in my armchair, a long scarf spread over my legs, as I added row after row to it with my knitting needles. She sat in the window,

her gray toes lined up neatly, and her tail curled around her ankles. I've always liked the way cats sit when they are at attention. There is a buttoned-up quality to them, their bodies showing the calm focus of their minds. It was wise. After all, bodies and minds affect one another. And leave it to cats to realize that more wholeheartedly than humans. Cinder was looking out at a maple tree, whose bright red leaves were beginning to fall. It was still dripping from the rain we'd had this morning, and the cobblestones beneath the tree were shiny and

wet. I brought my knitting closer to my face, squinting as I spotted a few of Cinder's furs stuck in the weave. I almost fished it out, but thought better of it. I was knitting love and protection, care and warmth into this scarf. And Cinder was excellent at giving all of those things. So I gently wound my needle around the fur and tucked it even deeper with the next few stitches. Use what you have is what my grandmother had always said.

When she was out of bay leaves, she used rosemary mixed with thyme. When she ran low on cinnamon, she used cloves. When she was out of salt, well, she was never out of salt. There was a barrel in her store cupboard, and it was kept regularly topped up. I never saw it less than half full, and when she refilled it,

she would use a long wooden spoon to stir the fresh in with the old. I remember watching her as a child, stirring clockwise to bring good things, and when she was done, patting the side of the barrel in a friendly way. She had taught me to treat the things around me, even the cooking pots and the garden tools,

with care. Love your home. Think it. Leave a light on for it. I did that here in my shop. When I mopped the floors, I added lavender to the steaming water. When I wiped down the shelves and dusted the spell books, brought in new herbs and polished the scrying mirror, I did it with love and care, inviting peace into our space.

And right now, listening to the click of my needles and the quiet purr of cinder on the windowsill, it felt pretty effective. I felt peace. Thinking of Gran made me want to reach for her book. The grimoire she left me that had started me on the path where I now found myself. I tucked my knitting into my basket and pushed up out of my chair. I kept her book on an old music stand that I'd found at the antique shop.

It wasn't the flimsy kind like I'd had when I'd played flute in sixth grade. It was iron and stood on three sturdy feet, which were fashioned like leaves, curling and veined. The music tray, where the book sat in its green velvet glory, was deep,

and had a handy light that shone in a halo around it. I opened the book and closed my eyes. We, each of us, come with our own talents. Some speak to the animals. Some are healers some pave the way for luck and some are storytellers I am a seer

I can look at least a bit into the future it was like turning a page or two ahead I can look at least a bit into the future. It was like turning a page or two ahead, reading a line to come. Sometimes a line by itself wouldn't make sense to me, and I wasn't able to be very helpful with what I'd seen. Which is why the longer I lived in this village and knew the people here,

the more context I had and the clearer the messages were. As I thought of my dear village, all the friends and loved ones who lived here, and the myriad ways their lives crisscrossed, the spider's web of connections that kept our lives and hearts full. I felt the pages of the book begin to turn under my hands. What was it that was needed now? How could I help? Was there something lacking that I could fill? In years past, our circle had helped spur gardens

to grow with abundance. Had cleaned gravestones to respect and remember those we'd lost, and even bewitched the traffic light by the pharmacy so that the turn arrow lasted an extra ten seconds. It had decreased animosity in the village significantly and been more fun than sitting through a city council meeting to get it done. We'd started a chain of good deeds last Christmas by leaving an orphaned tree in the right spot to be picked up and

gifted. With no more help from us, we'd watched as that good deed had changed hands time and and time again, and was still rolling through the neighborhoods. My eyes were still closed, the pages of the grimoire still turning under my hands when my finger touched down to stop them. I stood with my eyes closed, noticing how it felt in my body when this cord was struck. It felt like it did when I said my own name. When I declared that Tuesday was Tuesday, or that cinder was gray,

it was the feeling of truth that I had arrived at the answer to my question. What was needed? Where could I help? I opened my eyes and peered down at the page my finger rested on. I tilted my head at the chapter title, not sure yet what it meant. In tall copper plate letters, it said, Mysteries and Hidden Places.

I scooped up the book and brought it closer to my face, as if that would clear up the fog in my head. What mystery? What hidden place? How is that helpful? I carried the book over to my chair and plopped down with it in my lap, reading further, but the text was no more elucidating

than the title had been. Unsolved mysteries, locked rooms, forgotten stories. I stared out the window toward that oak tree. A cinder jumped silently down and came to curl up beside me. She rubbed her cheek along the edge of the book and purred thickly. Does this make sense to you? I asked.

Is there something we are supposed to solve or find? She blinked her yellow eyes at me. I swear she practically rolled them at me, as if I were missing something obvious. Now that I thought about it, we had been involved in a few other discoveries in the last few years. First, there was an orange kitten named Marmalade. And just last October,

a black cat up a tree who'd taken the name Sycamore. We'd found both of them homes, but looking back at the page in the book, I had a feeling this adventure would be a little different. Don't take this the wrong way, I said mildly. I hope this one isn't a cat. She meowed in agreement. Gray cat and grimoire. From inside the Curio's shop, Cinder and I looked out on a gray, quiet afternoon. I sat in my armchair, a long scarf spread over my legs as I added row after row to it with my knitting needles. She sat in the window, her gray toes lined up neatly, and her tail curled around her

ankles. I've always liked the way cats sit when they are at attention. There is a buttoned-up quality to them, their bodies showing the calm focus of their minds. It was wise. After all, bodies and minds affect one another. And leave it to cats to realize it more wholeheartedly than humans. Cinder was looking out at a maple tree whose bright red leaves were beginning to fall.

It was still dripping from the rain we'd had this morning, and the cobblestones beneath the tree were shiny and wet. I brought my knitting closer to my face, squinting as I spotted a few of Cinder's furs stuck in the weave. I almost fished them I was knitting love and protection, care and warmth into this scarf. And Cinder was excellent at giving all of those things. So I gently wound my needle around the fur and tucked it

even deeper with the next few stitches use what you have is what my grandmother had always said. When she was out of bay leaves, she used rosemary mixed with thyme. When she ran low on cinnamon, she used cloves. When she was out of salt, well, she was never out of salt. There was a barrel of it in her store cupboard, and it was kept regularly topped up.

I'd never seen it less than half full. And when she refilled it, she would use a long wooden spoon to stir the fresh in with the old. I remember watching her as a child, stirring clockwise to bring good things. And when she was done, patting the side of the barrel in a friendly way. She had taught me to treat the things around me, even the cooking pots and garden tools, with care.

Love your home. Think it. Leave a light on for it. And I did that here in my shop. When I mopped the floors, I added lavender to the steaming water. When I wiped down the shelves and dusted the spellbooks, brought in new herbs and polished the scrying mirror. I did it with love and care, inviting peace into our space. And right now, listening to the click of my needles and the quiet purr of cinder on the windowsill,

it felt pretty effective. I felt peace. Thinking of Gran made me want to reach for her book, the grimoire she left me, that had me on the path where I found myself now. I tucked my knitting into my basket and pushed up out of my chair. I kept her book on an old music stand that I'd found at the antique shop. It wasn't the flimsy kind like I which were fashioned like leaves, curling and veined. where the book sat in its green velvet glory, was deep and had a handy light that shone in a halo around it. I opened the book and closed my eyes.

We, each of us, come with our own talents. Some speak to the animals. Some are healers. Some pave the way for luck, and some are storytellers. I am a seer. I can look at least a bit into the future.

It is like turning a page or two ahead, reading a line to come. Sometimes the line itself doesn't make sense to me, and I'm not able to be very helpful with what I've seen, which is why the longer I live in this village and know the people here, the more context I, and the clearer the messages are. As I thought of my dear village, all the friends and loved ones who lived here,

and the myriad ways their lives crisscrossed, the spider web of connections that kept our lives and hearts full. I felt the pages of the book begin to turn under my hands. What was it that was needed now? How could I help? Was there something lacking that I could fill?

In years past our circle had helped spur gardens to grow with abundance had cleaned gravestones to respect and remember those we'd lost and even bewitched the traffic light by the pharmacy so that the turn arrow lasted an extra ten seconds. Doing so had decreased animosity in the village significantly and been more fun than sitting through a city council meeting to get it done. We'd started a chain of good deeds last Christmas by leaving an orphaned tree

in the right spot to be picked up and gifted. With no more help from us, we'd watched as that good deed had changed hands time and time again and was still rolling through the neighborhoods. My eyes were still closed, the pages of the grimoire still turning under my hands when my finger touched

down to stop them. I stood with eyes closed, noticing how it felt in my body when this cord was struck. It felt like it did when I said my own name, when I declared that Tuesday was Tuesday, or that cinder was gray, it was the feeling that I had arrived at the answer to my question. What was needed? Where could I help? I opened my eyes and peered down at the page my finger rested on. I tilted my head at the chapter title, not sure yet what it meant.

In tall copperplate letters, it said, Mysteries and Hidden Places. I scooped up the book and brought it closer to my face as if that would clear up the fog in my head. What mystery?

What hidden place? How is that helpful? I carried the book over to my chair and plopped down with it in my lap. Reading further, but the text was no more elucidating than the title had been. Unsolved mysteries. Locked rooms. Forgotten stories.

I stared out the window toward that oak tree. A cinder jumped silently down and came to curl up beside me. She rubbed her cheek along the edge of the book and purred thickly. Does this make sense to you? I asked her. Is there something

we're supposed to solve or find? She blinked her yellow eyes at me. I swear she practically rolled them at me, as if I were missing something obvious. Now that I thought about it, we had been involved in a few other discoveries in the last few years. First, there was an orange kitten named Marmalade.

And just last October, a black cat up a tree who'd taken the name Sycamore. We'd found both of them homes. But looking back at the page in the book, I had a feeling this adventure would be a little different. Don't take this the wrong way, I said mildly. I hope this one isn't a cat. She meowed in agreement.

Sweet dreams.