Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Paddling on the Canal (Encore)

Episode Date: June 4, 2026

Originally Aired: June 24th, 2024 (Season 14, Episode 7) Our story tonight is called Paddling on the Canal, and it’s a story about a quiet morning on the lake. It’s also about dragonflies and water lilies, weeping willows along the shore, a bell ringing from the back porch of the inn, and a connection point felt with people around the world. Subscribe to our Premium channel. The first month is on us. 💙 Sign-Up for our Newsletter HERE to be in the know! Pre-order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠here⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠! ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠NMH merch, autographed books, and more⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ for more Village fun! Stop by the Cabin with this playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Hi, I'm Catherine Nikolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories, about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up,

or when you want a little escape that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the village of Nothing Much, wherever you listen. Welcome. to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.

Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. For years now, we've met each other in the village through stories. and now for the first time, the village is becoming a real place. But Nothing Much Happens Community App is opening soon with new ways to listen. Wind down practices, community projects, live events, and a cozy gathering place for villagers from around the world. Pre-registration is open now. Founding members will receive exclusive launch pricing, and the first 50 people to pre-register will receive a limited edition weighted pillow.

You can join the waitlist at village. Nothingmuch.com or find the link in today's show notes. We can't wait to welcome you into the Village of Nothing Much. Now, here's how this works. I'll read you a bedtime story. It's soft and soothing, and not much happens in it. Just by listening will shift your wandering mind onto a steady track where it will be rocked to sleep.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on. And if you are new to this, have some patience. Habit building takes time. Our story tonight is called paddling on the canal. And it's a story about a quiet morning on the lake.

It's also about dragonflies and water lilies, weeping willows along the shore, a bell ringing from the back porch of the inn, and a connection point felt with people around the world. Now, get yourself all tucked in. Even if you are a grown-up, you still deserve to feel safe and snug and cared for as you settle in for bed. So take a second. Get as comfortable as you can.

Let your jaw soften, your shoulders, and neck relax. All is well now. The day is done. Nothing more is needed from you. Truly, let the day slip from your fingers. Let them rest. Better to grasp tomorrow. Take a deep breath in through your nose.

Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in and out. Good. Paddling on the canal. I sat at the mouth. the end of the dock, my legs dangling off the edge and looked out at the water. It was still today,

flat and reflective as a mirror. On the far side of the lake, in the top branches of a tall pine, I could make out the profile of a bird, an eagle in the middle of a tree, an eagle in the top branches of a tall pine, I could make out the profile of a bird, an eagle, in fact, the sparrows that flitted around the shrubs at my front door, were somewhat anonymous to me, unless one had a particular unique feature. I'd never be able to tell one from another, but once I'd learn to spot this eagle, to find his shape, Among the brown and green, I knew him.

I guessed that to him, I was like the sparrows. Just another human, up to human business. Indistinguishable from the others. But that didn't bother me. Sometimes it is quite relaxing to be anonymous. seen but not wondered about. I watched the eagle turn his head into the wind, just a breeze down here, but undoubtedly stronger up high in the branches,

then spread his wings and push off how good that must feel. To soar and be wrapped in air, I appreciated the breeze. however slight. It was a warm day. The Katie dids and crickets were noisy in the grass, and I was glad to be close to the water. Usually, I'd have been dipping my toes in here at the end of the dock, but between my souls and the lake was the firm surface of my paddleboard. After a first of my paddleboard, after a few funny but very wet attempts at getting on it. I had learned this useful approach. I eased it around with my paddle until it floated directly beneath the dock,

the front half of it sticking out toward the lake, and then I'd shift my weight onto my feet. and slowly stand, knowing I could always sit right back down on the warm wooden boards, if needed. Today, balance was with me, and I pulled along my oar as I gained my feet, slowly paddled away from the shore. on the weekends, on holidays. The lake can be busy, boats everywhere. Kids on floaties and music pouring from the speakers on each deck. But this, Wednesday morning at 10 o'clock, was perfect.

I had the lake practically to myself, besides a yellow lab, whose owner was patiently throwing his toy out into the water, so that the dog could take leap after leap to fetch it. And some geese and swans, far out in the center. I was alone. I liked to look down as I paddled and watch the shelf of sand. shift under me, till I got far enough out that the deeper water lost its clarity. When I switched hands and crossed the paddle over the board, drips of the fresh lake water

landed on the tops of my feet. It felt cool, but not cold. Sunny days and warm nights were bringing the water temperature up slowly, but surely. I paddled around a cove where the water was shallow, and a patch of lily pads grew. I was careful not to disturb them, but slowed enough to really look at the three or four blooming flowers. They were pink and white, with rows and rows of overlaug, of overlaught, and a bright yellow center full of pollen. Water lilies felt like they belonged in the same category as rainbows and the aurora borealis. Natural, yes, of this world certainly, but just a bit too special. To seem real, they seemed straight out of a fairy tale. And as I paddled past, and noticed a frog resting on one of the pads, his throat puffed up like bubblegum about to pop. I thought I'd better

not lean down and ask for a kiss. I wasn't sure my board could hold two. I paddled. I paddled across the lake, taking a minute or two in the center. To just stand to stop propelling myself forward and draw deep breaths of air down into the bottoms of my lungs. Though spring was over, there was still a sweetness in the air, fresh paddles, and that clean rain scent that came from the lake. The mirror-like surface of the water was just beginning to ripple as the breeze picked up, and I turned the board back toward the shore. I wasn't quite ready to be done yet,

but I had an idea, a little adventure. I hadn't taken in a while. That appealed to me. There is a long, winding canal that connects our lake to a smaller one, just south of ours. The canal cuts through backyard, and in places passes through shady wooded lots and circles around a tiny island the size of a school bus. I liked to take a trip through it at least once a year.

And hadn't done it yet this summer, so off I paddled to find the small ingress to it. just past the dock where the yellow lab had been diving and fetching, and was now stretched out in the sun, letting his thick fur dry. I turned into the canal across the lake. At the inn, I spotted a couple of rowboats casting off, leisure-minded vacation often took the boats out for a slow row. And I chuckled, remembering how I'd bumped into one, literally a few days before.

He'd gotten dozy in the sunshine and tucked his oars into the boat, set his straw hat over his eyes and stretched out on the bench, I'd been trying to steer around him when the wind shifted, and my board bumped against his prow. He'd lifted the corner of his hat and squinted at me. I'd chuckled a bit as he yawned and blinked,

looking around to see how far he'd drifted. He asked me if I'd heard the bell ring at the inn yet. It was wrung on the porch. watch, reliably every day at 5 p.m., announcing cocktail hour, and could be heard echoing across the lake. When I told him it hadn't told for him yet, he thanked me, laid back down, and replaced his hat. I chuckled again as I paddled down the canal, wondering how long he'd slept, and if he'd made it to the inn, before all the sandwiches and spritzes were gone, the canal was shady.

It seemed almost dark after being on the open water, tall willows. There are leafy trellises drooping into the water, lined either side, making a canopy of thick leaves, and I noticed more birdsong as I went deeper in, on a few back porches. I spotted folks sitting out, enjoying the day, and between strokes of the oar, I raised a hand to wave. The canal curved, and I followed it. I imagined myself an explorer,

finding a path through an unknown land. There were dragonflies skimming over the surface of the canal, and when they passed through a patch of sunlight, their iridescent blue bodies shimmered, I wondered if anyone else in the world was seeing or feeling what I was in this moment. A club of canal paddlers on waters up and down the continents, watching pretty winged insects, and listening to a breeze, ruffling through leaves, looking forward to a swim, soon and a nap as the day got warmer. I like that idea of a club of humans scattered over the globe, their membership being a few minutes of similar experience. I switched my oar to the other side. I kept paddling. Paddling on the canal. I said,

at the end of the dock. My legs dangling off the edge and looked out at the water. It was still today. Flat. Unreflective as a mirror on the far side of the lake in the top branches of a tall pine.

I could make out the profile of a bird, an eagle, in fact. the sparrows that flitted around the shrubs at my front door, were somewhat anonymous to me, unless one had a particular unique feature. I'd never be able to tell one from another. But once I'd learned to spot this eagle, to find his shape among the brown and green,

I knew him. I guessed that to him I was like the sparrows, just another human, up to human business, indistinguishable from the others. But that didn't bother me. Sometimes it is quite relaxing to be anonymous. Seen but not wondered about. I watched the eagle. turn his head into the wind, a breeze down here, but undoubtedly stronger, up high in the branches, then spread his wings and push off into the air. How good that must feel. To soar and be wrapped in air. I appreciate the breeze, however slight. It was a warm day. The Katie dids and crickets were noisy in the grass, and I was glad to be close to the water. Usually I'd have been dipping my toes in here at the end of the dock, But between my souls and the lake was the firm surface of my paddleboard.

After a few funny but very wet attempts at getting onto it, I'd learned this useful approach. I eased the board around with my paddle, until it floated directly beneath the dock, the front half of it sticking out toward the leg. And then I'd shift my weight onto my feet and slowly stand, knowing I could always sit right back down on the warm wooden boards if needed.

Today, balance was with me, and I pulled along my oar as I gained my feet and slowly paddled away from shore. On the weekends, on holidays, the lake can be busy. Boats everywhere, kids on floaties, and music pouring from speed. beakers on each deck. But this, Wednesday morning at 10 o'clock, was perfect. I had the lake practically to myself, besides a yellow lab whose owner was patiently throwing his toy out into the water, so that the dog could take leap after leap to fetch it, and some geese and swans far out in the center. I was alone. I liked to look down as I paddled and watch the shelf of sand shift under me till I got far enough out that the deeper water lost its clarity when I switched hands and crossed the paddle

over the board drips of fresh lake water landed on the tops of my feet. It felt cool, but not cold, sunny days and warm nights were bringing the water temperature up slowly but surely. I paddled around a cove where the water was shallow and a patch of lily pads grew. I was careful not to disturb them, but slowed enough to really love. look at the three or four blooming flowers. They were pink and white with rose and rose of overlapping petals and a bright yellow center full of pollen. Water lilies felt like they belonged in the same category as rainbows, and the aurora borealis. Natural, yes, of this world, certainly, but just a bit too special to seem real. They seemed straight out of a fairy tale, and as I paddled past, and noticed a frog resting,

on one of the pads, his throat puffed up like bubblegum about to pop. I thought I better not lean down and ask for a kiss. I wasn't sure my board could hold two. I paddled across the lake, taking a minute or two in the center to just stand, to stop, propelling myself forward and draw deep breaths of air down into the bottoms of my lungs. Though spring was over, there was still a sweetness in the air, fresh petals. And that clean rain scent that came from the lake, the mere like surface of the wall. was just beginning to ripple as the breeze picked up, and I turned my board back toward the shore.

I wasn't quite ready to be done yet, but I had an idea, a little adventure. I hadn't taken in a while that appealed to me. There is a long, winding canal that connects our lake to a smaller one, just south of ours. The canal cuts through backyards and in places passes through shady, wooded lots, and circles around a tiny island, the size of a school bus. I liked to take a trip through it at least once a year and hadn't done it yet this summer. So off I paddled to find the small ingress to it. Just past the dock where the yellow lab had been diving and fetching and was now stretched out in the sun.

letting his thick fur dry. I turned into the canal, across the lake, at the inn. I spotted a couple of rowboats casting off. Leisure-minded vacationers often took the boats out for a slow row. And I chuckled, remembering how I'd bumped into one, literally, a few days before. He'd gotten dozy in the sunshine and tucked his oars into the boat, set his straw hat over his eyes and stretched out on the bench.

I'd been trying to steer around him when the wind shifted. and my board bumped against his prow. He'd lifted the corner of his hat and squinted at me. I'd chuckled a bit as he yawned and blinked, looking around to see how far he'd drifted. He asked me if I'd heard the bell rang at the inn yet. It was wrung on the porch, reliably every day at 5 p.m., announcing cocktail hour, and could be heard echoing across the lake.

When I told him, it hadn't yet told for him. He thanked me, laid back down and replaced his hat. I chuckled again as I paddled down the canal, wondering how long he'd slept, and if he'd made it to the inn before the sandwiches and spritzes were all gone. The canal was shady, but seemed almost dark. After being on the open water, tall willows. There are leafy trellises drooping into the water, lined either side, making a canopy of thick leaves, and I noticed more birdsong as I went deeper in.

On a few back porches, I spotted folks sitting out, enjoying the day. And between strokes of the oar, I raised a hand to wave. The canal curved, and I followed it. I imagined myself an explorer, finding a path through an unknown land. There were dragonflies skimming over the surface of the canal, and when they passed through a patch of sunlight,

their iridescent blue bodies shimmered. I wondered if anyone else in the world was seeing or feeling what I was at the moment. A club of canal paddlers on waters up and down the content. watching pretty winged insects and listening to a breeze ruffling through leaves. Looking forward to a swim soon and a nap as the day got warmer. I liked that idea of a club of humans scattered over the globe, their membership being

a few minutes of similar experience. I switched my oar to the other side. I'm kept paddling. Sweet dreams.