Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Quiet Celebration (Encore)

Episode Date: February 15, 2024

Originally Aired: February 5th, 2023 (Season 11 Episode 6) Our story tonight is called Quiet Celebration, and it’s a story about softly stepping into the next year of your life. It’s also about a good dream that lingers after waking, a glass raised with best wishes and a cake decorated with orange slices and rosettes.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 Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support. Now, the best way to fall asleep is not to try. It's actually to distract your mind peacefully away from the part of yourself

that is aware you're awake. So just by listening to my voice and following along with the story, we'll sneak you into dreamland. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower on the second read-through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn me right back on, or just think through any details you can remember from the story. This is brain training, and it improves with time,

so be patient if you're new to this. Our story tonight is called Quiet Celebration, and it's a story about softly stepping in to the next year of your life. It's also about a good dream that lingers after waking, a glass raised with best wishes, and a cake decorated with orange slices and rosettes. Now, lights out, devices down. Get comfortable. Feel your limbs going heavy into the mattress.

Notice how good it is to be done for the day. Whatever today was, you're done with it now. And there's nothing left to do but rest. Take a slow breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. One more. Breathe in. Let it go. Good. Quiet celebration. When I was growing up, each birthday was so important. How did it feel to be eight, I was asked. Can you believe you're about to be ten?

All the little markers that went along with the year. The new classroom I'd move into each September. The shoes I grew out of. The pencil marks on the inside of the coat closet door. And the candles I blew out on my birthday cake. They took up a lot of space in my young mind. How did it feel? What was it like to be 11?

Maybe this is something that is generally true when we are younger. We're trying to establish what is important, so nearly everything feels like it is. Your favorite color, your favorite book, it matters to you. Then one day, someone stops asking you what your favorite color is. If you're ready to be 37. I was thinking of all of this today as it was my birthday.

And I was reflecting on how I felt about it, what I wanted to do about it. My sweet mother, when I was little, would sneak into my room on the night before each birthday and decorate it in the darkness. I would wake up to find my bed covered in balloons, streamers in a rainbow of colors,

twisted together and strung from the ceiling, and confetti spilling off the edges of my desk. One year, knowing I wanted to paint my bedroom walls, that I'd outgrown the lavender everything that I'd been obsessed with when I was smaller. She'd painted happy birthday right on the wall, and I knew it meant I would get my wish. I never stopped loving that magical feeling of waking up to the balloons and surprises on my birthday as a child.

Even when I was a teenager, and in every other way, eager to be a grown-up, to be treated as one. It never applied to my birthday. It had been a few years now since I'd started seeing my birthday a little differently. I didn't resent it, certainly not. Aging is a gift not given to everyone. And I found the older I got, the more I understood myself and loved myself.

But I also didn't feel the need for the whole world to stop and celebrate the day with me. Sometimes I made dinner for friends or was taken out for a night on the town. But when I spent it alone, I was just as happy. It felt a little more personal each year, and sometimes I wanted to celebrate in quiet, small ways. Just giving myself all the best that I could for the day. And that was what I was doing today.

I'd taken the day off and I wasn't checking anything that had to do with work. I could wait. I laid in bed for a long time. In fact, I had that rare, magical experience of waking at my usual time and feeling pretty sure that I was up, then falling back to sleep and having sweet, silly dreams for a while. And not waking again until the sun was fully risen and shining through my window. I dreamt of a dog I had years ago,

a sweet, goofy hound dog who'd howled at falling leaves and snored from the foot of my bed. As she got older, I'd carried her carefully down the stairs each day, her old legs having grown stiff and sore. But in my dream, she'd run down the stairs and raced to me. When I woke, I kept my eyes closed for a while,

just letting the memory and the feeling of it in my body swirl within me. It was like finding my room decorated all over again. a gift given to me as I slept, and I savored it, marking it as a memory to keep close. When I pushed myself up in bed, I took deep breaths and stretched my arms up over my head.

I watched the bare branches of the trees outside my window moving slightly in the breeze and listened to the clicking and creaking of my radiators. I smiled deeply, wished myself a happy birthday, and wondered what I might like to do with my day. It looked like it might be a nice morning for a walk. I liked a morning walk, even when it was cold out. I'd just bundle up tightly, put the morning light on my face a little bit of movement and fresh air

it woke me up and set me on a good path for the day as well as seeming to help me sleep better at night so a walk. What else? Well, at some point, cake. Obviously, there would be cake. In fact, I'd made a New Year's resolution this year, and I was sticking to it, that at least once a month, I'd make sure to have a very nice piece of cake.

Often, it was chocolate. Honestly, I couldn't imagine it not being chocolate, but a friend of mine had dropped off a homemade orange cake the day before. It was actually made with blood oranges, so it was rosy pink and iced with sweet white frosting and topped with candied orange slices. She'd even gotten out her piping bag and made a few rosettes to decorate the top. It was a little cake, cute as a button, and I felt so honored that she'd made it with her own two hands for me. So, a walk, and cake, and what else? I thought about it as I wrapped myself in my robe and wandered down to the kitchen.

Maybe I'd take a drive. I loved a long drive by myself with music playing and a cup of coffee in the holder, just a direction rather than a destination, seeing some place I'd never been before. That always felt like an adventure and a good way to celebrate. Maybe I'd drive into another town, find their coffee shop or a bistro with check tablecloths,

and I'd have a meal and watch the people walking on the sidewalks. If they had a bookshop, I'd stop and buy myself a whole stack of hardcovers. It was my birthday after all. I'd stay out till I felt a bit tired, cold from the chill air. And then I'd come home again with my new books and get into my softest pajamas and cut a slice of cake. I'd raise a glass of something fizzy to all the people

who were born today. All my birthday siblings in the world. And wish them a year of good things. I wasn't sure anymore what my favorite color was. And my age didn't take up very much space in my mind. But I was happy now. I felt celebrated and loved now. And those were excellent gifts.

Quiet celebration. When I was growing up, each birthday was so important how did it feel to be eight I was asked can you believe you're about to be ten all the little markers that went along with the year, the new classroom I'd move into each September,

the shoes I grew out of, the pencil marks on the inside of the coat closet door and the candles I blew out on my birthday cake. They took up a lot of space in my young mind. How did it feel? What was it like to be 11? Maybe this is something that is generally true when we are younger. We're trying to establish what is important so nearly everything feels like it is your favorite color your favorite book it matters to you.

Then, one day, someone stops asking you what your favorite color is, or if you're ready to be 37. I was thinking of all of this today as it was my birthday, and I was reflecting on how I felt about it, what I wanted to do about it.

My sweet mother, when I was little, would sneak into my room on the night before each birthday and decorate it in the darkness. I would wake up to find my bed covered in balloons, streamers in a rainbow of colors, twisted together and strung from the ceiling, and confetti spilling off the edges of my desk. One year, knowing I wanted to paint my bedroom walls, that I'd outgrown the lavender everything that I'd been obsessed with when I was younger.

She'd painted happy birthday right on the wall, and I knew it meant I would get my wish. I never stopped loving that magical feeling of waking up to the balloons and surprises on my birthday. even when I was a teenager and in every other way eager to be a grown-up to be treated as one it never applied to my birthday it had been a few years now since I'd started seeing my birthday a little differently.

I didn't resent it, certainly not. Aging is a gift not given to everyone. And I found the older I got, the more I understood myself and loved myself. But I also didn't feel the need for the whole world to stop and celebrate the day with me. Sometimes I made dinner for friends or was taken out for a night on the town.

But when I spent it alone, I was just as happy. It felt a little more personal each year. And sometimes I wanted to celebrate in quiet, small ways, just giving myself all the best that I could for the day. And that was what I was doing today. I'd taken the day off, and I wasn't checking anything that had to do with work. It could wait.

I laid in bed for a long time. In fact, I had that rare magical experience of waking at my usual time and feeling pretty then falling back to sleep and having sweet, silly dreams for a while and not waking again until the sun had fully risen and was shining through my window. I'd dreamt of a dog I'd had years ago, a sweet, goofy hound dog who'd howled at falling leaves

and snored from the foot of my bed. As she got older, I'd carried her carefully down the stairs each day, her old legs having grown stiff and sore. But in my dream, she'd run down the stairs and raced to me. When I woke, I kept my eyes closed for a while, just letting the memory and the feeling of it and my body swirl within me.

It was like finding my room decorated all over again, a gift given to me as I slept, and I savored it, marking it as a memory to keep close. When I pushed myself up in bed, I took deep breaths and stretched my arms up over my head. I watched the bare branches of trees outside my window, moving slightly in the breeze, and listened to the clicking and creaking of my radiators. I smiled sleepily, wished myself a happy birthday, and wondered what I might like to do with my day. It looked like it might be a nice morning for a walk.

I liked a morning walk, even when it was cold out. I'd just bundle up tightly. But the morning light on my face, a little bit of movement and fresh air, it woke me up. And it set me on a good path for the day, as well as seeming to help me sleep better at night. So, a walk. What else?

Well, at some point, cake. Obviously, there would be cake. In fact, I'd made a New Year's resolution this year, and I was sticking to it. That at least once a month, I'd make sure to have a very nice piece of cake. Often, it was chocolate. Honestly, I couldn't imagine it not being chocolate. But a friend of mine had dropped off a homemade orange cake the day before. It was actually made with blood oranges. So it was rosy pink and iced with sweet white frosting

and topped with candied orange slices. She'd even gotten out her piping bag and made a few rosettes to decorate the top. It was a little cake, cute as a button, and I felt so honored that she'd made it with her own two hands for me. So, a walk, and cake, and what else?

I thought about it as I wrapped myself in my robe and wandered down to the kitchen. Maybe I'd take a drive. I loved a long drive by myself, with music playing and a cup of coffee in the holder. Just a direction rather than a destination. Seeing someplace I'd never been before, that always felt like an adventure

and a good way to celebrate. Maybe I'd drive into another town, find their coffee shop or bistro with checked tablecloths, and I'd have a meal and watch the people walking on the sidewalks. If they had a bookshop, I'd stop and buy myself a whole stack of hardcovers. It was my birthday, after all. I'd stay out till I felt a bit tired,

cold from the chill air, and then I'd come home again with my new books and get into my softest pajamas and cut a slice of cake. I'd raise a glass of something fizzy to all the people who were born today, all my birthday siblings in the world, and wish them a year of good things. I wasn't sure anymore what my favorite color was.

And my age didn't take up very much space in my mind. But I was happy now. I felt celebrated and loved now. And those were excellent gifts. Sweet dreams.