Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Ship in a Bottle
Episode Date: November 14, 2022Our story tonight is called Ship in a Bottle and it’s a story about a crate of bequests ready to be unwrapped. It’s also about the dark bark of oak trees after a storm, garden benches waiting to b...e sat on and the ordinary magic of handmade things.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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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 on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim.
Before I was a full-time storyteller,
I was a yoga and meditation teacher for about 20 years.
I like to sneak in little bits of mindfulness and philosophy into my stories. You might
have noticed if you make it past our two deep breaths.
Anyway, I use those skills to create simple guided meditation practices on my
other podcast, First This. It's free and available wherever you listen.
If you'd like to start your days off with a bit more intention,
join us at First This.
Now, let's get ready to sleep.
I'll read you a story.
It's a place to rest your mind,
like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river.
Your mind will follow along with the moving current of my voice and our story.
And before you know it,
you'll be eased into deep sleep.
I'll read the story twice,
and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake in the night,
take yourself back into the story,
either by listening again or thinking
back through any bit you can remember. This interrupts your brain's tendency to cycle
through thought and will put you right back into sleep mode. It is brain training, and it might take a bit of practice, so be patient if you're new to this.
Now, it's time to switch off the light and set aside anything you've been looking at
or working on. Adjust your pillows, your comforter, until you feel completely at ease. If you sometimes clench
your jaw as you sleep, try resting the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth
meet the gums on the inside. That will help keep your jaw relaxed.
But first, take a deep breath in through your nose
and sigh through your mouth.
Again, breathe in
and out.
Good.
Our story tonight is called Ship in a Bottle.
And it's a story about a crate of bequests ready to be unwrapped.
It's also about the dark bark of oak trees after a storm,
garden benches waiting to be sat on,
and the ordinary magic of handmade things.
Ship in a Bottle
Autumn had stretched itself
about as far as it could go
and I was grateful
for every extra moment
on my walk in this morning
along the gravel path
from the parking lot up to the great house.
I stopped to admire a few of the towering oaks and maples that were still in full color.
It had stormed the night before, and their bark showed nearly black from the rain.
The long straight line of their trunks
pulled my eyes up
to the bounty of bright yellow leaves above.
Had they always been this tall?
I felt like I had never really seen them before.
They were like arrows that had been shot down into the soil,
with foliage as fletching rather than feathers.
And I imagined one of the old gods of mythology drawing back a bow to send them
to Earth.
Something about this place lent itself to fanciful thoughts.
From the labyrinth out in the east meadow where I walked at lunchtime.
To the solarium where I'd watched the Amorphophallus titanum bloom for the first time in three years. To the map room, up on the third floor,
filled with books that were written
when my great-great-grandparents were children.
And glass display cases
of the artifacts and rare objects we collected.
It was a special place, this estate,
and I hoped our visitors felt the magic of it the way I did.
It had been a family home when it was first built,
with acres of gardens and forests around it.
A stately home with turrets and wings and a dumb waiter that had once brought tea trays
up from the kitchen to the drawing room. When it had passed to a new generation, it was converted
into a museum of sorts. We had had likewise been made public,
and many people came every day
to trek through the woods
or quietly pace the labyrinth.
There were fountains and statues to admire,
benches to sit at with a book or sack lunch,
and a broad pond filled with bright orange fish
that swam in a mesmerizing school
like an underwater murmuration.
I'd done a bit of everything in the years I'd been here.
I'd led tours and planted flowers and dusted cases.
I'd raked the white stones of the labyrinth into place at the end of the
day.
Now I worked just inside the front door,
behind a small desk,
to direct visitors and hand out leaflets.
I knew the story of just about every painting in the ballroom.
Every plant in the solarium and map up on the third floor.
And when asked, was happy to share, though mostly I was called upon simply to welcome people in as they stepped through the heavy oak door.
I kept a basket at the desk
with my crochet hook and skein of yarn
and had made quite a few scarfs
while sitting in the calm quiet of the entryway.
Today, though, would be a bit more eventful.
We'd gotten a bequest, a legacy,
from the estate of a distant cousin related to the original owners.
He'd come to visit us, time up in the map room,
gazing at the portraits of his distant relatives.
Like so many of our visitors,
he'd fallen in love with the house and gardens.
But obviously, this place had meant something a bit more to him,
and he'd remembered us in his will.
We didn't know exactly what was in the crate,
but today we would find out.
We'd set aside a room off the main hall that had once been a small
sitting room, but now was a place things were stored and restored when out of the collections. We had a sturdy work table,
spread with a heavy drop cloth,
and the crate waiting for us on top of it.
It had arrived late in the afternoon the day before,
and though I'd been impatient to dig right in,
we'd agreed to wait till today
when more staff could participate,
and we would have the whole day to catalog what we unpacked.
I'd been so curious about what we might find inside that I'd fallen asleep thinking
of it and dreamt about the crate.
In the dream, when we pried open the top and looked down into it. Instead of seeing objects,
there were stairs,
like the ones in the large entryway,
carpeted in dark red velvet
and with a handrail of polished wood.
I had been able to follow them down
into a room full of new treasures,
and it had felt like a better version
of going through the looking glass,
a place where I could just discover,
to my heart's content.
And as I'd parked my car and walked up the path this morning,
I thought to myself that I needed to adjust my expectations,
that our bequests would be much more mundane
not nearly so otherworldly
but then I'd stop to stare
at those trees in the grounds
with their nearly black trunks
and bright yellow leaves
and remembered that the quotidian world
would never be short of astounding wonders.
So now we were ready.
I noticed that none of my colleagues were late this morning
as we gathered around the work table.
I took a few good whacks with a mallet against the crowbar,
but then the crate was open
and we all leaned forward
and looked down into the trove.
Everything had been carefully wrapped,
but right away,
I could make out the shape of a couple of paintings.
There were several small boxes
and something very big,
like a large cylinder
whose wrapping was marked with the word fragile. and something very big, like a large cylinder,
whose wrapping was marked with the word fragile.
We, each of us, reached in at the same time and bumped into each other and laughed.
Okay, someone said.
Let's do one thing at a time, shall we?
We sheepishly agreed.
One of the boxes held a collection of antique, miniature books.
Tiny things, but properly printed and illustrated, and our map room docent took them aside straight away.
Another box held fountain pens and a hat pin with a pale green stone in it, as well as some tarnished silver serving spoons.
All of these things had clearly been handed down through the bequeather's family.
Just as so many objects in this house had, I could see why they had been left to us.
The paintings, when unwrapped, were portraits, and judging by the style and the clothing,
had been painted around the time our great house was built. In fact, one face was very familiar,
and we carried it out into the hall to set it on the rail
beside the portrait of the family's patriarch.
We looked back and forth
from one face to another.
Brothers, we asked each other.
Maybe even twins, I said.
The last bit of treasure to be unwrapped.
The piece marked fragile.
Proved to be a ship in a bottle.
According to the yellowed label on its base, it was more than 140 years old. through a layer of dust I marveled at the tiny intricate pieces that came together so perfectly
it had a foremast
a midmast and a mizzen
a quarter deck
a crow's nest
and even a tiny figurehead
I could look at it for ages a crow's nest and even a tiny figurehead.
I could look at it for ages and still not see every detail.
Right beside my desk in the entryway
was a large round table
we usually topped with fresh flowers.
But I would do my best to convince my colleagues
that this amazing artifact should sit at its center.
Guess, and also I, would be able to enjoy it in the light of the front windows
and imagine ourselves sailing away into the horizon.
Ship in a bottle.
Autumn had stretched itself about as far as it could go,
and I was grateful for every extra moment.
On my walk in this morning
along the gravel path
from the parking lot up to the great house
I'd stopped to admire
a few of the towering oaks
and maples that were still in full color.
It had stormed the night before, and their bark showed nearly black from the rain.
The long, straight line of their trunks pulled my eyes up
to the bounty of bright yellow leaves above.
Had they always been this tall?
I felt like I had never
really seen them before.
They were like arrows
that had been shot down
into the soil
with foliage as fletching
rather than feathers.
And I imagined one of the old gods of mythology
drawing back a bow to send them to Earth.
Something about this place lent itself to fanciful thoughts.
From the labyrinth out in the east meadow, where I walked at lunchtime, to the solarium,
where I'd watched the Amorphophallus titanum bloom for the first time in three years,
to the map room on the third floor,
filled with books that were written when my great-great-grandparents were children.
And glass display cases of the artifacts and rare objects we collected.
It was a special place, this estate. And I hoped our visitors felt the magic of it the way I did.
It had been a family home when it was first built, with acres of gardens and forests around it.
A stately home with turrets and wings and a dumb waiter
that had once brought tea trays
up from the kitchen to the drawing room.
When it had passed to a new generation it was converted into a museum of sorts.
We had collections of paintings and portraits,
local histories and many maps.
The grounds had likewise been made public
and many people came every day
to trek through the woods or quietly pace
the labyrinth.
There were fountains
and statues
to admire.
Benches to sit at
with a book
or sack lunch,
and a broad pond filled with bright orange fish
that swam in a mesmerizing school like an underwater murmuration.
I'd done a bit of everything in the years I'd been here.
I'd led tours and planted flowers and dusted cases. I'd raked the white stones of a labyrinth into place at the end of the day.
Now I worked just inside the front door,
behind a small desk to direct visitors
and hand out leaflets.
I knew the story
of just about every painting
in the ballroom.
Every plant in the solarium
and map up on the third floor.
And when asked,
was happy to share,
though mostly I was called upon
simply to welcome people in as they stepped through the heavy oak door. and skein of yarn and had made quite a few scarfs
while sitting in the quiet calm
of the entryway.
Today, though,
would be a bit more eventful.
We'd gotten a bequest,
a legacy from the estate of a distant cousin
related to the original owners.
He'd come to visit us once,
many years ago, while he was researching his family tree.
He'd spent a good amount of time up in the map room and gazing at the portraits of his distant relatives.
Like so many of our visitors,
he'd fallen in love with the house and gardens.
But obviously, this place had meant something a bit more to him,
and he remembered us in his will. We didn't know exactly what was in the crate that had arrived, but today we would find out.
We'd set aside a room off the main hall that had once been a small sitting room,
but was now a place where things were stored and restored
when out of the collections.
We had a sturdy work table spread with a heavy drop cloth and the crate waiting for us on top of it.
It had arrived late in the afternoon the day before, and though I had been impatient to dig right in,
we'd agreed to wait till today, when more staff could participate, and we would have the whole day
to catalog what we unpacked.
I'd been so curious about what we might find inside
that I'd fallen asleep thinking about it
and dreamt of the crate.
In the dream, when we pried open the top and looked down into it,
instead of seeing objects,
there were stairs,
like the ones in the large entryway, carpeted in dark red velvet and into a room full of new treasures.
And it had felt like a better version of going through the looking glass.
A place where I could just discover to my heart's content.
And as I parked my car and walked up the path this morning,
I thought to myself that I probably needed to adjust my expectations,
that our bequests would be much more mundane,
not nearly so otherworldly.
But then I'd stopped to stare at those trees in the grounds, with their nearly black trunks and bright yellow leaves, and I noticed that none of my colleagues were late this
morning. As we gathered around the work table, I took a few good whacks with a mallet against the crowbar.
But then the crate was open,
and we all leaned forward and looked down into the trove.
Everything had been carefully wrapped,
but right away,
I could make out the shape of a couple of paintings.
There were several small boxes
and something very big,
like a large cylinder
whose wrapping was marked with the word fragile.
We, each of us, reached in at the same time and bumped into each other and laughed. Okay, someone said.
Let's do one thing at a time, shall we?
We sheepishly agreed.
One of the boxes
held a collection of antique,
miniature books.
Tiny things, but properly printed and illustrated.
And our map room docent took them aside straight away.
Another box held fountain pens
and a hat pin with a pale green stone in it.
As well as some tarnished silver serving spoons.
All of these things had clearly been handed down through the bequeathers
family.
Just as so many objects in this house had.
I could see why they had been left to us.
The paintings, when unwrapped, were portraits, and judging by the style and clothing, had
been painted around the time our great house was built.
In fact, one face was very familiar and we carried it out into the hall to set it on the rail
beside the portrait
of the family's patriarch.
We all looked back and forth
from one face to another.
Brothers, we asked each other.
Maybe even twins I said
the last bit of treasure to be unwrapped
the piece marked fragile
proved to be a ship in a bottle.
According to the yellowed label on its base, it was more than 140 years old. Through a layer of dust I marveled at the tiny intricate pieces
that came together so perfectly.
It had a foremast, a midmast, and a mizzen, a quarter-deck, a crow's nest, and even a tiny figurehead.
I could look at it for ages and still not see every detail.
Right beside my desk in the entryway was a large round table
we usually topped with fresh flowers.
But I would do my best
to convince my colleagues
that this amazing artifact should sit at its center.
Guests, and also I,
would be able to enjoy it in the light of the front windows
and imagine ourselves sailing away into the horizon.
Sweet dreams.