Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Lost & Found

Episode Date: November 30, 2020

Our story tonight is called Lost and Found and it’s a story about the first snowfall of the year. It’s also about firewood stacked high beside the hearth, paw prints in the snow, and the magic of two paths crossing at just the right moment. 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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. If you enjoy these bedtime stories, I think you'll find even more enjoyment from my book,

also called Nothing Much Happens. Along with favorite and never-before-heard stories, there are beautiful illustrations, recipes, guided meditations, and more. So many of us are struggling with sleeplessness and anxiety, this year in particular. Let my book be a place to rest your mind. Buy it from your favorite bookseller, or get an autographed copy, wrapped by my own two hands, at my website, nothingmuchappens.com.

Now let me say a little about how to use this podcast. The story I'm about to tell you is like a soft nest to settle your mind into. And you do that just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple, soothing details of the story. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time. Just by listening, you are training your brain to shift into a focused, calm place, rather than wandering. And over time, you'll notice that you'll fall asleep faster and return to sleep more easily. Now it's time to put down anything you've been looking at and turn off the light. Slide down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can.

Take a slow, deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Let's do it again. Breathe in. Out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called Lost and Found. Good. Our story tonight is called Lost and Found,

and it's a story about the first snowfall of the year. It's also about firewood stacked high beside the hearth, paw prints in the snow, and the magic of two paths crossing at just the right moment. Lost and found. I might not have known about her if the snow hadn't fallen overnight. The weather had been mild for days, with bright sun and warm air that still smelled of leaves and grass. But just before I'd gone to bed the night before,

I'd poked my head out of the front door and felt the cold snap setting in. I'd looked up at the streetlight on the corner and seen the very first flakes of the season falling. Those first few snowflakes are almost always thin, tiny, like specks of sawdust or fine confetti coming down. And it seems impossible that something so insubstantial could build up enough to need clearing away with shovels and plows. The flakes get bigger, fluffier, and fall more thickly as the season goes on, as if they are growing through their own lifespan with the passing months, and by the end of the winter they retreat and eventually give

over to spring raindrops. The thin flakes had built up overnight though, leaving an even half inch of snow on the ground. This morning, when I opened the front door again, I noticed a line of tiny, unmistakable paw prints that traveled out from under the edge of the skip laurel bush and up onto the front step where they turned and wandered off down the drive and disappeared under a Japanese yew.

Oh dear, I said, my breath a cloud in the cold air. Someone had come knocking in the night to be let in, and I hadn't heard it. I pulled a coat on over my pajamas and stepped out onto the crisp snow in my slippers. I followed the paw prints to the yew and squatted down to see if I could spot their owner

among the thick branches. I called out a low, kitty, kitty, kitty, but didn't see or hear any response. Hmm. I stood up and propped my hands on my hips. Well, I had a few ideas about what to do next. I walked back up to the door and turned to look around again as I went through. She was out there, maybe watching me right now,

and I just needed to find a way to invite her in. Inside, I shook off my jacket and stepped into the living room. I needed to make a comfortable, warm spot for her, someplace she could nestle into until she was ready to come inside. I looked into the corner of the room, a bare space on the wood floor beside the bookcase. I didn't have a kiddie bed, not anymore. I'd given things away after. It had been a couple of years now since I'd heard the tinkle of the bell on his collar or felt him jumping silently onto the bed in the wee hours of the morning. I found a box in the back hall and took a blanket from the linen closet.

I went next door to ask my neighbor for a bowl full of kibble and to make sure her cat was safely accounted for. They met me together at the door and listened as I told the story of the paw prints in the snow. My neighbor handed over a whole bag of food so I wouldn't need to drive out to a store anytime soon. She bent down to pick up her cat and pressed her to her chest and said that she hoped my plan with the box and the kibble would work and work quickly. I told her that I had a feeling that it would. It was something my mother used to say, that when it was time for your next dog or cat, they would find you. They would show up on your doorstep and simply ask to be let inside.

I hoped she was right, but of course, she'd said that back when finding a furry friend wasn't done mostly online. And I'd wondered sometimes if my next rescue was waiting for me somewhere else, and I was missing it. I set up the box between the shrubs and the front door, turned on one side so it had a floor and a ceiling, and I draped the blanket in a way I hoped a cat would find inviting. I sat a small bowl of kibble in and tiptoed away

to see if she might like a snack and a rest. Inside, I tried to busy myself with a few chores. I filled the sink up with hot, soapy water and washed dishes, talking to myself as I scrubbed and rinsed. I wondered if she liked to play with toys, if she liked a squeaky mouse filled with catnip,

or just a plain piece of string dangled in the air. I took a fresh towel from the drawer when I dried and put away the clean dishes, pushing the forks and spoons through my towel-wrapped fingers and laying them away in their divided slots. What would I call her? I shook my head, thinking that I was getting ahead of myself. I might never see her at all. She might have picked another door by now,

and already been brought inside by someone else. Still, I found myself digging a couple of small dishes, one for food and one for water, out from the back of the cupboard. They hadn't been used in years. I left them ready on the counter, just in case. The skies were clouding over, and I'd seen in the paper that more snow was coming.

I decided to bring in some firewood and fill the log holder to the top. I didn't need to go through the front door to get to the store of wood. I could have slipped out the back and across the patio stones to the side yard, but I couldn't help myself. I opened the door slowly, just in case there was someone on the step. And though there wasn't, there was a fresh trail of prints circling around the box

and a few stray kibble pieces on the pavement, as if someone had leaned in to catch up a mouthful and dropped a couple on the way out. I went to get the wood with a smile on my face. After three trips in and out, I figured I had enough to keep the fire burning through a snowstorm. I laid kindling and a few thinner strips of wood and some scrunched-up newspaper in the grate and struck a long match. I moved the match from spot to spot, letting the flame catch. And just as it had burned down and I tossed the last inch of it in on top of the kindling. I heard the smallest, softest meow, like a question mark,

floating like my breath had in the cold air. I stepped over to the door and slowly opened it. She was small, probably still a kitten, and the bright orange of marmalade. She had crumbs in her whiskers, and I saw the empty bowl tipped over inside the box. I've got more of that, you know, I said,

and stood back to let her in. Over the crackle of the catching fire, I heard her meow again. She raced in past me, and I closed the door behind her. Lost and found. I might not have known about her if the snow hadn't fallen overnight. The weather had been mild for days, with bright sun and warm air that still smelled of leaves and grass.

But just before I'd gone to bed the night before, I'd poked my head out of the front door and felt the cold snap setting in. I had looked up at the streetlight on the corner and seen the very first flakes of the season falling. Those first few snowflakes are almost always thin, tiny, like specks of dust or fine confetti coming down. And it seems impossible that something so insubstantial

could build up enough to need clearing away with shovels and plows. The flakes get bigger, fluffier, and fall more thickly as the season goes on, as if they are growing through their own lifespan with the passing months. And by the end of the winter, they retreat and eventually give over to spring raindrops. The thin flakes had built up overnight though, leaving an even half inch of snow on the ground. This morning, when I opened the front door again, I noticed a line of tiny, unmistakable paw prints that traveled out from under the edge of the skip laurel bush and up onto the front step where they turned and wandered off down the drive and disappeared under a Japanese hue. Oh dear, I said, my breath a cloud in the cold air.

Someone had come knocking in the night to be let in, and I hadn't heard it. I pulled a coat on over my pajamas and stepped out onto the crisp snow in my slippers. I followed the paw prints to the yew and squatted down to see if I could spot their owner among the thick branches. I called out a low, kitty, kitty, kitty, but didn't see or hear any response. Hmm. I stood back up and propped my hands on my hips. Well, I had a few ideas about what to do next. I walked back up to the door and turned to look around again as I went through. She was out there,

maybe watching me right now, and I just needed to find a way to invite her in. Inside, I shook off my jacket and stepped into the living room. I needed to make a comfortable, warm spot for her, someplace she could nestle into until she was ready to come inside. I looked into the corner of the room, a bare space on the wood floor beside the bookcase. I didn't have a kiddie bed. Not anymore. I'd given things away after. It had been a couple of years now since I'd heard the tinkle of his bell,

or felt him jumping silently onto the bed in the wee hours of the morning. I found a box in the back hall and took a blanket from the linen closet. I went next door to ask my neighbor for a bowl full of kibble and to make sure her cat was safely accounted for. They met me together at the door and listened as I told the story of the paw prints in the snow. My neighbor handed over a whole bag of food so I wouldn't need to drive out to a store any time soon.

She bent down to pick up her cat and pressed her to her chest and said that she hoped my plan with the box and the kibble would work and work quickly. I told her that I had a feeling that it would. It was something my mother used to say, that when it was time for your next dog or cat, they would find you. They would show up on your doorstep and simply ask to be let inside.

I hoped she was right, but of course she had said that back when finding a furry friend wasn't done mostly online. And I'd wondered sometimes if my next rescue was waiting for me somewhere else. And I was missing it. I set up the box between the shrubs and the front door, turned on one side so it had a floor and a ceiling. And I draped the blanket in a way I hoped a cat bowl of kibble in and tiptoed away to see if she might like a snack and a rest. Inside I tried to busy myself with a few chores.

I filled the sink up with hot, soapy water and washed dishes, talking to myself as I scrubbed and rinsed. I wondered if she liked to play with toys, if she liked a squeaky mouse filled with catnip, or just a plain piece of string dangled in the air. I took a fresh towel from the drawer, and I dried and put away the clean dishes, pushing the forks and spoons through my towel-wrapped fingers and laying them away in their divided slots. What would I call her?

I shook my head, thinking that I was getting ahead of myself. I might never see her at all. She might have picked another door by now, and already been brought inside by someone else. Still, I found myself digging a couple of small dishes, one for food and one for water, out from the back of the cupboard. They hadn't been used in years, and I left them ready on the counter, just in case. The skies were clouding over, and I'd seen in the paper that more snow was coming. I decided to bring in some firewood and fill the log holder to the top.

I didn't need to go through the front door to get to the store of wood. I could have slipped out the back and across the patio stones to the side yard, but I couldn't help myself. I opened the door slowly, just in case there was someone on the step. And though there wasn't, there was a fresh trail of prints circling around the box and a few stray kibble pieces on the pavement, as if someone had leaned in to catch up a mouthful, and dropped a couple on the way out.

I went to get the wood with a smile on my face. After three trips in and out, I figured I had enough to keep the fire burning through a snowstorm. I laid kindling and a few thinner strips of wood with some scrunched-up newspaper in the grate, and struck a long match. I moved the match from spot to spot, letting the flame catch. And just as it had burned down, and I'd tossed the last inch of it in on top of the kindling,

I heard the smallest, softest meow, like a question mark, floating as my breath had in the cold air. I stepped over to the door and slowly opened it. She was small, probably still a kitten, and I saw the empty bowl tipped over inside the box. I've got more of that, you know, I said, and stood back to let her in. Over the crackle of the catching fire, I heard her meow again. She raced in past me, and I closed the door behind her. Sweet dreams.