Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - In the Map Room

Episode Date: July 13, 2020

Our story tonight is called In the Map Room and it’s a story about the pleasures of looking at the world drawn out on paper. It’s also about a gasp of koi fish in a pond, a bike ride that leads somewhere surprising, and the view from the upper room of an old house. 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 Season 6 of Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. You can follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness. A beautiful book of our bedtime stories is coming out all over the world in just a few months. It will have many of your favorite stories,

along with 16 new stories that will only ever appear in the book. It also has really charming illustrations, recipes, meditations, and lots more. To learn more or to pre-order your copy, go to nothingmuchappens.com Your mind needs a place to rest. That's what the story I'm about to tell you is. It's a nest to lay your attention in. In order to stay in the nest, all you need to do is follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the story. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake in the night, you can climb right back into that nest just by thinking through any parts of the story you remember. Over time, your sleep response will improve. You'll find that you fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer. When you wake, you'll feel rested and relaxed. Now, put down anything that you've been working on or looking at. It's time to settle down into your bed to pull the blanket over your shoulder and relax into your favorite sleeping position if you find that you clench your jaw when you sleep start building a new habit here as your body gets heavier you feel sleep coming on. Rest the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help

keep your jaw relaxed. Now take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh out of the mouth. Yeah. Again. In. Out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called In the Map Room. And it's a story about the pleasures of looking at the world drawn out on paper.

It's also about a gasp of koi fish in a pond. A bike ride that leads somewhere surprising. And the view from the upper room of an old house. In the Map Room In between tours, when folks have wandered out through the old oak doors and began to circle through the grounds. I go to the map room. It was secretly why I joined the team of docents in this historic house, though I hadn't put down slyly spend time with maps in the why do you want to work here section of my volunteer application.

Truthfully, I loved every part of the days I got to spend here, unlocking the doors in the mornings and setting the A-frame sign out in the circle drive, opening the old casement windows on the third floor and standing in the quiet landing outside of the library while I listen to catch the echo of the people who once lived here, or who have walked through the halls, or added to, or admired the collections in them. It is, for many who come here, a delightful surprise when they drive down the long, twisting drive

and through the gardens up to the house. Maybe they see a sign on the highway or heard from someone about the labyrinth in the courtyard or the room at the top floor full of maps. And they come on a sunny Saturday to see for themselves. But they aren't prepared for how lovely the house is. They don't expect to find grounds so full of trickling fountains and smooth stone sculptures, and narrow gravel paths that lead to more unexpected places and things.

I hadn't expected them the first time I'd been here, out on a long bike ride. And turning down a back road, I found myself riding under a canopy of willow branches and caught a glimpse through the tree trunks of the house set far back. I'd peddled down the long drive and slipped the front tire of my bike into the stand with a few others and wandered shyly into the front garden. I wasn't sure that I was supposed to be there. When a guide passed by, explaining the story of the house,

who had built it and who had filled it with so many treasures, to a small group of attentively listening folks trailing behind her. I'd slipped in among them and followed along for the next hour or so. She'd led us to a spot on the far side of the house where the land fell away, and you could look down into a clear pond ringed with irises. She waited quietly as we looked to the surface, then shifting and dropping down into the depths again.

It was like watching the sun rising and setting in the water. And as I'd stood there, I thought about how many hidden treasures, like this place, are just waiting to be witnessed and appreciated again. The tour had ended at the top of the house, in a long room with shelves full of shallow drawers running to the ceiling and wide library tables. It was the map room, and for me it was the cherry on top, the sweetest and least expected surprise of the

afternoon. I've always loved maps, and to have a whole room dedicated to them, to know someone else had felt like I did, and made sure to leave behind a place where people could come just to look at the formation of continents and the lines that we draw through them, to consider the distance from one point to another, and the lakes and the rivers in between them. It felt like a connection across a century, and I was so glad it had survived.

Soon I was finding an hour, or there a few times a week to park my bike in the rack and walk the grounds and stray up to the map room. I'd worked my way through the drawers, sometimes with a magnifying glass pressed to my eye and a notepad tucked into my back pocket. I found local maps with crumbling edges that showed trails that would eventually become the streets that I grew up on.

I found maps of farms and emerging cities, and I'd read the names of the families that were farming in the parks as they were built. Some had intricate hand-drawn compass roses in their corners, and I used them to orient myself by the angle of the sun toward their capital city or featured body of water. The oldest were covered in a web of connecting pinwheels.

Rum lines or ioxodromes that intersected with meridians on their way to true north. Maps can show you how people thought about the world at a certain moment in time. Or at least how the mapmaker thought. Sometimes they show how people tried to spin a story that wasn't true. Or puff themselves up to seem bigger than they were. And all of that is a useful lesson, even when what they show in their lines and place names aren't true. I'd found as I'd gone through them so many gaps in my own knowledge, and while everything

I'd learned hadn't stuck permanently and would need to be occasionally refreshed, I I found seeing the world from so many angles had changed the way I thought about myself. I felt connected just by looking at the shape of a city or the name of a mountain or the name of a mountain, or the contours of a coastline, to the people who walked and ate and lived in those places every day. I'd heard someone say once that there isn't a person in the world who is anything less than your twentieth cousin. Looking at the spaces we all shared,

it felt true. Eventually, a guide had slipped me a volunteer application, suggesting that, as I was here so much anyway, I should just make it official. And now it was. I was here through the seasons, leading others over to spot the koi fish in the pond, pointing out the hidden faces in the tiles on the east wall, and telling the stories of the people in the painting over the fireplace. Some days I'd spot someone standing shyly in the garden, wondering if they were supposed to be here. And I'd smile, thinking about them taking their first step into the map room.

In the map room, in between tours, when folks have wandered out through the old oak doors and begun to circle through the grounds, I go to the map room and begun to circle through the grounds. I go to the map room. It was secretly why I joined the team of docents in this historic house, though I hadn't put down slyly spend time with maps in the why do you want to work here

section of my volunteer application. Truthfully, I loved every part of the days I got to spend here. Unlocking the doors in the morning and setting the A-frame sign out in the circle drive.

Opening the old casement windows on the third floor and standing in the quiet landing Opening the old casement windows on the third floor. And standing in the quiet landing outside of the library. While I listen to catch the echo of the people who once lived here, or who have walked through the halls, or added to, or admired the collections in them. It is, for many who come here, a delightful surprise when they drive down the long, twisting from someone about the labyrinth in the courtyard or the room on the top floor full of maps

and they come on a sunny Saturday to see for themselves. But they aren't prepared for how lovely the house is. They don't expect to find grounds so full of trickling fountains and smooth stone sculptures and narrow gravel paths that lead to more unexpected places and things. I hadn't expected them the first time I'd been here myself, out on a long bike ride, and taking a turn down a back road, I found myself under a canopy of willow branches

and caught a glimpse through the tree trunks of the house set far back. I'd peddled down the long drive and slipped the front tire of my bike into the stand with a few others and wandered shyly into the front garden. I wasn't sure that I was supposed to be there. When a guide passed by, explaining the story of the house, who had built it, and who had filled it with so many treasures, to a small group of attentively listening folks trailing behind her.

I'd slipped in among them and followed along for the next hour or so. She'd led us to a spot on the far side of the house, where the land fell away, and you could look down into a clear pond ringed with irises. She waited quietly as we looked at the water, till someone pointed, and we all saw a school of bright orange fish, a hundred of them, if not more, swimming to the surface, then shifting and dropping down into the depths again. It was like watching the sun rising and setting in the water. And as I'd stood there, I thought about how many hidden treasures

like this place are just waiting to be witnessed and appreciated again. The tour had ended at the top of the house, in a long room with shelves full of shallow drawers, running to the ceiling and wide library tables. It was the map room, and for me, it was the cherry on top. The sweetest and least expected surprise of the afternoon. I've always loved maps, and to have a whole room dedicated to them. To know someone else had felt like I did, and made sure to leave behind a place where people could come just

to look at the formations of the continents and the lines that we draw through them, to consider the distance from one point to another, and the lakes and rivers in between. It felt like a connection across a century, and I was so glad it had survived. Soon I was finding an hour, here or there, a few times a week, to park my bike in the rack and walk the grounds and stray up to the map room. I'd worked my way through the drawers, sometimes with a magnifying glass pressed to my eye, and a notepad tucked into my back pocket. I found local maps with crumbling edges that showed trails that would eventually become the streets that I grew up on. I found maps of farms and emerging cities,

and I'd read the names of the families that were farming in the parks as they were built. Some had intricate hand-drawn compass roses in their corners, and I used them to orient myself by the angle of the sun toward their capital city or featured body of water. The oldest were covered in a web of connecting pinwheels,

rum lines or ioxodromes that intersected with meridians on their way to true north. Maps can show you how people thought about the world at a certain moment in time, or at least how the mapmaker thought. Sometimes they show how people tried to spin a story that wasn't true, or puff themselves up to seem bigger than they were. And all of that is a useful lesson, even when what they show in their lines and place names

aren't true. I'd found, as I'd gone through them, so many gaps in my own knowledge. While everything I'd learned hadn't stuck permanently and would need to be occasionally refreshed, I found seeing the world from so many angles had changed the way I thought about myself. I felt connected just by looking at the shape of a city or the name of a mountain or the contours of a coastline, to the people who walked and ate and lived in those places every day. I had heard someone say once that there isn't a person in the world who is anything less than your twentieth cousin.

Looking at the spaces we all shared, it felt true. Eventually, a guide had slipped me a volunteer application, suggesting that, as I was here so much anyway, I should make it official. And now it was. I was here through the seasons, leading others over to spot the koi fish in the pond, pointing out the hidden faces in the tiles on the east wall,

and telling the stories of the people in the painting over the fireplace. Some days I'd spot someone standing shyly in the garden, wondering if they were supposed to be here. And I'd smile, thinking about them taking that first step into the map room. Sweet dreams.