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

Episode Date: August 29, 2024

Originally Aired: August 20th, 2023 (Season 12, Episode 12) Our story tonight is called Retreat, and it’s a story about some time spent somewhere quiet and calm. It’s also about paths through a pine forest, the soft experience of living moment to moment and a butterfly finding jasmine as she flits among plants deep in the woods.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, 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. all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now, some listeners fall asleep the very first time they use the podcast, within minutes. But if that doesn't turn out to be you, be patient. We're doing some brain training here, and it may take a few exposures to get the desired result. Relax. Enjoy. Just listen to the sound of my voice.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. By listening, you're switching some brain activity, moving you out of default mode and putting you into task positive mode, and that is where you will easily and peacefully drift to sleep. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to just start the story over again. Our story tonight is called Retreat, and it's a story about some time spent somewhere quiet and calm. It's also about paths through a pine forest,

the soft experience of living moment to moment, and a butterfly finding Jasmine as she flits among plants deep in the woods. Okay, it's time. Get as comfortable as you can. Switch off your light. Set down your device. Get the right pillow

in the right spot and let everything relax the day is done for good or for bad it's over now and nothing is needed from you you can let go and nothing is needed from you. You can let go.

Take a deep breath in through your nose, and sigh from your mouth. Again, breathe in, and out. Good. Retreat. Good. Waking up here is just different. There are no cars rumbling by.

No honking horns or music playing from speakers. The only sounds are birds and cicadas and the occasional screen door slamming in the distance. There isn't an alarm clock in my cabin, and sated with rest, nudging me gently to the surface. When I do blink my eyes open, I watch the light change through the windows for a while. My eyes feel brand new here. I don't remember how I heard about this place. A friend of a friend must have mentioned it years ago.

And it stayed, filed away in the back of my mind, waiting for me to stumble upon it again. Then, a month or so ago, I'd been sipping water after a yoga class, and that sort of peaceful haze that follows a good practice and a long shavasana. When I noticed a flyer pinned to the studio studio bulletin board. The word on the top caught my attention. Retreat, it said. Years ago, a friend had said something about how natural it is, just as a human, to go through periods where you are more active and involved in society and the world, and then to go it had struck me. I'd felt like permission to follow the ebb and flow. Step out, and then retreat. And I had been on formal retreats before.

A weekend here, a few days there. And once, when I was a good bit younger, a full ten days in meditative silence. Those had all been useful experiences for me, but I found what I'd been craving lately was something more self-directed. All I needed, really, was a place to go where there was quiet and space. And that was just what the flyer was offering. Cabins in the woods, tall pines, hiking paths and walking trails, a lake with a stretch of sandy shore.

Come for a week, the flyer suggested. Bring your journal and your meditation cushion and enjoy the quiet. I recognized the name of the place from the mention of it I'd heard years before. It felt like more than a happy coincidence. I tore a number off the flyer and tucked it into my pocket.

And now I was here, halfway through my week of retreat. I had a small cabin, but it was all I needed. A tidy, simple bathroom. A large, soft bed I'd been sleeping wonderfully in. And a small kitchenette where I cooked my meals. My favorite spot, though, was the tiny front porch with its single chair. I'd spent a good bit of time out there so far, watching gray squirrels climbing tree trunks and jumping casually through the branches. There were about a dozen cabins, like mine, scattered through the pines, though each one was set back far enough from the paths

that they felt totally private. You might see someone out on a walk or on your way to the lake. But as we were all here for the same purpose, to retreat, we just gave one another a small wave or a smile and let each other be. It had been so long that I'd gone any amount of time

without talking. At first, it had felt a bit uncomfortable. I'd found myself overthinking those little interactions. Was something more expected of me? Should I find something clever or comforting to say to my fellow retreaters. Luckily, I'd realized fairly quickly that nothing was expected of me, that I'd just carried some of my worries from out there in here. instead I tried observing the impulse to do, to speak,

to be perceived in a certain way with curiosity and compassion instead of reacting to it. By now, day four, was it? Maybe it was day five? I wasn't sure. The quiet felt restorative, uncomfortable. I felt like freedom, to just be without needing to produce anything with my time,

besides the enjoyment of my own peaceful company. I was ready for my morning cup of tea, so I slid out of bed and took a few moments to breathe deeper and stretch. Nothing fancy. I just reached my arms up over my head and made my spine long. I rolled my head around and felt my neck pop and release, then pressed my hands to my lower back and stretched my chest open. In the kitchenette, I filled the kettle and set it on the flame. In the cupboard, there was one plate, one cup, one bowl. In the drawer, one set of silverware.

And I liked that. A small reminder to keep to myself and to wash up and set my little space in order whenever I finished a meal. I took the cup down and fished a teabag from a box on the counter. This variety was a jasmine-green tea blend, and when the kettle whistled, I poured the boiling water into the cup and watched the color spread. Right away, I could smell the jasmine, an intoxicating sweet floral scent that felt luxurious and decadent, though the flavor was simpler. I took my cup out to the porch and sat on the chair. Around the porch steps were lavender and butterfly bushes. And as I sipped, I saw a monarch fluttering around the blooms.

I set my cup down on the wide armrest of the chair and stared at her. She seemed to move in no particular pattern, resting on a stem, then flying one way and doubling back in another. Me too, I whispered to her with a smile on my face. Not having a clear path felt like an adventure to me now, not a cause for worry. The butterfly circled through the air and came closer and closer to me. I was mesmerized. She was so beautiful. She must have smelled the jasmine in my cup Because she came to land on its rim

And I watched her antennae Roving like satellites Picking up the scents I remembered reading once That monarchs taste Through sense structures in their feet, and I watched her flip down to where a drop of tea had fallen on the armrest. We were sharing a cup of tea, her and I. I made no plans for later.

I forgot everything that came before. Now is happening now, I thought. Enjoy it. Retreat. Waking up here is just, it's different. There are no cars rumbling by, No honking horns or music playing from speakers. The only sounds are birds and cicadas and the occasional screen door slamming far in the distance. There isn't an alarm clock in my cabin, and even if there rest, nudging me gently to the surface. When I do blink my eyes open, I watch the light change through the windows for a while. My eyes feel brand new here.

I don't remember how I heard about this place. A friend of a friend must have mentioned it years ago, and it stayed, filed away in the back of my mind, waiting for me to stumble upon it again. Then, a month or so ago, I'd been sipping water after a yoga class, in that sort of peaceful haze that follows a good practice and a long savasana, when I noticed a flyer pinned to the studio bulletin board. The word on the top caught my attention. Retreat, it said.

Years ago, a friend had said something about how natural it is, just as humans, to go through periods where you are more active and involved in society and the world, and then to go through periods of retreat. And the truth of it had stuck with me. It had felt like permission to follow the ebb and flow, step out, and then retreat. And I had been on formal retreats before, a weekend here, a few days there, and once, when I was a good bit younger, a full ten days in meditative silence.

Those had all been useful experiences for me. But I found that what I'd been craving lately was something more self-directed. All I needed, really, was a place to go, where there was quiet and space. And that was just what the flyer was offering. Cabins in the woods. Tall pines. Hiking paths and walking trails.

A lake with a stretch of sandy shore. Come for a week, the flyer suggested. Bring your journal and your meditation cushion. And enjoy the quiet. I recognized the name of the place. From the mention of it, I'd heard years before. It felt like more than a happy coincidence. I tore a number off the flyer and tucked it into my pocket. And now I was here,

halfway through my week of retreat. I had a small cabin, but it was all I needed. A tidy, simple bathroom. A large, soft bed I'd been sleeping wonderfully in. And a small kitchenette where I cooked my meals. My favorite spot, though, was on the tiny front porch with its single chair

I'd spent a good bit of time out there so far watching gray squirrels climbing the tree trunks and jumping casually through the branches. There were about a dozen cabins like mine scattered through the pines, though each one was set back far enough from the paths that they felt totally private. You might see someone out on a walk or on your way to the lake, but as we were all here for the same purpose

to retreat we just gave one another a small wave or a smile and let each other be it had been so long that I'd gone any amount of time without talking. At first it had felt a bit uncomfortable. I'd found myself overthinking those little interactions. Was something more expected of me?

Should I find something clever or comforting to say to my fellow retreaters. Luckily, I'd realized fairly quickly that nothing was expected of me, that I'd I'm out there and here. So instead, I tried observing the impulse to do, to speak, to be perceived in a certain way, with curiosity and compassion, instead of reacting to it. And by now, day four, was it? Maybe it was day five. I wasn't sure.

The quiet felt restorative and comfortable. It felt like freedom to just be without needing to produce anything with my time, besides the enjoyment of my own peaceful company. I was ready for my morning cup of tea, so I slid out of bed and took a few moments to breathe deeper and stretch. Nothing fancy. I just reached my arms up above my head and made my spine long. I rolled my head around and felt my neck pop and release, then pressed my hands into my lower back and stretched my chest

open. In my kitchenette, I filled the kettle and set it on the flame. In the cupboard, there was one plate, one cup, one bowl. In the drawer, one set of silverware, and I liked that. A small reminder to keep to myself and to wash up and set my little space in order whenever I finished a meal. I took the cup down and fished a teabag from a box on the counter.

This variety was a jasmine-green tea blend, and when the kettle whistled, I poured the boiling water into the cup and watched the color spread. Right away, I could smell the jasmine, an intoxicating sweet floral scent that felt luxurious and decadent, though the flavor was simpler. I took my cup out to the porch and sat on the chair. Around the porch steps were lavender and butterfly bushes. And as I sipped, I saw a monarch fluttering around the blooms. I set my cup down on the wide armrest of my chair and stared at her.

She seemed to move in no particular pattern, resting on a stem, then flying one way, doubling back in another. Me too, I whispered to her with a smile on my face. Not having a clear path felt like an adventure to me now, not a cause for worry. The butterfly circled through the air and came closer and closer to me. I was mesmerized. She was so beautiful. She must have smelled the jasmine in my cup,

because she came to land on its rim, and I watched her antennae roving like satellites, picking up the sense. I remembered reading once that monarchs taste through sense structures in their feet, and I watched her flip down to where a drop of tea had fallen on the armrest. We were sharing a cup of tea, her and I. I made no plans for later.

I forgot everything that came before. Now is happening now, I thought. Enjoy it. Sweet dreams.