Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Little Rituals

Episode Date: December 30, 2019

Our story tonight is called “Little Rituals” and it's a story about a simple way to shift into a calmer place. It’s also about tiny cups and saucers, a memory from a favorite place, and lessons learned from Mom. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase 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. Audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Thank you for listening, and for sharing our stories with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep.

You can follow us on Instagram and Facebook and Twitter for a bit of extra coziness. And if you need a little more nothing much in your life, head to nothingmuchappens.com, where you can find some special pieces inspired by the show. So, I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. And the story is like a soft landing spot for your mind.

Rather than letting your brain race through the same thoughts you've been chasing all day, we are taking a detour to a calm and cozy place. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the middle of the night, just walk yourself back through any of the details that you remember, and you will drop right back off. Now, it's time to turn off the light. Take one last sip of water and snuggle down into your favorite sleeping position.

Get your pillow in the perfect spot. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. Breathe in, and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Little Rituals, and it's a story about a simple way to shift into a calmer place. It's also about tiny cups and saucers,

a memory from a favorite place, and lessons learned from Mom. Little Rituals When my mother came home at the end of the day. She'd stand at a little cabinet tucked into a niche in the entryway and slowly slide the rings from her fingers. She'd unclasp her watch and place all the finery into a small ceramic bowl set there just for the purpose. She worked with her hands all day, and they must have been sore.

She'd massage her finger joints one by one, and press the pad of her thumb into her palm, rubbing out the ache. Then she'd slide her wedding band back on, leaving the rest in the bowl to wait for her till tomorrow. She was quiet while she did this, slowly attending to her hands. And when she finished, she'd let out a small sigh and step into the heart of the house and join us in the listening to and telling of the stories of the day. Someone had explained to me years ago that when rituals were blindly followed, they weren't of much use. But when they had a bit of meaning tied into them, and especially when you thought about

that meaning while you performed them, well, then they became tools. Tools that could help you turn the page on a moment, or celebrate, or treasure, or any number of useful human actions. When I'd learned that, I'd thought of my mother and her evening habit in the bowl on the cabinet. It had been a ritual of her own devising, a way to care for herself at the end of the workday and to shift from the world of traffic and deadlines to a world of her own with her family and home. Since then, I'd created a few rites of my own,

and this afternoon, I felt the need for one in particular. It was a ritual for slowing down when my brain was buzzing. When I found myself forgetting things, hustling to catch up, and feeling like I couldn't put my thoughts in order, I'd pull my tiny espresso pot down from the shelf and push my sleeves up and begin. You see, this couldn't be done in a hurry.

And it took a bit of focus to be done right. So I knew it would sort out my mixed-up mind. These tiny pots come in a few different styles and designs. Some screw together, but mine worked with a clamp, so I unclamped the top bit from the bottom and took the small filter basket from the bottom piece. I turned on the tap and adjusted the flow quite low. It was a delicate business to get just the right amount of water into the bottom chamber,

so that when I set the filter into it, it just grazed its bottom. I took a canister of ground beans from the cupboard and twisted off its top. I left a tiny spoon stuck upright in the grounds, and I drew it out and started to spoon out the coffee into the filter. I did this little by little, filling the filter slowly, and using the side of the spoon to tap the grounds in.

They would expand as the water boiled and the steam forced its way through them. So I didn't want the basket overfull, just full enough. Then I hooked the lip of the top piece over the tiny metal knob in the bottom and turned the handle to clamp the pot back together. At the stove, I lit the smallest burner to low and set the pot on it. Now there was a bit of time to wait, and my still somewhat busy mind tried to push me back into the habit of filling every single second with tasks.

But I was prepared for this. First, I stood for a moment at the stove and just rooted down into my feet and felt the way my weight was balanced over them. Then I took a slow breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. I turned to look out the window and watched a truck at the stop sign on the corner take a slow turn onto the side street. I had a small round table under a window tucked into the corner of the kitchen. A good spot for breakfast, or for opening mail in the afternoon, or for a cup of espresso right about now. I went to it and made a comfortable place for myself, setting a few books in a neat

stack on the windowsill and putting a bud vase with a single blooming lily at the table center. All of this was part of the ritual. I was taking time to do something small with great care, and it signaled to me that I, as much as any other soul in the universe deserved care. It reminded me that I wasn't a machine made to do chores, but a whole person, and that while being a whole person sometimes felt complicated and layered with many emotions. It also came with a lot of enjoyment, for moments like these. I took my favorite cup from the counter and set it in its saucer. I didn't need one really, but I liked the way it looked and felt in my hand, and that was enough of a reason to use it. The pot was bubbling and hissing, and it reminded me of the sound of an old radiator in a tiny apartment I'd lived in during college.

I turned off the burner and smiled at the memory. I'd had this same little coffee pot back then in that apartment, which had been in an old house downtown with noisy neighbors and creaking wood floors. But it had been all mine, and I'd loved it. Sometimes I'd wake in the night and listen to those old radiators hissing and gurgling, and it would put me right back to sleep. I took a small spoon from the drawer and the sugar bowl down from the shelf, and carefully tipped back the lid of the coffee pot.

The surface of the coffee had a small bit of bubbly foam on top, and I breathed in the rich, roasted smell. I tipped in a few small spoonfuls of sugar and slowly stirred it in. It was another moment to slow down. If I went too fast, the sugar wouldn't dissolve, and the cup would taste bitter. I might even knock the pot over and spill the precious coffee. I'd done it before, but I'd learned. Go slow. Do the thing properly. A few crystals of sugar clung to the percolating spindle in the pot,

and I spooned hot coffee over them to wash them back in with the rest. Then I tipped the lid back down and slowly poured a cup for myself. I carried it over to the table and sat down. The ritual had worked its magic. My thoughts were smooth and sorted again. Like a needle on a record player that had been set down

exactly into a groove, my mind was set back into the present, and I was listening to the music of it, moment to moment. I lifted the cup to my lips and drank. Little rituals. When my mother came home at the end of the day,

she'd stand at a little cabinet tucked into a niche in the entryway and slowly slide the rings from her fingers. She'd unclasp her watch and place all the finery into a small ceramic bowl set there just for the purpose. She worked with her hands all day, and they must have been sore.

She'd massage her finger joints one by one and press the pad of her thumb into her palm, rubbing out the ache. Then she'd slide her wedding band back on, leaving the rest in the bowl to wait for her till tomorrow. She was quiet while she did this, slowly attending to her hands. And when she had finished,

she let out a small sigh and step into the heart of the house and join us in the listening to and telling of the stories of much use. But when they had a bit of meaning tied into them, and especially when you thought about that meaning while you performed them. Well, then they became tools. Tools that could help you turn the page on a moment, or celebrate, or treasure, or any number of useful human actions.

When I'd learned that, I thought of my mother, and her evening habit, and the bowl on the cabinet. It had been a ritual of her own devising, a way to care for herself at the end of the workday, and to shift from the world of traffic and deadlines to a world of her own, with her family and home. Since then, I'd created a few rights of my own, and this afternoon, I felt the need for one in particular. It was a ritual for slowing down when my brain was buzzing.

When I found myself forgetting things, hustling to catch up, and feeling like I couldn't put my thoughts in order. I'd pull my tiny espresso pot down from the shelf and push my sleeves up, and begin. You see, this couldn't be done in a hurry, and it took a bit of focus to be done right. So I knew it would sort out my mixed-up mind. These tiny pots come in a few different styles and designs. Some screw together,

but mine worked with a clamp, so I unclamped the top bit from the bottom and took the small filter basket from the bottom piece. I turned on the tap and adjusted the flow quite low. It was a delicate business to get just the right amount of water into the bottom chamber, so that when I set the filter into it, it just grazed its bottom. I took a canister of ground beans from the cupboard and twisted off its top. I left a tiny spoon stuck upright in the grounds, and I drew it out and started to spoon out the coffee into the filter. I did this little by little, filling the filter slowly and using the side of the spoon to tap the grounds in. they would expand as the water boiled, and the steam forced its way through them.

So I didn't want the basket overfull, just full enough. Then I hooked the lip of the top piece over the tiny metal knob in the bottom and turned the handle to clamp the pot back together. At the stove, I lit the smallest burner to low and set the pot on it. somewhat busy mind tried to push me back into the habit of filling every single second with

tasks. But I was prepared for this. First, I stood for a moment at the stove and just rooted down into my feet and felt the way my weight was balanced over them. in through my nose and out through my mouth. I turned to look out the window and watched a truck at the stop sign on the corner take a slow turn onto the side street. I had a small round table under a window, tucked into the corner of the kitchen. A good spot for breakfast or for opening mail in the afternoon, or for a cup of espresso right about now.

I went to it and made a comfortable place for myself, setting a few books in a neat stack on the windowsill and putting a bud vase with a single blooming lily at the table center. All of this was part of the ritual. I was taking time to do something small with great care. And it signaled to me that I, as much as any other soul in the universe, deserved care. It reminded me that I wasn't a machine made to do chores, but a whole person.

And that, while being a whole person, sometimes feels complicated and layered with many emotions. It also came with a lot of enjoyment for moments like these. I took my favorite cup from the counter and set it in its saucer. It didn't really need one, but I liked the way it looked and felt in my hand,

and that was enough of a reason to use it. The pot was bubbling and hissing, and it reminded me of the sound of an old radiator in a tiny apartment I'd lived in during college. I turned off the burner and smiled at the memory. I'd had this same little coffee pot back in that apartment, which had been in an old house downtown with noisy neighbors and creaking wood floors. But it had been all mine.

And I'd loved it. Sometimes I'd wake in the night, and I'd listen to those old radiators hissing and gurgling, and it would put me right back to sleep. I took a small spoon from the drawer and the sugar bowl down from the shelf and carefully tipped back the lid of the coffee pot. The surface of the coffee had a small bit of bubbly foam on top, and I breathed in the rich roasted smell. I tipped in a few small spoonfuls of sugar and slowly stirred it in.

It was another moment to slow down. If I went too fast, the sugar wouldn't dissolve and the cup would taste bitter. I might even knock the pot over and spill the precious coffee. I'd done it before, but I'd learned. Go slow. Do the thing properly. A few crystals of sugar clung to the percolating spindle in the pot,

and I spooned hot coffee over them to wash them back in with the rest. Then I tipped the lid back down and slowly poured a cup for myself. I carried it over to the table and sat down. The ritual had worked its magic. My thoughts were smooth and sorted again. Like a needle on a record player that had been set down exactly into a groove. My mind was set back in the present, and I was listening to the music of it, moment to moment. I lifted the cup to my lips and drank. Sweet dreams.