Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Lightning Bugs at Oxbow Lake

Episode Date: July 22, 2024

Our story tonight is called Lightning Bugs at Oxbow Lake, and it’s a story about an evening spent on soft pine needle paths beside the water. It’s also about cattails and crested herons, the changing paths of rivers, a small voice reminding you that you can, and the spell of a good night’s sleep. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to the Marine Mammal Center. The center's mission is to advance global marine conservation through rescue and rehabilitation, research, and education.  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. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at firstthispodcast.com.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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to Marine Mammal Center. Marine Mammal Center advances global ocean conservation through rescue and rehabilitation,

research, and education. Learn more about them in our show notes. I'd like to thank some recent premium subscribers. You are helping to make this show possible. So thank you to Sophia and John, to Natasha and to Aaron. And if you'd like to join that club, you'll get ad-free and bonus content and super long episodes to keep you company all night. Find the link to that as well as to our new wind-down box full of sleepy time products. There's some top-tier self-care in there, all in our show notes. Now, here's how this works. A little quirk of our brains is that at bedtime, and particularly around two or three in the morning, our amygdala is wide awake and our prefrontal cortex is checked out.

So problems can feel big, and the part in charge of solving them is missing in action. And let me say first of all, everything's going to be okay. That middle-of-the-night angst is a liar. And if we can engage your brain with a simple, soothing task, we will find sleep, and return to sleep peacefully. All you need to accomplish all of this stuff is just to listen. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, listen again.

Over time, you'll find yourself falling asleep after just hearing a few words. Our story tonight is called Lightning Bugs at Oxbow Lake, and it's a story about an evening spent on soft pine needle paths beside the water. It's also about cattails and crested herons, the changing paths of rivers, a small voice reminding you that you can, and the spell of a good night's sleep. Now, get cozy, my dears. We are about to drift to dreamland, but sometimes it helps to actually say that to yourself. I am about to fall asleep and I'll sleep deeply all night.

Let your muscles relax. I'll be right here guarding over you with my voice even after you've drifted off. Draw a slow, deep breath in through your nose and out through the mouth. One more time, fill it up and let it go. Good. Lightning bugs at Oxbow Lake. Rivers meander. And that's not just a poetic way to describe a peacefully flowing stream, though it does sound very nice. It means that the water flows in a way that winds from side to side, over time actually changing the path of the river. If there's nothing to block it, the river will keep meandering until its S-curves bump back into itself.

And at that new point of contact, the river surrenders to the path of least resistance. And the loop it leaves behind eventually separates from the rest of the river and becomes an oxbow lake. The shape is something that, to my eye, looks more like a horseshoe. But maybe that is because I am more familiar with that

than I am the U-shaped collar of an ox yoke. For years I thought our oxbow was unique, an oddly shaped body of water that some past resident had seen from high up on the nearby hill, and named for its similarity to a shape they knew well. But since discovering the meandering nature of rivers, I've learned they exist all over the world. Wherever a river bends this way and that, oxbows are made.

I liked thinking of the commonality of it, even in surroundings that are very different from one another. At our oxbow Lake, there were hiking trails and open green spaces and places where the woods were so thick that daylight barely made it to the forest floor. I'd met up with friends here today. They'd come on their bikes, and after

a hike through the trail along the west side of the water, where we'd seen a fox running along some fallen tree trunks, and something we'd thought might be a muskrat swimming at the edge of the lake. We'd said our goodbyes, and they'd peddled off home before it got too dark. I wanted the dark to come, and to see the lightning bugs come out. I perched up on a small hill, on a mossy mound between the trees, and after the hot day, it felt so soft and cooling on my skin. It always seemed to me that nights were breezier than days, and I wondered if that was so, or something that only felt true. I leaned back on my palms and looked up at the branches swaying,

the leaves shifting and rippling. A chipmunk, small enough to sit in my hand, skittered out from a nearby bush and froze, looking up at me. I sat still, trying to convey a general air of safety and disinterest, though in truth I was very interested. After a few moments, he sat back on his hind legs, grabbed a nut from among the pine needles, and began to eat. From the corner of my eye, I watched as his cheeks bulged,

as he picked up nut after nut and stuffed them into his tiny mouth. Then he turned, his black and white striped back showing in the low light, and ran off again. I chuckled and shifted my weight forward, brushing the bits of moss that had stuck to my palms as I'd held so still. The kayakers on the lake were pulling their boats from the water, standing ankle deep and tugging them bit by bit up onto the shore. I had a memory of summer camp, of hauling a canoe from a reedy lake, all of us lining up for a maneuver we'd practiced, but not quite perfected,

as we heaved as one, hoisting the craft up over our heads and walking it down the path, our elbows locked, and the weight bounced across many arms. I remember there had been a moment when we flipped and lifted that I thought I wouldn't be able to carry it, that I thought I'd drop my bit. But taking a big breath, step by wobbly step, finding, actually, I could do it.

Actually, I was strong enough. I still listened for that voice quite a bit. When I was up against something tricky or unknown, a small but steady voice that said, actually, I can. Just then, beside the shore, I spotted the first lightning bugs of the night, also called fireflies,

and sometimes I liked the way that sounded better, like meandering. It sounded a bit more poetic. But lightning bugs just jumped to mind first when I thought of them. There were just a few flashing lazily around the cattails at the water's edge. Then I started to notice them on the far side of the lake, blinking among the trees. Slowly I turned my head side to side and saw the woods were full of them. I shifted to look farther up the hill,

and they were spread out, like lighter-waving concert-goers during the big power ballad. I hummed a song under my breath and shifted onto my feet. I wanted to walk among them, to share the night with them. I followed a path that circled in a slow descent toward the water. And they flew around me, I'm sure as aware of me as they were the individual trees.

To them I was just a fixture of the environment, as they looked for one another. The path was soft pine needles under my feet, and from them came the good, resiny scent that the day's humidity had brought out. I wondered if that fox we'd met earlier was burrowed in his den, chin resting on his paws as he settled in for sleep. I thought they might actually be nocturnal, so the fact that we'd seen one during the day probably meant there were pups being raised nearby. I wondered if the pups then would sleep through the night. Maybe they were the ones cozied up in the den now. At the water's edge,

with the lightning bugs still floating and blinking around me, I saw the long neck and elegant crested head of a heron. I watched it picking its way through the shallows. then after one last moment to soak up the flickering lights and the sweet woodsy scent the touch of the breeze I turned and headed home I was so deeply relaxed

my breath was soft and slow, and I had a feeling deep sleep would find me as soon as I laid myself down on my bed. It reminded me of a recommendation that my yoga teacher often made as she brought us out of Shavasana after a late evening class. Just wake up enough to get home, she'd say. Don't break the spell. I wouldn't. don't break the spell. I wouldn't. Lightning bugs at Oxbow Lake.

Rivers meander, and that's not just a poetic way to describe a peacefully flowing stream, though it does sound very nice. It means the water flows in a way that winds side to side, over time changing the actual path of the river. If there is nothing to block it, the river will keep meandering until its S-curves bump back into itself. And at that new point of contact, the river surrenders to the path of least resistance,

and the loop it leaves behind eventually separates from the rest of the river and becomes an oxbow lake. The shape is something that to my eye looks more like a horseshoe. But maybe that is because I am more familiar with that than I am the U-shaped collar of an ox yoke. For years I thought our oxbow was unique. An oddly shaped body that some past resident had seen from high up on the nearby hill, and named for its similarity to a shape they knew well.

But since discovering the meandering nature of rivers, I've learned they exist all over the world. Wherever a river bends, this way and that, oxbows are made. I liked thinking of the commonality of it, even in surroundings that are very different from one another. At our Oxbow Lake, there were hiking trails and open green spaces and places where the woods were so thick that daylight barely made it to the forest floor. I'd met up with friends here today. They'd come on their bikes, and after a hike through the

trail along the west side of the water, where we'd seen a fox running along some fallen tree trunks, and something we thought might be a muskrat swimming at the edge of the lake. We'd said our goodbyes, and they'd peddled off home before it got too dark. I was waiting. I wanted the dark to come and to see the lightning bugs come out. I perched up on a small hill on a mossy mound between the trees and looked down at the long shadows. The breeze was picking up, and after the hot day, it felt so soft and cooling on my skin.

It always seemed to me that nights were breezier than days. And I wondered if that was so, or something that only felt true. I leaned back onto my palms and looked up at the branches swaying, the leaves shifting and rippling, a chipmunk, small enough to sit in my hand,

skittered out from under a nearby bush, and froze, looking up at me. I sat still, trying to convey a general air of safety and disinterest, though in truth, I was very interested. After a few moments, he sat back on his hind legs, grabbed a nut from among the pine needles, and began to eat. From the corner of my eye, I watched as his cheeks bulged,

as he picked up nut after nut and stuffed them into his tiny mouth. Then he turned, his black and white striped back showing in the low light, and ran off again. I chuckled and shifted my weight forward, brushing at the bits of moss that had stuck to my palms I chuckled and shifted my weight forward, brushing at the bits of moss

that had stuck to my palms as I'd held so still. The kayakers on the lake were pulling their boats from the water, standing ankle deep and tugging them bit by bit up onto the shore. I had a memory of summer camp, of hauling a canoe from a reedy lake. All of us lining up for a maneuver we'd practiced,

but not quite perfected. We heaved as one, hoisting the craft up over our heads. Walking it down the path, our elbows locked, and the weight balancing across our many arms. I remember there had been a moment when we flipped and lifted that I thought I wouldn't be able to carry it, that I thought I'd drop my bit, but taking a big breath and step by wobbly step, finding, actually, I could do it. Actually, I was strong enough. I still listened for that voice

quite a bit. When I was up against something tricky or unknown, a small but steady voice that said, actually, I can. Just then, beside the shore, I spotted the first lightning bugs of the night, also called fireflies,

and sometimes I liked the way that sounded better. also called fireflies. And sometimes I liked the way that sounded better, like meandering. It sounded a bit more poetic. But lightning bugs just jumped to mind first when I thought of them. There were just a few flashing lazily around the cattails at the water's edge. Then I started to notice them on the far side of the lake, blinking among the trees.

Slowly I turned my head side to side and saw the woods were full of them. I shifted to look farther up the hill, and they were spread out like lighter-waving concert-goers during the big power ballad. I hummed a song under my breath and shifted onto my feet. I wanted to walk among them, to share the night with them. I followed a path that circled in a slow descent toward the water when they flew around me. I'm sure as aware of me as they were the individual trees.

To them, I was just a fixture of the environment as they went looking for one another. The path was soft pine needles under my feet, and from them came the good, resiny scent that the day's humidity had brought out. I wondered if that fox we'd met earlier was burrowed in his den, chin resting on his paws as he settled in for sleep. I thought they might actually be nocturnal, so the fact that we'd seen one during the day probably meant there were pups being raised nearby. I wondered if the pups would sleep through the night. Maybe they were the ones,

cozied up in the den now. At the water's edge, with the lightning bugs still floating and blinking around me, I saw the long neck, an elegant, crested head of a heron. I watched it picking its way through the shallows. Then, after one last moment of soaking up the flickering lights and the sweet, woodsy scent and the touch of the breeze,

I turned and headed home. I was so deeply relaxed. My breath was slow and soft, and I had a feeling deep sleep would find me as soon as I laid myself down on my bed. It reminded me of a recommendation that my yoga teacher often made as she brought us out of Shavasana after a late night

class. Just wake up enough to get home, she'd say. Don't break the spell. I wouldn't. Sweet dreams.