Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Rainy Day Rituals

Episode Date: July 21, 2025

Our story tonight is called Rainy Day Rituals, and it’s a story about small tasks attended to as a storm blows through. It’s also about a fuzzy radio playing in the background, terrycloth and tidily-folded towels. Thunder and lightning, flickering lights and candle flames, and allowing yourself to do less and enjoy more. Subscribe to our Premium channel. The first month is on us. 💙 We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to The Asher House. Each year, they take in dozens of new dogs, cats and other large animals and livestock. Some of whom live out their lives on the property, while this who would do well in loving homes are adopted out. NMH merch, autographed books and more! Pay it forward subscription  Listen to our daytime show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much.  First This, Kathryn’s guided mediation podcast.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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The first month is on us. Now, I have a story to tell you. And just by listening, we'll train your brain to respond more reliably, to fall asleep, and to return to sleep quickly and easily. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to restart a story.

Our story tonight is called Rainy Day Rituals, and it's a story about small tasks attended to as a storm blows through. It's also about a fuzzy radio playing in the background, terry cloth, and tidally folded towels, thunder and lightning, flickering lights and candle flames, and allowing yourself to do less and enjoy more. So lights out, devices down. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. Relax your jaw. Soften your shoulders and feel your whole body dropping heavy into the bed. You are safe and I will be here, guarding you with my voice as you sleep.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose and release from your mouth. Do that again. Breathe in and sigh. Good. Rainy Day Rituals It was a stormy day at the cottage, and I didn't mind it. The week had been hot and humid, and I'd been soaking up as much sun as I could, wanting to store it away in my cells to tide me over in winter. But I'd also been a little worn out by it. My eyes were tired of squinting at the sun. I was tired of sweating through my t-shirts

and wanted a day to spend inside without feeling like I was missing out. Of course, we are never really missing out, just seeing other spaces, living different moments. So even before I'd opened my eyes this morning, I'd already given myself permission to spend the whole day inside. Reading books in a room with the blinds drawn or watching movies on the sofa, in a room with the blinds drawn, or watching movies on the sofa, even if it was sunny and hot out. When I'd heard the rumble of thunder and the drumming rain on the roof, well, it had made the decision all the sweeter. I tuned the dial of the radio on the porch as I sipped my coffee. Listening in for the forecast.

Pack your umbrellas, they suggested. A perfect day if you're a duck, they quipped. I chuckled to myself as I sat wrapped in my robe, watching a stream of water pour from the gutterspout. That smell of summer rain, especially when lightning was crackling through the sky, petrichor and ozone, earthy, sweet, and slightly crisp and metallic. It was refreshing, energizing. I found that my need for a day of rest was being replaced with a yen for a day of quiet, satisfying activity. I strolled over the uneven floors of the old cottage, considering what tasks might feel

rewarding, not too taxing, and those that I might especially wish I had seen to when the heat and humidity returned. There were just a few dishes in the sink, and I had them washed up and drying in the rack. The whole kitchen wiped down and returned to factory settings within a few minutes. I moved on to the bedroom where I made the bed and changed into soft terrycloth pants and a tee. Something about terrycloth always reminds me of coming in from a day swimming when I was a kid. I must have had a few matched sets back then. I'd be tired from all my cannonballs and doggy paddling, all my sprints up and down the break wall, all the sunshine I'd drunk in, and I'd so good against my sun-kissed skin. Then, nearly without fail, I'd fall asleep on the porch swing or sofa, and eventually

be woken up when dinner was ready. Oh, to be a child, sitting down at the table, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, as your plate was filled with favorite foods and knowing you could do it all again tomorrow. I smiled to myself as I hung my robe on the bathroom door, thinking that the grown-up version of that might be takeout delivered at the end of your nap. Not a bad idea for later today. I noticed a full laundry basket, heaped with clean towels and washcloths beside the dryer. Remembering that I'd emptied it before bed the night before,

but hadn't had the energy to fold and put the things away. That felt like the perfect kind of chore for me today. And I would take my time and fold them right, not just shaking them out as I stood in front of the shelf, trying to flip them into thirds. I carried the basket to the kitchen table, to the kitchen table, freshly wiped down from my quick reset, and laid the first one over the surface. Now, I've found over the years that bath towel folding can be highly personal. Many of us tend to have very strong feelings about rolled versus flat, spa style versus retail, or even just the way my dad did it versus the way your mom did. Luckily, I was queen of my own cupboard, and shape and stacking style were all up to me. I'd tried the spa rolls before, and I have to admit they were appealing. I loved the way they looked on the stool beside my tub when I'd stack one crossed over another,

as if my bathroom were about to be photographed for a magazine. But they didn't stack well in the linen cupboard. Several times I'd reached for one, the fuzzy material caught on two others and pulled them out to land in an unrolled pile on the floor. Since then, I'd gone to the retail fold, one that stacked neatly, and reminded me of the piles of new towels in a fancy shop. I folded that first towel in half widthwise, then in thirds lengthwise, and once more in half, from top to bottom, it left me with a tidy rectangle, no tag hanging out, flat and even for stacking. As I worked my way through the basket, I listened to the hum of the radio in the background, the soft hush of steady rain, and the occasional crackle of thunder.

Just as I was pulling the last towel from the basket, a bright branch of lightning, sliced through the sky. And a moment later, the lights went out around me. I stood still, held the towel in my hands, and waited. I've always found this moment, the moment when the power goes out, just a bit exciting. My stomach took a little flip, and I let myself imagine an afternoon without electricity. I'd light a few candles, reach for the book on the top of my to-be-read stack, and settle in on the porch glider. The cool, stormy air blowing through the screens, and the quiet of the street, like a balm on my nerves. I'd keep the fridge closed to preserve the cold inside, and would have no choice but to order myself my favorite meal from the

restaurant on the other side of the river, where I could see that the lights flickered and came back on, the radio buzzing back to life, and the oven giving a friendly beep as if marking its self-presence and class. We shook out the towel and laid it on the table, folding and stacking it on the others. Ah well, I thought, as I carried them to the cupboard and put them away. I can just pretend. I flicked the light switches off as I walked through the house, struck a match and lit my candle, and carried my book to the porch. Rainy Day Rituals

It was a stormy day at the cottage, and I didn't mind it. The week had been hot and humid, and I'd been soaking up as much sun as I could, wanting to store it away in my cells to tide me over in winter. But I'd also been a little worn out by it. My eyes were tired of squinting at the sun. I was tired of sweating through my t-shirts and wanted a day to spend inside without feeling like I was missing out. And of course, we are never really missing out, just seeing other spaces, living different moments. So even before I'd opened my eyes this morning, I'd already given myself permission to spend the whole day inside, reading books in a room with the blinds drawn, or watching movies on the sofa, even if it was sunny and hot out. When I'd heard the rumble Well, it had made the decision all the sweeter. I turned the dial of the radio on the porch as I sipped my coffee, listening in for the

forecast. Pack your umbrellas, they'd suggested. A perfect day if you're a duck, they quipped. I chuckled to myself as I sat wrapped in my robe, watching a stream of water pour from the gutterspout. That smell of summer rain, especially when lightning was crackling through the sky, petrichor, an ozone.

Earthy, sweet, slightly crisp and metallic. It was refreshing, energizing. And I found that my need for a day of rest was being replaced with a yen for a day of quiet, satisfying activity. I strolled over the uneven floors of the old cottage, considering what tasks might feel taxing, and those that I might especially wish I had seen to when the heat and humidity returned. There were just a few dishes in the sink, and I had them washed up and drying in the rack. The whole kitchen wiped down and returned to factory settings within a few minutes. I moved on to the bedroom where I made the bed

and changed into soft terry cloth pants and a tee. Something about terry cloth with a pair of long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, I must have had a few matched sets back then. I'd be very tired from all my cannonballs on doggy paddling, all my sprints up and down the break wall. All the sunshine I drunk in. And I'd trade my damp swimsuit for fresh, clean clothes.

A terry cloth set which would feel so good against my sun-kissed skin. Then, nearly without fail, I'd fall asleep on the porch swing or sofa and eventually be woken up when dinner was ready. Oh, to be a child, sitting down at the table, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, as your plate was filled with favorite foods, and knowing you could do it all again tomorrow. I smiled to myself as I hung my robe on the bathroom door, thinking at the end of your nap.

Not a bad idea for later today. I noticed a full laundry basket, heaped with clean towels and washcloths beside the dryer. Heaped with clean towels and washcloths beside the dryer. Remembering that I'd emptied it before bed the night before. But hadn't had the energy to fold and put the things away. That felt like the perfect kind of chore for me today. And I would take my time and fold them right. Not just shaking them out as I stood in front of the shelf, trying to flip them into thirds. I carried the basket to the kitchen table, freshly wiped down from my quick reset

and laid the first one over the surface. Now, I've found over the years that bath towel folding can be highly personal. Many of us tend to have very strong feelings about rolled versus flat, spa style versus retail, or even just the way my dad did it versus the way your mom did. Luckily, I was queen of my own cupboard, and shape and stacking style were all up to me.

I tried the spa rolls before, and I have to admit they are appealing. I loved the way they looked on the stool beside my tub when I'd stack one crossed over another as if my bathroom were about But they didn't stack well in the linen cupboard. Several times I'd reached for one, and the fuzzy material caught on two others and pulled them out to land in an unrolled pile on the floor. the retail fold, one that stacked neatly, and reminded me of the piles of new towels in a fancy shop. I folded that first towel in half widthwise, then in thirds lengthwise, and once more in half from top to bottom. It left me with a tidy rectangle, no tag hanging out, and flat, uneven for stacking. As I worked my way through the basket, I listened to the hum of the radio in the background, the soft hush of steady rain, and the occasional crackle of thunder. Just as I was pulling the last towel from the basket, a bright branch of lightning sliced through the sky. And a moment later, the lights went out around me. I stood still, held the towel in my hands,

and waited for the've always found this moment, the moment when the power goes out, Just a bit exciting. My stomach took a little candles, reach for the book on the top of my to-be-read stack, The cool stormy air blowing through the screens. And the quiet of the street like a balm on my nerves. I'd keep the fridge closed to preserve the cold inside, and would have no choice but to order myself my favorite meal from the restaurant on the other side of the river, where I could see that light's still shown. Just then, the lights flickered and came back on, the radio buzzing to life, and the oven giving a friendly beep, as if marking itself present in class.

I shook out the towel and laid it on the table, folding and stacking it on the others. Ah well, I thought, as I carried them to the cupboard and put them away, I can just pretend. I flicked the light switches off as I walked through the house, struck a match, and lit my candle, and carried my book to the porch. Sweet dreams.