Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Harvest Moon

Episode Date: September 20, 2021

Our story tonight is called “Harvest Moon” and it’s a story about a night around the bonfire under the full moon. It’s also about resetting when your mind gets jumbled up with details, the best way to cut chives, and the closing in of the welcome autumn.So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase 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, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. You can hear bonus and ad-free episodes of this podcast by subscribing to our Premium or Premium Plus feeds. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com Now, I have a story to tell you, and listening to it will help you relax and fall asleep. Our minds wander.

That's just their nature. And if we don't give them a path to stick to, they can wander all night. The story keeps your thinking mind occupied and lets your body drift off to sleep. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. If you wake again later,

you can listen again or just think back to any part of the story you can remember. You're working on some brain training as you do this, so know that your sleep habits will improve. You'll drift off sooner and get back to sleep more easily over time. Now, reach out and switch off the light. Snuggle down into your sheets and pull the blanket up over your shoulder. Listen. You have done enough for the day.

Whatever it was, it was enough. And now it's time to feel your body dropping heavy and relaxed into your sheets. Settled and calm. Eyes closed. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice. One more, please. In and out. One more, please. In.

And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Harvest Moon. And it's a story about a night around the bonfire under a full moon. It's also about resetting when your mind gets jumbled up with details. The best way to cut chives. And the arrival of the welcome autumn. Harvest moon.

We were ready for it. We had a wheelbarrow full of split wood and gathered kindling. Small scraps that had fallen over the summer from the oaks in the backyard piled high. We had sweaters pulled from the bottom drawers that hadn't seen use in months to keep away the chill and a quilt to cuddle under when the sun went down. And it was going down a bit sooner each night. There are times of year when I lose track a bit of sunrise and sunset.

But the end of the summer, and likewise the end of the winter, are not those times. At the end of the winter, when the days were gaining a minute and then two with each rise and set, I'd notice my morning drive was just a little brighter. My evening walk could go a block further. And each of those small additions felt like encouragement. Somehow when the days retreated at the end of the summer, it felt the same way. Still affirming, even still energizing, but just in the other direction, to go in instead of out. So instead of a long walk tonight, we'd light the bonfire and watch the moon. In the kitchen, while the light was fading, I took two big russet potatoes from the basket in the pantry.

I pricked them all over with the tines of a fork and rubbed them with olive oil, dusted them with salt and pepper, and wrapped them well in foil. When the fire was lit, we'd settle them in the embers and let them cook through for a late-night snack. I carried the kitchen scissors out to the garden

and found a clump of chives still growing and flowering by the edge of the garage. Chive flowers are edible and a pretty bright purple. I cut a handful of the herbs and flowers and carried it all back in. Already, the kitchen was deeper in shadow when I had to turn on the light over the sink to see. Years ago, my grandmother had found me in the kitchen with a cutting board full of chives trying to awkwardly dice them into tiny rounds with a chef's knife.

She cleared her throat taken the scissors from the drawer held the stems neatly in one hand and snipped them into perfect pieces with the other. She'd handed them back to me, fitted the scissors into my grip, and taken away the knife, all without saying a word.

I'd snipped ever since. Out in the yard, I heard the breaking of a few more twigs and peered out the window to see sparks igniting in the fire pit. I smiled to myself. I could take my time with our potatoes and drinks. This would take a few minutes. The trickiest part of the fire was getting it started. I suppose that was true in quite a few instances. Getting a new routine rolling, building a new habit. Once the fire was lit, it could burn for a while.

And then it was just a matter of feeding it. But getting it to catch, to sustain itself. That took the most effort. It reminded me to be a bit more patient with myself and with others. For better or for worse, we all felt the pull of momentum. I laid the potatoes into a bowl and poured two tall glasses of cold mineral water and carried them all out to the fire. the flames were still small being fed with scraps of dry grass

and pine needles blown on periodically with great puffs of air and then watched to see if they had found purchase in the kindling I chuckled to myself and went back in for the blanket. By the time I was nestled under it on the long bench outside, the fire had caught and was crackling. I shared my blanket, and an arm went around my shoulders. We propped our feet up on a log in front of us, and sat in the quiet together. we hadn't had many fires this summer.

The few times we did, we barely had time to enjoy them before the bugs chased us inside. But now that the evenings were getting cooler, there was no pesky buzzing to swat at. In fact, the night was very quiet. The fire crackled, and the breeze blew softly through the trees. We stayed quiet too, not needing to say much, just taking turns occasionally to

add more logs to the fire and to turn the potatoes as they roasted. Have you ever felt your heart brim in a simple moment? A sudden awareness of all that you have, and how glad you are for it? That's how I felt. In the quiet of the backyard, snuggled together under the quilt, waiting for the clouds to move aside to show us the moon.

Sometimes I got caught in the weeds in my mind, bogged down with things that didn't actually matter, but somehow got mislabeled as urgent and essential. Moments like these set me back on solid ground. There was a patchy cloud covering the moon, thin with ragged edges, like a scrap of old fabric floating in a dark pond. It moved in eerie slow motion, the glow of the moon behind it making an orangish halo in the air. A shiver ran up my spine, and I found myself looking forward to a bit of spookiness in the next month.

It pairs so well with chilly days and spiced air and falling leaves. The arm around my shoulders tightened, and we both looked up together to see the moon in all her autumn glory, making her appearance. The harvest moon my father had taught me was the full moon closest to the autumnal equinox. It rises close to the sunset and reflects the last rays, making it glow with orange light.

I liked the names of the different moons. A blue moon, which wasn't blue at all, but rare. The hair moon in May, the mead moon in June, the corn moon in August. Of course, it was all the same moon. The same one my great, great, great grandparents had swum under on hot summer nights. The same one friends on the other side of the planet would go to sleep under in another twelve hours. The same one that rose and fell over every famous person

and great figure in history and every dog that had ever lived. The same one that strangers all over the world spied from their windows, calling out to someone to say, Have you seen the moon tonight? I could smell the potatoes. They must be almost ready. The fire popped,

and the air smelled of good wood smoke. I breathed it in deeply and let it out. Welcome, autumn. Harvest moon. We were ready for it. We had a wheelbarrow full of split wood and gathered kindling. Small scraps that had fallen over the summer

from the oaks in the backyard, piled high. We had sweaters pulled from the bottom drawers that hadn't seen use in months to keep away the chill and a quilt to cuddle under when the sun went down. And it was going down a bit of the sunrise and the sunset. But the end of the summer, and likewise the end of the winter, are not those times. At the end of the winter,

when the days were gaining a minute and then two with each rise and set, I'd notice my morning drive was just a little brighter. My evening walk could go a block further, and each of those small additions felt like encouragement. Somehow, when the days retreated at the end of the summer, it felt the same way.

Still affirming. Even still energizing. But just in the other direction. To go in instead of out. So instead of a long walk tonight, we'd light the bonfire and watch the moon. In the kitchen,

while the light was fading, I took two big russet potatoes from the basket in the pantry. I pricked them all over with the tines of a fork and rubbed them with olive oil, dusted them with salt and pepper, and wrapped them well in foil. When the fire was lit,

we'd settle them in the embers and let them cook through for a late night snack. I carried the kitchen scissors out to the garden and found a clump of chives still growing and flowering by the edge of the garage. Chive flowers are edible and a pretty bright purple

I cut a handful of the herbs and flowers and carried it all back in already the kitchen was deeper in shadow, and I had to turn on the light over the sink to see. Years ago, my grandmother had found me in the kitchen with a cutting board full of chives, trying awkwardly to dice them into tiny rounds with a chef's knife. She'd cleared her throat, taken the scissors from the drawer, held the stems neatly in one hand, and snipped them into perfect pieces with the other. She'd handed them back to me, fitted the scissors into my grip,

and taken away the knife, all without saying a word. I'd snipped ever since. Out in the yard, I heard the breaking of a few more twigs, and peered out the window to see sparks igniting in the fire pit. I smiled to myself. I could take my time with our potatoes and drinks. This would take a few minutes. The trickiest part of the fire was getting it started. I suppose that was true in quite a few instances.

Getting a new routine rolling or building a new routine rolling, or building a new habit. Once the fire was lit, it could burn for a while, and then it was just a matter of feeding it, but getting it to catch, to sustain itself that took the most effort it reminded me

to be a bit more patient with myself and with others for better or for worse, we all feel the pull of momentum. I laid the potatoes into a bowl and poured two tall glasses of cold mineral water and carried them out to the fire.

The flames were still small, being fed with scraps of dry grass and pine needles, blown on periodically with great puffs of air, and then watched to see if they had found purchase in the kindling. I chuckled to myself

and went back in for the blanket. By the time I was nestled under it on the long bench outside, the fire had caught and was crackling. I shared my blanket and an arm went around my shoulders. We propped our feet up on a log in front of us and sat in the quiet together. We hadn't had many fires this summer. The few times we did, we'd barely had time

to enjoy them before the bugs chased us inside. But now that the evenings were getting cooler, there was no pesky buzzing to swat at. In fact, the night was very quiet. The fire crackled and the breeze blew softly through the trees.

We stayed quiet too, not needing to say much, just taking turns occasionally to add more logs to the fire and to turn the potatoes as they roasted. Have you ever felt your heart brim in a simple moment. A sudden awareness of all that you have and how glad you are for it. That's how I felt. In the quiet of the backyard.

Snuggled together under the quilt, waiting for the clouds to move aside to show us the moon. Sometimes I got caught in the weeds in my mind, bogged down with things that didn't actually matter, but somehow got mislabeled as urgent and essential. Moments like these set me back on solid ground. There was a patchy cloud covering the moon, thin with ragged edges, like a scrap of old fabric floating in a dark pond. It moved in eerie slow motion, the glow of the moon behind it making an orangish halo in the air.

A shiver ran up my spine and I found myself looking forward to a bit of spookiness in the next month. It pairs so well with chilly days and spiced air and falling leaves. The arm around my shoulders tightened, and we both looked up together to see the moon in all her autumnal glory, making her appearance. The harvest moon my father had taught me

was the full moon closest to the autumnal equinox. It rises close to the sunset and reflects the last rays, making it glow with orange light. I liked the names of the different moons. A blue moon, which wasn't blue at all, but rare, the hair moon in May, the mead moon in June, the corn moon in August. Of course, it was all the same moon. The same one my great-great-great-grandparents had swum under on hot summer nights. The same one friends on the other side of the planet would go to sleep under in another 12 hours, the same one that rose and fell

over every famous person and great figure in history and every dog that had ever lived. The same one that strangers all over the world spied from their windows, calling out to someone to say, Have you seen the moon tonight? I could smell the potatoes. They must be almost ready.

The fire popped, and the air smelled of good wood smoke. I breathed it in deeply and let it out. Welcome, autumn. Sweet dreams.