Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - September Leaves

Episode Date: September 30, 2024

Our story tonight is called September Leaves, and it’s a story about some time outside as the wind blows and the acorns fall. It’s also about the scent of bonfire, the weight of a dog laid across your legs, spaces where you feel safe and among friends, a memory of last summer and a glimpse of the coming winter. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Equal Justice Initiative. Protecting basic human rights for the most vulnerable people in American society. 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 the link: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this. 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 Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories 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 Equal Justice Initiative, protecting basic human rights for thenerable People in American Society.

Learn more in our show notes. There's a team of people working behind the scenes here at Nothing Much Happens to bring you as much soothing content as possible. And the truth is that we just wouldn't be able to do it without our premium subscribers. So if this show is worth a dime a day to you, and you'd like the bliss of ad-free, supersized, and bonus episodes, we'd love to have you. Subscribe at nothingmuchappens.com or through the link in our show notes. Now, busy brains need a place to rest. That's what the story is.

A place to rest. That's what the story is. A place to rest your mind. Just listen to the sound of my voice. And over time, your system will be more and more conditioned to relax and go to sleep. And you'll even find returning to sleep in the middle of the night easier. I'll tell the story twice,

and I'll go a little slower the second time through. It's okay to just play one story, or to let them play all through the night. Our story tonight is called September Leaves, and it's a story about some time outside, as the wind blows and the acorns fall. It's also about the scent of bonfire, the weight of a dog laid across your legs, spaces where you feel safe and among friends, a memory of last summer,

and a glimpse of the coming winter. Lights Out Campers Lights out, campers. Snuggle down and let every muscle relax. If it feels good right now, the softness of your bed, the touch of your favorite jammies, please take a second to notice, to feel that this is good.

And take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Do it again. Breathe in and let it out. Good. Good. September leaves. There is a word for this, I thought to myself,

as I sat, bundled in a quilt, on a lounge chair in the backyard. I needed to store the chair away in the garage, but was glad I'd been too lazy to actually do it yet. The grass needed at least one more mow as well, but right now, none of that seemed as important as sitting here and listening to the sound of the wind in the trees. That was the thing there was a word for. And I leaned my head back and looked up at the drying leaves,

their shades of yellow and orange and red. And I remembered it. Scytherism. That was it. Scytherism. When I'd first heard it, I'd had to look it up. Its definition as well as its pronunciation, as it was one of those tricky words that starts with a P,

which isn't actually pronounced. I couldn't remember the exact wording of the definition now. Something about whispering and rustling. And another lovely word, susurration. The wind was whispering to me, using the leaves and the branches to convey a quiet message. Maybe the message was that winter was coming,

or that the leaves were drying and beginning to fall. Or maybe it was just the wind saying, I am here. I stretched my legs out long on the lounge and adjusted the quilt so that I was completely covered up, even tucking it under my legs. My nose and cheeks were kissed by the wind. I sort of liked the juxtaposition of my warm, snug body and my cool face. The light was shifting through the trees and leaves,

just like the wind was, and for a few minutes, I watched it through my closed lids, the shadows, like watercolors, blurring into one another. I might have dozed for a few minutes, though some part of me was peripherally still observing, listening to acorns falling on the roof of the shed,

smelling the spiced, cool air. Some part of me was still awake and deeply glad to be where I was, my senses treated to so many good feelings and sounds. Then I noticed another sound coming from a ways off. More of that susurration, that whispering, though this was closer to the ground and even to my sleepy brain, familiar and recognizable. I cracked one heavy eyelid and turned my head to the gate in the fence. It was made of wood slats,

but through the narrow cracks between them, I could see some forms, one tall enough that his hair was just visible over the top, and under the fence, I spotted a snuffling dog nose. They had their eyes to a couple of knots in the wood and were whispering about whether or not I was asleep, if they should just come in and pounce on me and wake me up, and if they did, just how grouchy I might be after. I'm awake. I can hear you. I laughed and watched as the latch lifted on the gate, and my two nephews and their sweet golden retriever came in. I scooted up in my lounge chair, and pulled back the blanket as I yawned. The youngest dove in and snuggled right up beside me, as I knew he would,

and their dog Clover jumped up onto my legs. His big brother pulled up an old metal patio chair, plopped down onto it, and nudged his feet up beside mine and Clover's. I could smell the faint scent of bonfire in my nephew's hair and asked what they'd been up to. Raking, said the oldest. So much raking. He said it with the exhaustion of a much older person, as if he'd just come off a long shift mining rocks in a quarry. Then Papa burned the leaves in the ditch, said his brother.

Ah, I said, I see. Did you get too close and your dad sent you down here to keep you out of his hair? Possibly, he said, and leaned his head against my arm. They only lived a couple blocks away, and it was a rare day that I did not see them at least once. I'd read recently about the idea of third spaces how most of us have a first space that being our homes

and a second space work or school but that we also needed a third space, a place we went to be with other people. It wasn't about the necessity of work or shelter, but the embrace of community. I knew my nephews had other such spaces. One played hockey.

One took dance and gymnastics. And they went with their dads to the coffee shop downtown every Sunday morning. I knew everyone in there by name, but I was also so glad that my house was one of their third spaces. They were as comfortable here as they were at home, made sandwiches from the fridge whenever they needed a snack, and often had the school bus drop them off at my place to start their homework in the afternoons. Even Clover had her own dog bed in my living room

and a box of biscuits in the cupboard. We talked about school for a bit, how the first few weeks had treated them, what their teachers were like and the new friends they'd met. Remember last year, when we camped out in your backyard? The younger one asked. It had been a fun evening, with roasted marshmallows on sticks, and clover snuggling between them

in the small tent we'd set up in the grass. I'd camped out, too, but just on my sofa, where I could keep an eye on them. I'd laid out extra pillows and blankets in the living room, thinking that they might not make it through the night out there. And sure enough, the screen door had creaked open around midnight, and the youngest had come in to curl up beside me.

When I woke in the morning, I'd found his brother and Clover sleeping on the floor beside the couch, covered in blankets. Of course I remember, I said. It's too late in the year to have another camp out now, though. The nights are getting cold. I kind of like it, said my nephew. Me too, said his brother. The wind blew again, this time stronger, colder, as if agreeing with those of us down here on the ground. Come on, I've got cider in the fridge and we can order some pizzas. Your dads can come down and eat with us when they're done with the leaves.

We shuffled out of our chairs and started to head inside, Clover stretching into up dog and down dog before following us in. September leaves. There is a word for this, I thought to myself, as I sat, bundled in a quilt, on a chair away in the garage, but was glad that I'd been too lazy to actually do it yet. The grass needed at least one more mow as well. But right now, none of that seemed as important as sitting here and listening to the sound of the wind in the trees. That was the thing there was a word for.

And I leaned my head back and looked up at the drying leaves, their shades of yellow and orange and red. And I remembered it. Scytherism. That was it. Scytherism. That was it. Scytherism. When I'd first heard it, I'd had to look it up. Its definition, as well as its pronunciation, as it was one of those tricky words that starts with a P,

which isn't actually pronounced. I couldn't remember the exact wording of the definition now. Something about whispering and rustling. And another lovely word, susurration. The wind was whispering to me, using the leaves were drying and beginning to fall. Or maybe it was just the wind saying, I am here. I stretched my legs out long on the lounge and adjusted the quilt so that I was completely covered up,

even tucking it under my legs. My nose and cheeks were kissed by the wind, and I sort of liked the juxtaposition of my warm, snug body and my cool face. The light was shifting through the trees and leaves, just like the wind was. And for a few minutes, I watched it through my closed lids, the shadows like watercolors blurring into one another. I might have dozed for a few minutes, though some part of me was still peripherally observing, listening to acorns falling on the roof of the shed,

smelling the spiced cool air. Some part of me was still awake and deeply glad to be where I was. My senses treated to so many good feelings and sounds. Then I noticed another sound coming from a ways off, more of that susurration, that whispering, though this was closer to the ground, and even in my sleepy brain, familiar and recognizable. I cracked one heavy eyelid and turned my head to the gate in the fence. it was made of wood slats but through the narrow cracks between them I could see some forms one

tall enough that his hair was just visible over the top and under the fence, I spotted a snuffling dog nose. They had their eyes to a couple of knots in the wood and were whispering about whether or not I was asleep. If they should just come in and pounce on me and wake me up.

And if they did, just how grouchy I might be after. I'm awake. I can hear you. I laughed and watched as the latch lifted on the gate. And my two nephews and their sweet golden retriever came in. I scooted up in my lounge chair and pulled back the blanket as I yawned. The youngest dove in and snuggled right up beside me as I knew

he would, and their dog Clover jumped up onto my legs. His big brother pulled up an old metal patio chair, plopped down onto it, and nudged his feet up beside mine and Clover's. I could smell the faint scent of bonfire in my nephew's hair. And I asked what they'd been up to. Raking, said the eldest. So much raking. He said it with the exhaustion of a much older person, as if he'd just come

off a long shift mining rocks in a quarry. "'Then Papa burned the leaves in the ditch,' said his brother. "'Ah,' I said, "'I see. "'Did you get too close "'and your dad sent you down here "'to keep you out of his hair?' "'Possibly,' he said "'and leaned his head against my arm.

They only lived a couple blocks away, and it was a rare day that I did not see them at least once. I'd read recently about the idea of third spaces how most of us have a first space that being our homes and a second space

work or school, but that we also needed a third space, a place we went to be with other people. That wasn't about the necessity of work or shelter, but the embrace of community. I knew my nephews had other such spaces. One played hockey. One took dance and gymnastics.

They went with their dads to the coffee shop downtown every Sunday morning and knew everyone in there by name. But I was also so glad that my house was one of their third spaces. They were as comfortable here as they were at home, made sandwiches from the fridge

whenever they needed a snack, and often had the school bus drop them at my place to start their homework in the afternoons. Even Clover had her own dog bed in my living room and a box of biscuits in the cupboard. We talked about school for a bit, how the first few weeks had treated them, what their teachers were like, and the new friends they'd met.

Remember last year, when we camped out in your backyard, the younger one asked. It had been a fun evening with roasted marshmallows on sticks and clover snuggling between them in the small tent we'd set up in the grass. I'd camped out too, but just on my sofa, where I could keep an eye on them. I'd laid out extra pillows and blankets in the living room, thinking that they might not make it through the night out there. And sure enough, the screen door had creaked open around midnight, and the youngest had come in to curl up beside me. When I woke in the morning, I'd found his brother and Clover sleeping on the floor beside the couch, covered in blankets.

Of course I remember, I said. It's too late in the year to have a camp out now, though. The nights are getting cold. I kind of like it, said my nephew. Me too, said his brother. The wind blew again, this time stronger, colder,

as if agreeing with those of us down here on the ground. Come on, I've got cider in the fridge, and we can order some pizzas. Your dads can come down and eat with us when they're done with the leaves. We shuffled out of our chairs and started to head inside. Clover stretching into up dog and down dog before following us in. Sweet dreams.