Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Slow Life

Episode Date: June 29, 2026

Our story tonight is called Slow Life, and it’s about changing your pace in lots of small ways. It’s also about the texture of tree bark, your shoulders releasing from your ears, and the feeling of cello music vibrating in your chest. 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 Tiny Paws Pug Rescue Finding pugs their forever homes. ⁠Pre-register for the Village of Nothing Much app⁠⁠. Use code VILLAGE-FOUNDER for 25% off for life! Sign up for our ⁠⁠newsletter⁠⁠ to stay in the know. Pre-order Kathryn’s new book, ⁠⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠⁠. ⁠⁠NMH merch, autographed books, and more⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show, ⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠. ⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠ ⁠⁠Pay It Forward Subscription⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠. Visit ⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠ for more Village fun. Stop by the Cabin with this playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more, nothing much happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Do you ever feel like you're trying to eat healthy, but the rules keep changing? One minute, it's low fat, and the next it's low carb, and somehow you're still overwhelmed. Be Well by Kelly is here to simplify the science of nutrition. Every week, Kelly breaks down what actually matters, so you can make choices and not cheats. It's about balance, long-term health, and building a positive relationship with food

that lasts. Listen to Be Well by Kelly, wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes every Wednesday. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to Tiny Paw's Pug Rescue, finding pugs their forever homes.

Learn more about them in our show notes. For bonus and ad-free episodes, and to support and sustain what we do. Become a premium member by clicking subscribe in Apple or Spotify or by going to Nothing Much Happens.com. You know how this goes. I'm going to build a scaffolding with words, a support system for your mind to rest in.

I'll read our story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, any scaffolding will do this story or any simple, pleasant memory. Just start at a beginning point and walk yourself through, and within a few steps, you'll fall right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called Slow Life. and it's about changing your pace in lots of small ways.

It's also about the texture of tree bark, your shoulders releasing from your ears, and the feeling of cello music vibrating in your chest. Now, lights out. Snuggle in and release your jaw. anything left from the day, take a second to acknowledge it. It's the act of looking away that makes thoughts stickier. If you look head on, just acknowledge what is there, how it feels.

Often it will release its grip on you, and a couple breaths will help complete the cycle. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good.

Slow life. There are certain lessons. I have to learn over and over again. I can't count how many times I've started cooking dinner by saying to myself, I don't need the big pan. In an attempt to save time cleaning up, I reach for the smaller one. Then, 10 minutes later, when it's overflowing with vegetables and spices, and I still need to add the sauce, I concede and take the bigger pan out and sloppily shift everything from one to the other. thereby actually tripling the mess.

It's the same on that street that runs through downtown. The lights are timed, and if I slow down, I'll actually hit a half dozen green lights in a row. But I forget over and over, and race only to stop and wait at each one. What other lessons? To mind my own business. To let what others think of me be theirs.

I put too many clothes in the washing machine, then have to dry them three times. Most of these come to the same thing. slow down. Slow down to remember what I already know. Slow down to enjoy the process of everyday actions. Slow down because I'll just make better choices when I'm not rushed. So I'm trying to have a slower life in the moments when I can.

It started at home in very small ways. When I washed the dishes, I waited till the water temperature was just right before I filled the sink. Then I found I didn't have to run more hot or cold in as I went. I slowed down as I put away a stack of folded t-shirts and run. rather than drop half of them in a heap in a drawer. They actually went in the way they were meant to. It was a deliberate practice, something I had to revisit pretty regularly,

as my inner engine was so used to revving up that I'd find myself rushing for no reason, and soon I'd stub my toe, or back out of the driveway with my coffee cup on the car roof, or need three tries to turn off a light switch and think, I'm doing it again, and I'd take a deep breath and let it out and slow down. Even trickier was living slowly out of the house, when the momentum of the people around me

could easily catch me up like a leaf and the current of a creek. It helped to look for small details to pay attention to. When I waited in line on a busy morning at the bakery, feeling the haste of those around me, eager to get a bagel and get to work or school. I really looked at the golden color of the croissants in the case.

I listened to the creaky board under my feet. I breathed in the jammy smell of the donuts when I was in the park, walking fast for no reason. A stitch in my side. and without the space in my head or senses to enjoy the summer breeze. I'd catch myself, sometimes literally, by reaching out to loop an arm around the trunk of a tree. I'd close my eyes and lift my face to the sky and give the hurry a chance to drain out of me. With my eyes still closed, the sounds around me shifted from background noise to high-fi stereo.

I'd listen to hear my own breath, feel my heartbeat. And once I could, I'd start to walk again, deliberately looking for a pace, That just felt good. I'd remind myself of something my yoga teacher used to say when I was trying too hard on my mat, straining with my shoulders clenched to my ears. In warrior, Vyadha Drasana too, she'd lay her hands gently on my shoulders

and remind me, there's nowhere to get. Nowhere to get. Nowhere. I'd read once about the word utopia, a word we've taken to mean paradise, a place of perfection. The literal translation, though, is just no place. And when I read that,

I didn't take it as a seed of pessimism planted in the literature, as if Sir Thomas Moore were saying paradise couldn't exist, but rather that perfection lives in open spaces, in unhurried minutes, in bare experience. Is that what he meant? Honestly, I didn't care. It meant that for me. I looked forward to some of those bare experiences tonight.

As I headed to the auditorium where the community theater played, there was a chamber music concert that I'd bought a ticket for. And when the usher at the door tore it and handed me back the stub, He gestured up the aisle and straight toward the stage. In keeping with the concept of music for a small space, the audience was limited and seated right on stage with the musicians. I found my seat and slipped my program into my bag. I didn't want to read about it.

I wanted to listen. without distraction. The house lights dimmed, and it felt like the stage was a raft, floating in a broad sea of darkness. The musicians took their places, and I pressed my feet flat on the floor, and rested my palms on my knees.

I closed my eyes. and turned myself over to listening. I could hear the small sounds of the instruments being brought into position. I swear I could even hear the sound of everyone coming to attention that all of us, musicians and audience members, decided together to turn our inner dials to the same channel Then there was the high, poignant voice of a violin, playing a melody I didn't know. The cello joined in, and I could feel the resonance of it in my chest.

I'd heard someone say once that sound is just touch from a distance. and I could see why, as the viola and piano came in, as they handed the melody back and forth and knit the notes together, it felt like I was woven into the music. I slowed my breath down. I was no place, and I intended to stay. Slow life. There are certain lessons.

I have to learn over and over again. I can't count how many times I've started cooking dinner by saying to myself, I don't need the big pan in an attempt to save time cleaning up. I reach for the smaller one, then 10 minutes later, when it's overflowing with vegetables and spices. And I still need to add the sauce. I concede and take the bigger pan out

and sloppily shift everything from one to the other, thereby actually tripling the mess. It's the same. on the street that runs through downtown. The lights are timed. And if I slow down, I'll actually hit a half-dozen green lights in a row. But I forget over and over.

And race only to stop and wait at each one. What other lessons? Oh, to mind my own business. To let what others think of me be theirs. I put too many clothes in the washing machine and then have to dry them three times. Most of these come to the same thing. Slow down.

slow down to remember what I already know. Slow down to enjoy the process of everyday actions. Slow down because I'll just make better choices when I'm not rushed. So I'm trying to have a slower life in the moments when I can. It started at home in very small ways. When I washed the dishes, I waited till the water temperature was just right before I filled the sink. Then I found I didn't have to run more hot or cold in as I went. I slowed down as I put away a stack, a fold.

of folded t-shirts, and rather than drop half of them in a heap in the drawer, they actually went in the way they were meant to. It was a deliberate practice, something I had to revisit pretty regularly, as my inner engine was so used to revving up, that I'd find myself rushing for no reason. And soon I'd stub my toe or back out of the driveway with my coffee cup on the car roof

or need three tries to turn off a light switch. And think, ah, I'm doing it again. and I'd take a deep breath and let it out and slow down. Even trickier was living slowly out of the house when the momentum of the people around me could easily catch me up like a leaf in the current of a creek. It helped to look for small details.

to pay attention to. So when I waited in line on a busy morning at the bakery, feeling the haste of those around me, eager to get a bagel and get to work or school, I really looked at the golden color of the croissants in the case. I listened to the the creaky board under my feet. I breathed in the sweet, jammy smell of the donuts when I was in the park. Walking fast for no reason, a stitch in my side and without the space in my head or senses to enjoy the summer breeze. I'd catch myself. Sometimes, literally, by reaching out to loop an arm around the trunk of a tree, I'd stop, close my eyes, and lift my face to the sky, and give the hurry a chance to drain out of me. With my eyes still closed, the sounds around.

me shifted from background noise to high-fi stereo I'd listen to hear my own breath to feel my heartbeat and once I could I'd start to walk again deliberately looking for a pace that just felt good. I'd remind myself of something. My yoga teacher used to say, when I was trying too hard on my mat, straining with my shoulders, clenched to my ears in warrior, Vyadha Drasana too, she'd lay her hands gently on my shoulders. And remind me, there's nowhere to get. Nowhere to get. Nowhere.

I'd read once about the word utopia. A word we've taken to mean paradise. A place of perfection. The literal translation, though, is actually just no place. When I read that, I didn't take it as a seed of pessimism, planted in literature, as if Sir Thomas More were saying, paradise couldn't exist, but rather that perfection lives in open spaces, in unhurried minutes, in bare experience. Is that what he meant? Honestly, I didn't care.

It meant that for me. I looked forward to some of those bare experiences tonight as I headed to the auditorium where the community theater played. There was a chamber music concert that I'd bought a ticket for. And when the usher at the door tore it, and handed me back the stub.

He gestured up the aisle and straight toward the stage. In keeping with the concept of music for a small space, the audience was limited and seated right on stage with the musicians. I found my seat and slipped my program into my bag. I didn't want to read about it. I wanted to listen without distraction.

The house lights dimmed, and it felt like the stage was a raft floating in a broad sea of darkness. The musicians took their places, and I pressed my feet flat on the floor and rested my palms on my knees.

I closed my eyes and turned myself over to listening. I could hear the small sounds of the instruments being brought into position. I swear I could even hear the sound of everyone coming to a attention that all of us, musicians and audience members, decided together to turn our inner dials to the same channel. There was the high, poignant voice of a violin, playing a melody I didn't know. the cello joined in, and I could feel the resonance of it in my chest. I heard someone say once that sound is just touch from a distance, and I could see why, as the viola and piano came in,

as they handed the melody back and forth and knit the notes together. It felt like I was woven right into the music. I slowed my breath down. I was no place, and I intended to stay. Sweet dreams.