Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Out Like a Lamb

Episode Date: March 18, 2024

Our story tonight is called Out Like a Lamb, and it’s a story about the changeable month of March and a day spent enjoying a bit of both winter and spring. It’s also about a book read in the bath, the luxury of a slow start to the day, sunlight warming the floorboards, a pot of pansies dusted with snow, and making peace with a bit of chaos, in and out. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Bat Conservation International. Their work is to conserve the world’s bats and their ecosystems to ensure a healthy planet. 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: https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favoritepodcast 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 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 Bat Conservation International. Their work is to conserve the world's bats and their ecosystems

to ensure a healthy planet. Learn more about them in our show notes. Thank you to our premium subscribers who make what we do possible. For just 10 cents a day, I feel like an NPR pledge driver when I say that, but really, just 10 cents. You can get our full catalog of bedtime stories, hundreds of episodes, plus about 35 exclusive bonus stories, extra long, slightly more happens eps, all completely ad-free, and the satisfaction of knowing that you are helping to keep NMH available for everyone. You can subscribe through the link in our bio or by searching NMH Premium on Apple Podcasts. Now, I have a story to tell you.

It is sort of like a lullaby, and if you let it, it will rock your thinking mind to sleep. The story is simple, not much happens in it, and that is the idea. Just by listening, we'll be able to shift some activity in your brain, from the static background noise of your default mode to the soothing focus of task positive mode. And that's where sleep can happen. I'll tell the story twice,

and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night and feel your brain start to kick back on, don't hesitate to start the story again. The effects of this conditioning will improve with practice, so be patient if you're new to it. Our story tonight is called Out Like a Lamb, and it's a story about the changeable month of March and a day spent enjoying a bit of both winter and spring. It's also about a book read in the bath, the luxury of a slow start to the day, sunlight warming the floorboards, a pot of pansies dusted with snow,

and making peace with a bit of chaos inside and out. Now, switch off your light and slide down into your sheets. Anything that feels good in this moment, please notice it. Please let it sink in. You are in your bed. You are about to have a great night's sleep.

And when you wake tomorrow, you'll feel rested and ready. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh from your mouth. Do that one more time. Inhale and let it out. Good. Out like a lamb. March is wild and ever-changing. Sweet, mild spring, one hour.

A howling gale of snow and ice the next. I liked her unpredictability, how unapologetic she was when she turned on a dime and changed herself completely in an afternoon. I'd heard once that each person is a string of DNA that would take over a century to recite. So I imagine that if we feel complicated at times,

like we hold zones of temperate and inclement weather within ourselves, that they sometimes overlap and emerge on their own schedule. Well, that adds up. The morning had come in like a lion when I'd pushed aside the curtains in my bedroom. I'd found a few inches of fresh snow spread over the yard and more falling fast behind it. the winter aconite with its tiny yellow flowers that had appeared a week before around the roots of the pine trees were covered with white while they had been beautiful i had to admit this snowfall was as well. It slowed me down. In a real, literal way, I stopped and breathed.

Spent time just looking. I'd had a plan in the back of my mind to dress and head into town, to spend the morning to return some library books and stand in line at the post office. No, I should stay tucked in at home, bundle up and enjoy watching the snow come down. It hadn't really taken much time to convince myself of this. I was still standing in front of the window with the curtain in my hand. A gust of wind blew a thick wave of flakes against the panes, and I could feel the chill of it on my skin. I could get back into bed, that was always a lovely option, But I thought about another that I rarely took, but would feel so good right now. A morning bath.

Oh, a morning bath. It sets the perfect tone for a day when you don't have to rush off to anything. It says, today we are going slow. I stepped into the bathroom and opened the tap over the tub. In the cabinet, I looked through the bottles and jars. I had some Epsom salts, good for soaking when my body was achy. As as well as a jar a friend had gifted me with rose petals and grains of lavender mixed into the salts. It smelled wonderful, but last time I used it, I'd been picking the lavender out of my hair for a few days. Instead, I reached for the bottle of pearly bubble bath and trickled a stream of it into the steaming water. As the tub filled, I got a fresh towel and washcloth from the linen closet, my book from the bedside table, and a tall glass of water from the kitchen. It's strange what feels indulgent to you at different stages in your life.

When I was younger, I wouldn't have been staying home to take a bath on a Saturday morning. But here I was. Maybe it is a gift of aging, a growing understanding of what is enough and a capacity to enjoy it when you have it. In that first minute in the hot water, my mind went peacefully quiet. I wasn't thinking much of anything, just feeling the heat and the relaxation in my muscles. I stretched out in the tub and closed my eyes. I could hear the wind blowing around the house.

And I thought about the squirrels and rabbits digging deeper into their dens, curling around one another for warmth. I picked up my book and read. When the water started to feel a little cool, I just turned the hot tap back on and let it run till it was piping again. I sipped water, soaked up my washcloth and scrubbed, and eventually felt ready to get out. As I reached for my giant bath towel and wrapped it around me. I had a memory of being helped out of the tub as a child,

being wrapped in a warm towel, and how safe and happy it had made me feel. I smiled at myself in the steamy mirror. I'd taken over that job of being the steward of my own happiness and safety. And while I hadn't been very good at it at the beginning, it had taken practice and unlearning some things along the way. I was now adept.

I protected me. I was safe with me. I was happy with me. I pulled on a robe and stepped back into the bedroom to peer out of the window. To my surprise, the sun was shining and the wind had dropped to nothing. the trees stood still dripping in the sunlight and the sidewalks were already free of snow I cracked the window and leaned down to the sill

to breathe in the air it wasn't warm exactly but I thought I could smell the sunlight in it, and it was inviting. As I dressed and combed my hair, the sunlight grew brighter, cutting into my rooms and warming my wood floors with its rays. By the time I was pulling on my shoes and thinking about an early lunch, all the morning snow was gone. And when I opened up my front door, birdsong rang from the treetops in my yard. I chuckled at March, and her changeable ways

zipped up my jacket and set out in search of something tasty. I'd been so ready to spend the day curled up at home, but now I wanted to be out in the world, enjoying the warmth, till March took another left turn. There was a cafe on the corner, built into a little brick building,

and their pots of pansies were still dusted with snow as I walked up and pulled open their door. They made excellent sandwiches and soup, and there were always a few empty tables and booths to slide into. I found one near the front window and sat down, unzipping my jacket, letting the sun shine on my face. On special, they had a roasted cauliflower sandwich with avocado and tahini sauce served on toasted marble rye with house-made chips and ginger ice tea. It had my name all over it, and after I ordered it, I sat back and watched people walking out on the street. By tonight, the winter could be back in full force, icy with fresh snow, or we may be headed into a few days of sun and warmth. I guess in some ways it didn't really matter. I could find ways to enjoy whatever came. Out like a lamb.

March is wild and ever-changing. Sweet, mild spring, one hour. A howling gale of snow and ice the next. I liked her unpredictability, how unapologetic she was when she turned on a dime and changed herself completely in an afternoon. I'd heard once that each person is a string of DNA that would take over a century to recite. So I imagine that if we feel complicated at times, like we hold zones of temperate and inclement weather within ourselves, that they sometimes overlap and emerge on their own schedule.

Well, that adds up. The morning had come in like a lion. When I'd pushed aside the curtains in my bedroom, I'd found a few inches of fresh week before around the roots of pine trees were covered with white. And while they had been beautiful, I had to admit that this snowfall was as well. It slowed me down in a real, literal way. I stopped, breathed, spent time just looking. I'd had a plan in the back of my mind to dress and head into town, to spend the morning running errands.

But suddenly, none of that sounded pressing or appealing. And if the roads were slick, it seemed a silly risk to take in order to return some library books and stand in line at the post office. No, I should stay tucked in at home, bundle up and enjoy watching the snow come down.

It hadn't really taken much time to convince myself of this. I was still standing in front of the window with the curtain in my hand. A gust of wind blew a thick wave of flakes against the panes, and I could feel the chill of it on my skin. I could get back into bed. That was always a lovely option, but I thought about another one that I rarely took but would feel so good right now.

A morning bath. Oh, a morning bath. It sets the perfect tone for a day when you don't have to rush off to anything. It says, today we are going slow. I stepped into the bathroom and opened the tap over the tub. In the cabinet, I looked through the bottles and jars. I had some Epsom salts, good for soaking when my body was achy,

as well as a jar a friend had gifted me with rose petals and grains of lavender mixed into the salts. It smelled wonderful, but last time I'd used it, I'd been picking the lavender out of my hair for a few days. Instead, I reached for a bottle of pearly bubble bath and trickled a stream of it into the steaming water. As the tub filled, I got a fresh towel and washcloth from the linen closet, my book from the bedside table, and a tall glass of water from the kitchen. It's strange what feels indulgent to you at different stages in your life. When I was younger, it wouldn't have been staying home to take a bath on a Saturday morning. But here I was. Maybe it is a gift of aging, a growing understanding of what was enough, and a capacity to enjoy it when you have it.

In that first minute in the hot water, my mind went peacefully quiet. I wasn't thinking much of anything, just feeling the heat and the relaxation in my muscles. I stretched out in the tub and closed my eyes. I could hear the wind blowing around the house, and I thought about the squirrels and rabbits digging deeper into their dens, curling around one another for warmth. I picked up my book and read.

When the water started to feel a little cool, I just turned the hot tap back on and let it run till it was piping again. I sipped water soaped up my washcloth and scrubbed and eventually felt ready to get out as I reached for my giant bath towel and wrapped it around me. I had a memory of being helped out of

the tub as a child, being wrapped in a warm towel, and how safe and happy it had made made me feel. I smiled at myself in the steamy mirror. I'd taken over that job of being the steward of my own happiness and safety. And while I hadn't been very good at it at the beginning, it had taken practice and unlearning some things along the way. I was now adept. I protected me. I was safe with me. I was happy with me. I was safe with me. I was happy with me. I pulled on a robe and stepped back into the bedroom to peer out of the window. To my surprise, the sun was shining and the wind had dropped to nothing. The trees stood still

dripping in the sunlight and the sidewalks were already free of snow. I cracked the window and leaned down to the sill to breathe in the air. It wasn't warm, exactly, but I thought I could smell the sunlight in it, and it was inviting. As I dressed and combed my hair, the sunlight grew brighter, cutting into my rooms and warming my wood floors with its rays. By the time I was pulling on my shoes and thinking about an early lunch, all the morning snow was gone. And when I opened up my front door,

birdsong rang from the treetops in my yard. I chuckled at March and her changeable ways, zipped up my jacket, and set out in search of something tasty. I'd been so ready to spend the day curled up at home, but now I wanted to be out in the world, enjoying the warmth till March took another left turn. There was a cafe on the corner built into a little brick building, and their pots of pansies were still dusted with snow as I walked up and pulled open their door. They made excellent sandwiches and soups,

and there were always a few empty tables and booths to slide into. I found one near the front window and sat down, unzipping my jacket and feeling the sunshine on my face. On special, they had a roasted cauliflower sandwich with avocado and tahini sauce, served on marble rye with house-made chips and ginger ice tea. It had my name all over it. And after I ordered it, I sat back and watched people walking on the street. By tonight, the winter could be back in full force, icy with fresh snow, or we may be headed into a few days of sun and warmth. I guess in some ways

it didn't really matter. I could find ways to enjoy whatever came. Sweet dreams.