Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Light a Candle

Episode Date: November 29, 2021

Our story tonight is called Light a Candle and it’s a story about reminding each other about the light that lasts through the long nights of winter. It’s also about a busy kitchen full of family, cinnamon and walnuts, and a memory of something shared that felt very special.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 Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Our merch store now ships worldwide. I love our beautiful NMH water bottles, fuzzy socks, and cozy blanket. Bundled together, they would make a perfect gift

for anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. Find them along with our ad-free and bonus episodes at nothingmuchappens.com. Let me explain a bit about how to use this podcast. Our minds have a tendency to race and roam, and this, more than anything else, is what prevents us from finding good rest at night. The story I'm about to tell you is a place to rest your mind. A relaxing, peaceful spot to focus on so that instead of racing, you'll sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you are still awake at the end of the second telling, you could listen again

or just think your way through the details that you can remember. This is a kind of grown-up sleep training and you will see your sleep continually improve over time. Be patient if you're new at this. Now, it's time to turn off the light. Get comfortable. Notice how good held, to be finished. I hope you can hear my intention in my voice to help you feel safe as you settle, to cast a protective layer over you and block out the rest of the world. It's done now. You're safe. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh from your mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in.

And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Light a Candle. And it's a story about reminding each other about the light that lasts through the long nights of winter. It's also about a busy kitchen full of family, cinnamon and walnuts, and a memory of something shared that felt very special. Light a candle. It had started slow, like a snowball rolling down a soft slope, the darkness arriving earlier

each day. In the autumn, I barely noticed it, but in the last few weeks, that snowball had picked up speed, and now it was ready for a top hat, carrot, and twig arms. All at once, it was dark before dinnertime. And not just dusky, not the extended gloaming of summer, but sudden, as if a switch had

been flipped. I mostly enjoyed it, took it as a signal to go to bed a bit earlier, and generally to spend more time cozied up at home. I tried to think about how my ancestors would have met the change of season. Those that had lived on farms would have taken time to rest, to turn their attention to making things rather than growing them, and looked forward to visits from neighbors and family.

Those that lived in cities and towns would have looked for lighted windows in the houses of friends, shoveled snow away from doorsteps, and bought or made special treats for special days. I thought it must be a universal experience when the sunrise and sunset get closest together, that people look for a reason to celebrate something, to enjoy favorite flavors, to sing or dance, and to light a candle. Tonight, we were lighting the first candle, gathering at my uncle's house, cousins and

grandparents and siblings. Someday soon, it would be the turn of the younger generation to take over the hosting duties. But tonight I was happy to simply show up and be fed, be surrounded by my family, play with the kids, and relax. I had a few simple gifts to share. Usually, on the first night of Hanukkah,

we kept it to chocolate and dreidels for the little ones. I had a bag full of gelt, but also a few really delicious fancy chocolate bars for the grown-ups. Driving over, the sun was getting low, and I thought I would be there just in time. We lit the candle as the sun set, looking at the candy tucked in its bag beside me, and thinking of nightfall, I had a sudden flash of memory. Riding in the dark often brought it back, and it was a beloved recollection. I'd been ten or eleven, riding in the car with my mom. She'd picked me up from band practice,

and my clarinet, in its case, was wedged between my feet. There was a song playing on the radio, something we both knew and sang along to together. Driving through town, the streetlights reflected on my window, and I got lost in watching people on the street. My mom kept a secret stash of chocolate-covered raisins in the armrest console between us, and she'd revealed them to me with a wink. We took the long way home, eating candy, singing to the music,

and watching the lights. It had become something we shared and I looked forward to it whenever I sat in the half circle in the band room beside the flutes and saxophone squeaking on my reed. And now, many years later, it came back to me, like a sweet, reoccurring dream,

whenever I drove in the dark at the beginning of winter. At my uncle's house, the driveway was full of cars, and I smiled to myself as I parked and walked up to the door. I could hear the voices of so many of the people I loved, talking, laughing, directing the cooking in the kitchen and the setting of the cooking in the kitchen and the setting of the table in the dining room. In my family, you don't have to come in the front door. You don't need to knock or be formal with a greeting.

Once you're family, you just come in. So that's what I did I pulled open the side door that led into the kitchen and stepped into the thick delicious smell of fried treats pulled off my coat and found a spare hook for it in the hall. It seemed like the rooms were sorted by generation as I walked through.

My parents and aunts and uncles were in the kitchen, frying off the last batch of latkes. There was always a slight difference of opinion about the cooking, and as I swiped a piece of rugelach from a plate and ducked out, I heard the usual argument about the jelly donuts, store-bought versus homemade, going on behind me. My grandparents were already at the table,

waiting with varying levels of patience for the evening to begin. The youngest ones were running with excitement through the living room and out the back door into the yard, then back in again. My cousins and siblings were chatting in clusters, wine glasses in their hands, teasing in the way only people who've known each other

their whole lives can do. That's the thing about families. I mean, I loved my friends and had holiday traditions to look forward to with them too. But family love is of a different sort, deep and abiding, unmoved by the years. I was handed a glass of my own and savored the last bite of the roogala, the cinnamon and ground walnut filling melting in my mouth.

Then I was shooed out of the way as plates were carried through to the dining room. I moved into a corner by the front door, just standing with my glass in my hand and watching the activity. One of my young cousins came to stand next to me, leaning her shoulder against my side, and I slipped my arm around her.

She was a quiet kid, probably a little overwhelmed by the noise, and though I wondered how school was going, I didn't ask her just now. I was usually the person she went to when she needed an anchor in the storm, as I was most likely to be the family member watching and listening, rather than talking and asking questions. I thought it was possible that when she was older, when she had her own house full of people to feed on Hanukkah, she might have a memory of a shared moment with me,

like I had had of driving at night with my mom. And in that moment, night fell fell the windows were dark and we found our way to the table we would recite the blessings sing the songs and light the first candle we often only got to be all together on one night of the eight,

but each of us in our own homes would add another candle each night. I'd heard a haiku once, written hundreds of years ago in Japan, but it felt very familiar. It said simply, light one candle with another, any evening of spring. Yes, all over the world, we had an instinct to pull each other through the darkness of winter and into the light again. Light a candle.

It had started slow, like a snowball rolling down a soft slope. The darkness arriving earlier each day. In the autumn, I barely noticed it. But in the last few weeks, that snowball had picked up speed, and now it was ready for a top hat carrot and twig arms all at once it was dark before dinnertime and not just dusky, not the extended gloaming of summer,

but sudden, as if a switch had been flipped. I mostly enjoyed it, took it as a signal to go to bed a bit earlier, and generally to spend more time cozied up at home. I tried to think about how my ancestors would have met the change of season. Those that had lived on farms would have taken time to rest, to turn their attention to making things

rather than growing them, and looked forward to visits from neighbors and family. Those that lived in cities and towns would have looked for lighted windows in the houses of friends, shoveled snow away from doorsteps, and bought or made special treats for special days. I thought it must be a universal experience. When the sunrise and sunset get closest together, let people look for a reason to celebrate something, to enjoy favorite flavors,

to sing or dance, and to light a candle. Tonight, we were lighting the first candle, gathering at my uncle's house, cousins and grandparents and siblings. Someday soon, it would be the turn of the younger generation to take over the hosting duties. But tonight, I was happy to simply show up and be fed, be surrounded by my family.

Play with the kids and relax. I had a few simple gifts to share. Usually on the first night of Hanukkah, we kept it to chocolate and dreidels for the little ones. I had a bag full of gelt, but also a few really delicious, fancy chocolate bars for the grown-ups.

Driving over, the sun was getting low, and I thought I would be there just in time. We lit the candle as the sun set. Looking at the candy tucked in its bag beside me and thinking of nightfall. I had a sudden flash of memory. Writing in the dark often brought it back, and it was a beloved recollection. I'd been 10 or 11,

riding in the car with my mom. She'd picked me up from band practice and my clarinet, in its case, was wedged between my feet. There was a song playing on the radio, something we both knew and sang along to together. Driving through town,

the streetlights reflected on my window, and I got lost in watching people on the street. My mom kept a secret stash of chocolate-covered raisins in the armrest console between us, and she'd revealed them to me with a wink. We took the long way home, eating candy, singing to the music and watching the lights. It had become something we shared, and I looked forward to it whenever I sat in the half circle in the band room,

beside the flutes and saxophones, squeaking on my reed. And now, many years later, it came back to me like a sweet, reoccurring dream whenever I drove in the dark at the beginning of winter. At my uncle's house, the driveway was full of cars, and I smiled to myself as laughing, directing the cooking in the kitchen, and the setting of the table in the dining room. In my family, you don't have to come in the front door. You don't need to knock or be formal with a greeting. Once you're family, you just come in. So that's what I did. I pulled open the side door that led into the thick, delicious smell of fried treats, pulled off my coat,

and found a spare hook for it in the hall. It seemed the rooms were sorted by generation as I walked through. My parents and aunts and uncles were in the kitchen, frying off the last batch of latkes. There was always a slight difference of opinion about the cooking. And as I swiped a piece of rugelach from the plate and ducked out,

I heard the usual argument about the jelly donuts, store-bought versus homemade, going on behind me. My grandparents were already at the table, waiting with various levels of patience for the evening to begin. The youngest ones were running with excitement through the living room and out the back door into the yard, and then back in again.

My cousins and siblings were chatting in clusters, wine glasses in their hands, teasing in the way only people who've known each other their whole lives can do. That's the thing about families. I mean, I loved my friends and had holiday traditions to look forward to with them too. But family love is of a different sort. Deep and abiding, unmoved by the years.

I was handed a glass of my own and savored that last bite of the roogla. The cinnamon and ground walnut filling melting in my mouth. Then I was shooed out of the way as plates were carried through to the dining room. I moved into a corner by the front door, just standing with my glass in my hand, watching the activity. One of my young cousins came to stand next to me, leaning her shoulder against my side. And I slipped my arm around her.

She was a quiet kid, probably a little overwhelmed by the noise. And though I wondered how school was going, I didn't ask her just now. I was usually the person she went to when she needed an anchor in the storm, as I was most likely to be the family member watching and listening, rather than talking and asking questions. I thought it was possible that when she was older, when she had her own house full of people to feed on Hanukkah. She might have a memory of a shared moment with me,

one guy had had of driving at night with my mom. And in that moment, night fell. The windows were dark, and we found our way to the table. we would recite the blessings, sing the songs, and light the first candle. We often only got to be all together on one night of the eight. But each of us in our homes would add another candle each night. I'd heard a haiku once, written hundreds of years ago in Japan,

but it felt very familiar. It said simply, Light one candle with another, any evening of spring. Yes, all over the world, we had an instinct to pull each other through the darkness of winter and into the light again. Sweet dreams.