Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Ladybugs & New Leaves

Episode Date: June 3, 2024

Our story tonight is called Ladybugs and New Leaves, and it’s a story about a day in the yard at the potting bench. It’s also about learning to read the leaves of plants to understand what they need, things found in the checkout line of the hardware store, shiny red wings and black dots and recognizing that from time to time we all need a fresh start. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Showers for All. The Showers For All mobile trailers provide showers and laundry to those living on the streets of Denver. Full-service bathrooms and multiple washers & dryers deliver a critical and often forgotten service to those struggling with homelessness and poverty.  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 Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple podcasts or follow the link below nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.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 Catherine Nicolai. I create all the stories you hear, and nothing much happens. With audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to Showers for All. The Showers for All mobile trailers provide showers and laundry to those living on the streets of Denver.

Full-service bathrooms and multiple washers and dryers deliver critical and often forgotten services to those struggling with homelessness and poverty. Learn more about them in our show notes. If you need more nothing much in your life, well, we've been working on that. We have a daytime version of our show, perfect for reining in anxiety and generally making you feel good. It's called Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, and there are already about 30 episodes waiting for you on any podcast app. We also have a morning meditation show called First This,

10 Minutes Down toarth Mindfulness Practice. You can subscribe to our premium feeds for bonus and extra-long episodes, and treat yourself to our wind-down box full of full-size products that I love. Links for all of these are in our show notes. Now, a human mind is a wandering mind. It's just part of our programming. And it's the wandering bit that often keeps us up at night. If we can give your brain something gentle and pleasant to focus on, we can build a reliable response. We can make sleep something you can depend on.

All you need to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, turn it right back on. And if you are new to this, have some patience. Habit building takes time. Our story tonight is called Ladybugs and New

Leaves, and it's a story about a day in the yard at the potting bench. It's also about learning to read the leaves of plants, to understand what they need. Things found in the checkout line of the hardware store. Shiny red wings with black dots. And recognizing that from time to time, we all need a fresh start. Now, set aside anything you've been looking at or playing with. Switch off the light and slide down into your sheets. Get as comfortable as you can. You have done enough for the day. Really, it was enough.

Nothing else is needed from you. Draw a deep breath in through your nose, out through the mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in, out with sound. Good. Ladybugs and new leaves. Looking at the weather this morning, I thought it was likely to be the perfect day for a chore I'd been meaning to get to for a while. Once a year or so, I repot all my houseplants, and, if possible, I do this outside. I'd learned that lesson the hard way one February weekend, when I'd gotten a bit of cabin fever

and thought that if I laid out enough old sheets, a newspaper. I could repot a dozen plants without making much of a mess. Well, in fact, I had made much of a mess and had the muddy sheets to prove it. Since then, I'd aimed for warm weather for repotting, and it seemed better for the plants, too. They had most of the growing season ahead of them to get used to their new digs, to grow roots down

deep and enjoy the fresh soil when they needed it most. Today would be sunny all day, but overnight we were predicted to have a slow, steady rain. I liked to let my houseplants have a few days outside now and then, to sit in the rain and feel the wind on their stems. So today they would get a fresh repotting and then a long drink and some fresh air. I set up at my potting bench in the backyard a thing that sounds fancier than it was. I'd spotted it on the side of the road a few summers back, a workbench on long legs, so that you could stand comfortably when you worked at it.

It had clearly come out of someone's garage and had a free sign taped to it, a torn-out piece of paper from a spiral-bound notebook with the word written in grease pencil. I'd pulled my car over and taken a look at it. I have a penchant for sad furniture set out by the road,

especially anything that I could sand or repaint or varnish. I loved old tables, particularly little side tables that looked like they'd been made in someone's garage or workshop. One-offs. I hated to think that there was just one like it in the world and that it might disappear. I had, however, learned that sometimes there is a very good reason

that something is set out for the trash as pieces fall apart while I tried to load them into my car. Just because something is handmade doesn't necessarily mean it is well-made, and so it was for the potting bench. By the time I'd gotten it home, it was already coming apart. But since I was only going to mix soil and vermiculite on it, I figured it was worth a little elbow grease to see if I could bring it back to life.

I took some wood scraps from the garage and some long nails and hammered things together inexpertly and it mostly worked. I put it against the side of the garage, propping it up on patio stones for stability. Along its back, I attached an old piece of lattice, the kind that morning glories climb up. It gave me a place to hang my trowels and spool of twine. I had added a shelf underneath the work surface, where I stored a few pots and larger tools, and for the price I'd paid, namely none, it had served me very well. The bench was in the shade this afternoon as I eased my ponytail palm out of its slightly too small pot. I used to be a not very successful houseplant parent. Frankly, I'd tried not to make direct eye contact with my plants,

because it seemed if they knew I was in the room, they'd turn brown and die instantly. Then a friend had given me some helpful advice. Look at the leaves, she said. If they are thin, that is a sign the plant evolved in a tropical environment. So it would get filtered sun through the canopy, and it wouldn't need to store water in its leaves because there would be plenty in the soil. It wants less sun and more water. If the leaves are thick, like on a succulent, it means it grew up in the desert,

it got lots of sun, and stores water in its leaves because it might go a long time without any in the soil. It had seemed obvious once it was said out loud, but it had truly made me much more confident about taking care of my plants. I found most of my plants needed more sun and less water, and I'd learn to aerate the soil once a month or so with an old chopstick or pencil. I'd punch holes through the dirt to break up clumps and help the water reach the roots better. And of course, I'd started repotting regularly.

Another obvious but missed important facet of their care. If I kept pouring water through the same few cups of soil, of course I'd eventually wash all the minerals and nutrients out of it. Eventually there would be nothing left for the plant. As I fitted the palm down into a deeper pot with fresh black soil, I thought about how good it must feel for the plant. Space, food, fresh air, a caring hand to help. Those things certainly made me feel good.

I set her down in the grass, a bit away from the edge of the garage, so that she would catch some of the rain that would fall overnight. And noticed the bright green new leaves that were sprouting from the center of her ponytail. It was something else my friend had said when I'd worried my plants weren't doing well. If there is new growth, they're healthy.

When I turned back to the bench with the next plant in my hands, I spotted a ladybug resting of my cultivator. I set the striped dracaena down and leaned in close to stare at my new friend. Her bright red shell, with its seven black dots, was vibrant and beautiful. Ladybugs are good for gardens, and I was hoping that this one would invite some of her friends to come and stay. I had a little ladybug house hanging from a hook on the trellis.

I'd bought it on an impulse while standing in line at the hardware store. It had only cost a few bucks, and up until now, it had been vacant. I rested my hand beside the ladybug and let her crawl slowly up my finger,

and I moved her up to the house. It took a moment, but she eventually crawled into one of the shallow divots that was painted to match her wings. I smiled as I went back to my work, reminding myself that from time to time we all need to be repotted.

Ladybugs and new leaves. Looking at the weather this morning, I thought it was likely to be the perfect day for a chore. I'd been meaning to get to for a while. Once a year or so, I repot all my houseplants. And if possible, I'd do this outside. I'd learned that lesson the hard way one February weekend when I'd gotten a bit of cabin fever and thought that if I laid out enough old sheets and newspaper,

I could repot a dozen plants without making much of a mess. Well, in fact, I had made much of a mess, and had the muddy sheets to prove it. Since then, I'd aimed for warm weather for repotting. It seemed better for the plants, too. They had most of the growing season ahead of them, to get used to their new digs, to grow roots down deep and enjoy the fresh soil when they needed it most. Today would be sunny and warm all day,

but overnight we were predicted to have a few days outside now and then to sit in the rain and feel the wind on their stems. So today they would get a fresh repotting, and then a long drink and some fresh air. I set up at my potting bench in the backyard a thing that sounds fancier than it is. I'd spotted it on the side of the road a few summers back, a workbench on long legs

so that you could comfortably stand when you worked at it. It had clearly come out of someone's garage and had a free sign taped to it. A torn out piece of paper from a spiral-bound notebook. The word written in grease pencil. I'd pulled my car over and taken a look at it. I have a penchant for sad furniture set out by the road, especially anything that I can sand or repaint or varnish. I love old tables, particularly little side tables that look like they've been made in someone's garage or workshop. One-offs. I hated to think that there was just one like it in the world, and that it might disappear.

I had, however, learned that sometimes there is a very good reason that something is set out for the trash when pieces fall apart as I tried to load them into my car. Just because something is handmade doesn't necessarily mean it is well-made. And so it was for the potting bench. By the time I had gotten it home, it was already coming apart. But since I was only going to mix soil and vermiculite on it, I figured it was worth a little elbow grease to see if I could bring it back to life. I took some wood side of the garage, propping it up on patio stones for stability. Along its back, I attached an old piece of lattice, the kind that morning glories climb up.

It gave me a place to hang my trowels and spool of twine. I'd added a shelf underneath the work surface, where I stored a few pots and larger tools. And for the price I'd paid, namely, none, it had served me very well. The bench was in the shade this afternoon as I eased my ponytail palm out of its slightly too small pot. I used to be a not very successful houseplant parent. Frankly, I tried not to make direct eye contact with my plants. Because it seemed if they knew I was in the room, they'd turn brown and die instantly. Then a friend had given me some helpful advice. Look at the leaves, she said. If they are thin, that is a sign the plant evolved

in a tropical environment. So it would get filtered sun through a canopy. And it wouldn't need to store water in its leaves because there would be plenty in the soil. So it wants less sun and more water. If the leaves are thick, like on a succulent. It means it grew up in the desert. It got lots of sun and stores water in its leaves because it might go a long time without any in the soil. It had seemed obvious once it was said out loud, but it had truly made me more confident about taking care of my plants. I'd found most of my plants needed more sun and less water, and I'd learned to aerate the soil once a month or so. With an old chopstick or pencil,

I'd punch holes through the dirt to break up clumps and help the water reach the roots better. And of course, I'd started repotting regularly, another obvious but missed important facet of their care. If I kept pouring water through the same few cups of soil, of course I'd eventually wash all the minerals and nutrients out of it. There would be nothing left for the plant. I fitted the palm down into a deeper pot with fresh black soil and thought about how good it must feel to the plant.

Space, food, fresh air, a caring hand to help. Those things certainly made me feel good. I set her down in the grass, a bit away from the edge of the garage, so that she would catch some of the rain that would fall overnight. I noticed the bright green new leaves that were sprouting from the center of her ponytail.

It was something else my friend had said when I'd worried my plants weren't doing well. If there's new growth, they're healthy. When I turned back to the bench with the next pot in my hands, I spotted a ladybug resting on the handle of my cultivator. I set the striped dracena down and leaned in close to stare at my new friend. Her bright red shell

with its seven black dots was vibrant and beautiful. Ladybugs are good for gardens, and I was hoping this one would invite some of her friends to come and stay. I had a little ladybug house hanging from a hook on the trellis. I'd bought it on an impulse while standing in line at the hardware store. it had only cost a few bucks and up until now it had been vacant I rested my hand

beside the ladybug and let her crawl slowly up my finger and I moved her up to the house. It took a moment, but eventually she crawled into one of the shallow divots painted to match her wings. I smiled as I went back to my work, reminding myself that, from time to time, we all need to be repotted.

Sweet dreams.