Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Rain and Shine

Episode Date: June 13, 2022

Our story tonight is called “Rain and Shine” and it’s a story about a solid day’s effort in the garden followed by a long shower and dinner as the storm clouds roll in. It’s also about the way the rain sounds falling on the roof, walnuts and pumpkin seeds, and a night of excellent sleeping weather. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We are building more resources for you, not only to relax and fall asleep, but also to help you improve your focus, give you helpful habits, and create more good feeling in your day. Join me for simple 10-minute guided meditations

on my podcast, First This, available wherever you listen. And soon we'll have another show to tell you about. Stay in the loop by following us on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, or our website, nothingmuchappens.com, where you can sign up for ad-free and bonus episodes. Now, here is something very useful to understand about sleep. The most effective way to fall asleep is to stop trying to fall asleep. Instead, we need a positive distraction for your mind. That's what keeps your brain activity in your task positive network. Now, don't worry about what that means. all you need to know is that by following along

with the bedtime story and listening to the sound of my voice you will be setting yourself up for reliable, consistent sleep I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night,

rather than trying to fall asleep, shift your attention to something else. You could start the story over again, or think your way through a simple, familiar task. I promise this will get better with time. It's like flexing a muscle. Each night, your skill will improve. Now, turn out your light. Sl slip down into your sheets and feel how cool and soft they are around you get your pillow in just the right spot

and let your whole body relax whatever today was like is what it was like. And now it is over. So let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Do that again. In, in, let it go. Good.

Our story tonight is called Rain and Shine, and it's a story about a solid day's effort in the garden, followed by a long shower and dinner as the storm clouds roll in. It's also about the way the rain sounds falling on the roof, walnuts and pumpkin seeds, and a night of excellent sleeping weather. Rain and shine. The air had been thick and humid all day, and I'd managed to spend most of it in the garden, weeding and thinning out my vegetable patch. I was pruning my tomato plants this year, a technique I'd learned from a few gardener friends,

though it seemed there were as many proponents as detractors. And I realized with every snip that I was taking a risk. But that is gardening in general. It is a reckoning of how little you can control, how much is out of your hands, and planting seeds anyway, with the hope that some will grow. Along with my tomatoes,

the beans were climbing up the strings I'd tucked into place on the border fence, and the rows of lettuce were, and one tiny butternut squash that I was crossing my fingers over, hoping the deer wouldn't eat it before I could. It wasn't a big garden. I'd learned that lesson the year before I wanted to enjoy my time in it and when I made it too big it became all work and no play so this year It became all work and no play.

So this year, it was just a few rows. What I couldn't grow, I could buy from the other excellent gardeners around me. I didn't have to do everything myself. After my time working in the sun, I was pleasantly exhausted and headed in to peel off my soil-scuffed clothes and start the shower. I'd bought a big bunch of fresh eucalyptus from the market the day before, and I hung it by its twine tie from the showerhead. As the water steamed, the room filled with the scent. I stepped in and took a minute just to enjoy the feeling of the water on my skin. The eucalyptus opened my sinuses, and I closed my eyes and took deep breaths of it.

Sometimes I felt too tired for a shower, but as soon as I stepped in, I always felt better. I reached for my washcloth and started to lather up each part of myself, face and hair and body, till I was squeaky clean and refreshed. I drew shapes on the fogged-up shower door and hummed and didn't think of much till I was done and ready to step out. When I was wrapped in fresh towels, I stepped over to the window. The light had changed,

and I pushed the curtain aside to look into the yard. The bright sun was hidden by a thick layer of clouds, and when I lifted the sash I could feel that the humidity and heat had gone. A storm was coming. I was suddenly giddy for it knowing it would be just what my garden needed and would cool the house off for a good night's sleep.

I dressed in my pajamas and combed out my hair and took a moment to spread cream on my face and hands, then went from room to room to crack the windows. I kept the lights off where I didn't need them, enjoying the gloom after so much bright sun and made my way to the kitchen. Earlier, I'd soaked a big bowl of bulgur for tabbouleh. It was the perfect summer salad for hot days, as the grain could be made without turning on the stove, and it was fresh and crunchy and just needed a few ingredients. I chopped cucumbers and tomatoes and scallions, then run my knife through a bunch of parsley

and a handful of fresh mint leaves and tossed it with the bulgur in a big bowl. I squeezed lemon juice and drizzled olive oil and sprinkled salt and pepper tasting as I went until it was tart. and drizzled olive oil, and sprinkled salt and pepper, tasting as I went until it was tart and delicious. I spooned up a big portion onto a plate.

I sprinkled walnuts and pumpkin seeds on top, just because that sounded good, and carried it with a glass of iced tea out onto my screened-in porch. The rain was minutes away, and I set myself up in a comfortable chair to wait for it, chewing slowly and watching the light change. There was a sudden gust of much cooler air, and then a sprinkle, and then the rain fell in drenching currents all around me.

The sound it made on the roof, at first a pattering tattoo tattoo grew to a rushing wash, like a wave cresting on all sides. I set my plate aside and stretched out in the chair and closed my eyes and just listened to the rain. Through the screens, I could smell the water breaking into the soil, that fresh mineral scent, and imagined heading out to the gardens tomorrow in mud boots. I thought of the way the water would pool in low places, how the rabbits would find spots to drink

that hadn't been there the day before. In the field, down the slope on the far edge of the yard, was a marshy spot among the trees. It flooded easily, even after short showers, and ducks would be bathing in it by morning, flipping over in the water, splashing it under their wings

and shuffling them back together on their backs. The temperature had dropped speedily as the rain fell. It was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been when I'd first stepped onto the porch. I relished the feeling of being just a little chilled and took a throw from the arm of the chair and tossed it over my legs. As quickly as it had come, the rain moved on. I picked up my plate again and ate a few bites, wondering if the sun would poke back out. And I hoped that it wouldn't.

The break from the heat felt wonderful, and I knew if the clouds moved out, the temperature would shoot right back up. It might even be stickier than it was before, with all the fallen rain sitting on leaves and blades of grass, waiting to be absorbed back into the air. I had an old-fashioned barometer that I'd found at a tag sale, hung on the wall behind me. I remembered that it was more than a pretty piece of walnut and a polished glass case.

I turned to look at it squinting at the dial and saw that its needle was spun well away from the fair weather mark and had even dropped below rain to where stormy was painted in large copper plate letters. A moment later, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye and waited for the thunder to clap.

When it did, and the rain began lashing down again, it seemed like my cue to carry my things and myself back in, and enjoy the rest of the storm from the window seat by the kitchen table. I knew that when I tucked myself into bed and felt the cool sheets against my skin, with a hard day's work behind me and a night of rain and thunder ahead of me, I would fall right to sleep. Rain and shine. The air had been thick and humid all day, and I'd managed to spend most of it in the garden,

weeding and thinning out my vegetable patch. I was pruning my tomato plants this year. A technique I'd learned from a few gardener friends. her friends, though it seemed there were as many proponents as detractors. And I realized with every snip that I was taking a risk. But that is gardening in general. I was taking a risk. But that is gardening in general. It is a reckoning of how little you can control. How much is out of your hands. And planting seeds anyway,

with the hope that some will grow. Along with my tomatoes, the beans were climbing up the strings I'd tacked into place on the border fence, and the rows of lettuce were full and ready to pick. There were flowers on the zucchini and summer squash plants. And one tiny butternut squash that I was crossing my fingers over, hoping the deer wouldn't eat it before I could. It wasn't a big garden.

I'd learned that lesson the year before. I wanted to enjoy my time in it. And when I made it too big, it became all work and no play. So this year, it was just a few rows. What I couldn't grow I could always buy from the other excellent gardeners around me I didn't have to do everything myself

after my time working in the sun, I was pleasantly exhausted and headed in to peel off my soil-scuffed clothes and start the shower. I'd bought a big bunch of fresh eucalyptus from the market the day before, and I hung it by its twine tie from the showerhead. As the water steamed, the room filled with the scent, I stepped in and took a minute just to enjoy the feeling of the water on my skin. The eucalyptus opened my sinuses and I closed my eyes and took deep breaths of it.

Sometimes I felt too tired for a shower. But once I stepped in, I always felt better. I reached for my washcloth and started to lather up each part of myself. Face and hair and body, till I was squeaky clean and refreshed. I drew shapes on the fogged up shower door. and refreshed. I drew shapes on the fogged-up shower door and hummed and didn't think of much

till I felt done and ready to step out. When I was wrapped in fresh towels, I stepped over to the window. The light had changed, and I pushed the curtain aside to look into the yard. The bright sun was hidden

by a thick layer of clouds. And when I lifted the sash, I could feel that the humidity and heat had gone. A storm was coming. I was suddenly giddy for it, knowing it would be just what my garden needed and would cool the house off for a good night's sleep.

I dressed in my pajamas and combed out my hair and took a moment to spread cream on my face and hands, and then went from room to room to crack the windows. I kept the lights off where I didn't need them, enjoying the gloom after so much bright sun, and made Earlier, I'd soaked a big bowl of bulgur for tabbouleh. It was the perfect summer salad for hot days, as the grain could be made without turning on the stove. And it was fresh and crunchy, and just needed a few ingredients.

I'd chopped cucumbers and scallions, then run my knife through a bunch of parsley and a handful of fresh mint leaves and tossed it with the bulgur in a big bowl. I squeezed lemon juice and drizzled olive oil and sprinkled salt and pepper, tasting as I went until it was tart and delicious. I spooned up a big portion onto a plate and sprinkled walnuts and pumpkin seeds on top, just because that sounded good,

and carried it with a glass of iced tea out onto my screened-in porch. The rain was minutes away, and I set myself up in a comfortable chair to wait for it, chewing slowly and watching the light change. There was a sudden gust of much cooler air, and then a sprinkle, and then the rain fell in drenching currents all around me. The sound it made on the roof.

At first, a pattering tattoo grew to a rushing wash, like a wave cresting on all sides. I set my plate aside and stretched out in the chair and closed my eyes and just listened to the rain. Through the screens I could smell the water

breaking into the soil, that fresh mineral scent, and imagined heading out to the garden tomorrow in mud boots. I thought of the way the water would pool in low places. How the rabbits would find spots to drink that hadn't been there the day before. In the field, down the slope on the far edge of my yard was a it flooded easily even after short showers, and ducks would be bathing in it by morning, flipping over in the water, splashing it under their wings and shuffling them back together on

their backs. The temperature had dropped steadily as the rain fell. It was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been when I stepped onto the porch. I relished the feeling of being just a little chilled. I took a throw from the arm of the chair and tossed it over my legs.

As quickly as it had come, the rain moved on. I picked up my plate again and ate a few bites, wondering if the sun would poke back out. And I hoped that it wouldn't. The break from the heat felt wonderful. And I knew if the clouds moved out, the temperature would shoot right back up.

It might even be stickier than it was before, with all the fallen rain sitting on leaves and blades of grass waiting to be absorbed back into the air. I had an old-fashioned barometer that I'd found at a tag sale, hung on the wall behind me. I remembered that it was more than a pretty piece of walnut and a polished glass case. I turned to look at it, squinting at the dial, and saw that its needle was spun well away from the fair weather mark, and had even dropped below rain

to where Stormy was painted in large copperplate letters. A moment later, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye and waited for the thunder to clap. When it did, and the rain began lashing down again. It seemed like my cue to carry my things and myself back in

and enjoy the rest of the storm from the window seat by the kitchen table. I knew that when I tucked myself into bed and felt the cool sheets against my skin, with a hard day's work behind me, and a night of rain and thunder ahead of me, I would fall right to sleep. Sweet dreams.