Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Rain on the Lake

Episode Date: March 24, 2025

Our story tonight is called Rain on the Lake, and it’s a story about a sudden arrival of drops and dark clouds on a spring afternoon. It’s also about a broach in a jewelry box, the smell of rain mixing with lake water, mist, and lamps lit in the darkness, memories of rainbows and rowboats, and taking rest as showers move across the horizon. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to United 24, which works to Unite the world around supporting Ukraine in an effort to protect, save, and rebuild. Visit moonbird.life/nothingmuchhappens to save 20% Right now, Nothing Much Happens listeners can save 30% on their first order! Just head to cornbreadhemp.com/NOTHINGMUCH and use code NOTHINGMUCH at checkout. Visit our partner page to learn about the products featured in our ads. NMH merch, autographed books and more! 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 this link. Listen to our daytime show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear, and nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to United24, which works to unite the world around supporting Ukraine in an effort to protect, save, and

rebuild. You can learn more in our show notes. Thanks to some recent Premium subscribers. Thank you, Aidan. Thank you, Karna. Kyle and Mary, thank you. Your support means so much to us. As always, you can subscribe to our premium for ad-free and bonus episodes. It's super affordable. It's literally about a dime a day. And the links are in our show notes.

I have a story to tell you. It is a soft place to rest your mind. And just by listening, you'll condition a reliable response in your nervous system to fall asleep and return to sleep easily. This is a form of brain training, so be patient if you are new to this. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again later in the night, think back through any part of the story you can remember, or just push play again. Our story tonight is called Rain on the Lake, and it's a story about a sudden arrival of drops

and dark clouds on a spring afternoon. It's also about a brooch in a jewelry box, the smell of rain mixing with lake water, mist and lamps lit in the darkness, memories of rainbows and rowboats, and taking rest as showers move across the horizon. I was a full-time yoga teacher for over 20 years, and I know the power of intentional breathing. It's why our two deep breaths have been part of our bedtime routine since episode one. And that's why I want to introduce you to Moonbird. Moonbird is a handheld breathing device designed to comfortably fit in the palm of your hand. When you shake it, it will start inflating and deflating.

So in your hand, it will start inflating and deflating. So in your hand it will feel like you're holding a little bird that is breathing in and out. The only thing you need to do is breathe along with it. When moon bird inflates you breathe in, when moon bird deflates you breathe out. So you breathe in. When moon bird deflates, you breathe out. Simple, intuitive, it takes all the effort and thinking out of your breathing exercises. It's the perfect companion to your bedtime ritual. Or use it when you're meditating,

when you're stuck in traffic, anytime you need an assist and feeling calm and focused. Listen, I know how to breathe to feel better, but still I use Moonbird. Because when my mind is racing or wandering, I need a little guidance and it makes my deep breathing more effective. So when you wake in the middle of the night,

don't reach for your phone unless it's to restart your bedtime story. That's fine. Reach for Moonbird. Visit moonbird.life slash nothing much happens to save 20%. We've got it linked in our show notes. I'm not as young as I once was, but I care a lot about maintaining my physical and mental wellness.

Cornbread Hemp's CBD gummies are a huge piece of my wellness plan. In fact, I've already reordered several of their products on my own dime. They are that good. And I've gifted two of their Peppermint and Arnica CBD balms to friends who tell me how much it has helped them too. Their gummies are formulated to help relieve discomfort, stress, and sleeplessness. And right now, Nothing Much Happens listeners

can save 30% on their first order. Just head to cornbreadhemp.com slash nothing much and use code nothing much at checkout. That's cornbreadhemp.com slash nothing much and use code nothing much. Now, lights out campers, it's time. Snuggle down and get as comfortable as you can. Tuck yourself in with care. You as much as any other soul in the universe deserve rest and relaxation to feel safe and cared for. So let my voice be a sort of guardian. My stories will watch over you as you sleep. Take a slow breath in through your nose and let it out.

Do one more. Breathe in and release it. Good. Rain on the lake. I thought all I wanted was sunshine. After a long monochrome winter, the ice and snow and sky all mirroring each other. I thought I only wanted to see bright golden sunbeams and velvety green yards and bluebirds. But when I heard the rain falling on the roof this afternoon and felt the clouds closing in, I softened, relaxing in a way I hadn't lately. I'd been pottering around the house, following one small chore to another. A sweater laid over the back of a dining room chair led me up to the closet, where I'd started to sort through a jewelry box. I'd found a broken brooch

and a watch in need of a new battery. They'd led me back downstairs to stash them in my purse in the hopes I'd remember to take them to the repair shop on my next trip into town. In the kitchen, I tipped the dregs of the last pot of coffee down the drain and rinsed the graph, then wandered into the living room with a dust cloth to wipe down the bookshelf and framed photos on the mantle. I walked over to the window with a frame and a cloth still in hand and looked down toward the lake. The bright colors of spring were shaded over by thick clouds, but rather than dimming my mood, it felt like a relief, like a cool cloth over tired eyes. More than a sprinkle, not quite a storm. A solid shower was spreading over the lake. I became mesmerized, watching the surface of the water ripple and shimmer as it came

down. I remembered swimming in the rain as a kid on days that had started out as hot and sunny when a sudden shift of clouds would block out the bright day when raindrops fell all around me. One summer we'd had a little inflatable boat, just big enough for me and my friend from down the street to fit into. We'd paddle around in the shallow water, pretending to be explorers, adventurers discovering unknown species of fish and fowl. On days that the rain came, we'd bail out of the boat and flip it over. We'd swim under it, our heads poking up into the bubble of air trapped beneath the inverted

seats. Our voices echoed funnily in the small space, and we'd been full of jokes that only made sense to us. The sound of the rain on the keel made me feel cozy and safe, even while we stood chest-deep in water. At some point, a parent would begin beckoning us out of the lake, telling us to come wrap up in a towel and wait for the rain to pass over.

But by then, the water felt warmer than the air, and we'd stall and weasel a few more minutes into the deal. If the weather changed quickly, a rainbow might spread across the sky. Something that seemed so much like magic, I'd stare at it with a bit of skepticism, as if it were a joke that would be revealed as such at some point. All of these thoughts had passed through my head in a few seconds, watching the rainfall on the lake. I found I wanted to get closer, to feel the air, to smell the lake as the drops came down. And I stepped out onto the back porch in my slippers. It was screened in and had just recently had its spring cleaning. The wicker chairs and tables were wiped down and the cushions laundered and plumped.

I realized I still held the photo and cloth from my dusting and set them on a table and went close to the screens. A fine mist of water landed on my glasses and cheeks when I laughed. I pulled my glasses from my face and wiped the lenses on my shirt, but stayed close to the screens, liking the cool touch of the rain and the scent of the lake. I could smell moss and waterlogged tree trunks. In the distance the sky was even darker, and I thought this shower might actually become a storm, that lightning and thunder might literally be on the horizon. I wasn't cold, not yet at least, and I walked along the length of the porch, peering closely at

the flower beds, drinking up all this good water, then into the reedy line at at the edge of the lake, where I spotted a long-legged egret, bright white, against the green and gray of the water. What was the experience of a bird or a fish on a day like today. If you have ever seen a horse running unrestrained on a beach, then you know the joy that animals can take in movement. And I wondered what it might be like to soar near a rainbow or to swim just below the surface as gentle rain fell. The sound of the rain rushing down suddenly doubled, and a gust of cooler wind raced through the screens. All right then, I thought. Enough. I'll go back in.

I picked up the frame and my dust cloth and stepped back into the house, pulling the door to the porch tightly behind me. I remembered a window open in a room on the second floor and rushed up the stairs to nudge it closed. Small puddles lay on the sill, and I used my cloth to mop them up. On the way back down, I switched on a few lamps. I liked the gloom that the storm had brought, but I also liked a bit of glow here and there. I think I was revisiting that feeling of being under the boat in the rain, a little pocket of a different kind of feeling in a sea of something bigger. I dropped my now damp dust cloth down the laundry chute and set the photo on the mantle. If I tried, I knew I could come up with more tasks to attend to. But

just now, the sound of the rain, the blotted out sun, the flash of lightning on the far edge of the lake. They all seemed to beckon me to my favorite spot on the sofa. I tossed a long blanket over me as I stretched out, turning onto one side and pulling a throw pillow under my head. I'd wondered about the joy of animals and movement, and now I thought of them at rest. A scurry of squirrels cuddled together in the knot of a tree. Otter cubs napping on the bellies of their parents. All of us, letting the rain fall around us as we slept. Rain on the lake. I thought all I wanted was sunshine. After a long monochrome winter, the ice and snow and sky all mirroring each other. I thought I only wanted rain falling on the roof this afternoon and felt the clouds closing in, I softened, relaxing in a way I hadn't lately. I'd been pottering around the house, following one small chore

to another. A sweater laid over the back of a dining room chair led me up into the closet, where I'd started to sort through a jewelry box. I'd found a broken brooch I'd found a broken brooch and a watch in need of a new battery. They'd led me back downstairs to stash them in my purse in the hopes I'd remembered to take them to the repair shop on my next trip into town. In the kitchen, I'd tipped the dregs of the last pot of coffee down the drain and rinsed the carafe, then wandered into the living room with a dust cloth to wipe down the bookshelf and framed photos on the mantle. That's when the light began to change and the rain sounded on the roof. I walked over to the window with a frame and the cloth still in hand and looked down toward

the lake. The bright colors of spring were shaded over by thick clouds, but rather than dimming my mood, it felt like a relief, like a cool cloth over tired eyes. More than a sprinkle, not A solid shower was spreading over the lake, and I became mesmerized, watching the surface of the water ripple and shimmer as it came down. I remembered swimming in the rain as a kid, on days that had started out as hot and sunny, when a sudden shift of clouds would block out the bright day and raindrops fell all around me. One summer we'd had a little inflatable boat just big enough for me and my friend from down the street to fit into. We'd paddle around in the shallow water, pretending to be explorers, adventurers, discovering unknown species of fish and fowl.

On days that the rain came, we'd bail out of the boat and flip it over and swim under it, our heads poking up into the bubble of air trapped beneath the inverted seats. Our voices echoed funnily in the small space, and we'd been full of jokes that only made sense to us. The sound of rain on the keel made me feel cozy and safe, even while we stood chest-deep in the water. At some point a parent would begin beckoning us out of the lake. Telling us to come, wrap up in a towel, wait for the rain to pass over. But by then, the water felt warmer than the air, and we'd stall and weasel a few more minutes into the deal.

If the weather changed quickly, a rainbow might spread across the sky, something that had seemed so much like magic. I'd stare at it with a bit of skepticism, as if it were a joke that would be revealed as such at some point. All of these thoughts had passed through my head in just a few seconds, as I watched the rain fall on the lake, I found I wanted to get closer, to feel the air, to smell the lake as the drops came down, and I stepped out onto the back porch in my slippers. It was screened in and had just recently had its spring cleaning. The wicker chairs and tables were wiped down, and the cushions laundered and plumped. I realized I still held the photo and cloth from my dusting and set them on a table, and went close to the screens. A fine mist of water landed on my glasses and cheeks, and I laughed. I pulled my glasses from my face and wiped the lenses on my shirt, but stayed close to the screens, liking the cool touch of the rain and the scent of the lake. I could smell moss and waterlogged tree trunks.

In the distance, the sky was even darker. And I thought this shower might actually become a storm. That lightning and thunder might literally be on the horizon. I wasn't cold, not yet at least, and I walked along the length of the porch, peering closely at the flower beds, drinking up all this good water, then into the reedy line at the edge of the lake, where I spotted a long-legged egret, where I spotted a long-legged egret, bright white against the green and gray of the water. What was the experience of a bird or a fish on a day like today. If you have ever seen a horse running unrestrained

on a beach, then you know the joy that animals can take in movement. When I wondered what it might be like to soar near a rainbow or swim as gentle rain fell. The sound of the rain rushing down suddenly doubled, and a gust of cooler wind raced through the screens. All right then, I thought, Enough. I'll go back in. I picked up the frame and the dust cloth and stepped back into the house, pulling the door to the porch tightly behind me. I remembered a window open on the second floor and rushed up the stairs to nudge it closed.

Small puddles lay on the sill and I used my cloth to mop them up. On the way back down, I switched on a few lamps glow here and there. I think I was revisiting that feeling of being under the boat, in the rain, a little pocket of a different kind of feeling in a sea of something bigger. I dropped my now damp dust cloth down the laundry chute and set the photo on the mantle. If I tried, I knew I could come up with more tasks to attend to. But just now, the sound of the rain, the blotted out sun.

The flash of lightning on the far edge of the lake. They all seemed to beckon me to my favorite spot on the sofa. I tossed a long blanket over me as I stretched out, turning onto one side and pulling a throw pillow under my head. I'd wondered about the joy of animals in movement, and now I thought of them at rest. A scurry of squirrels cuddled together in the knot of a tree. Otter cubs napping on the bellies of their parents. All of us letting the rain fall around us as we slept. Sweet dreams.