Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Snowed In

Episode Date: December 17, 2018

Our story tonight is called "Snowed In" and it’s a story about watching the snow come down from the cozy warmth of home. It’s also about treating yourself to things you usually don’t have time for, a memory of kindness and the quiet hush of deep snow. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If you enjoy our stories, please share them with anyone you know who likes relaxation and good sleep. And you can follow us on Instagram and Facebook for a bit of extra coziness. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. Just like when you were a child, tucked in for bed, you're about to hear a bedtime story. It's a simple story, without much action, but full of relaxing detail.

The story is meant to be a soft landing place for your mind, so that instead of circling through the same thoughts you've been stuck in all day, you can rest it in a sweet, peaceful place. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story, and walk yourself back through the details that you can remember, especially any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body to wind down, and the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep.

So have a little bit of patience at the beginning. Now it's time to turn off the light and put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax. In time, all of this becomes a signal for your brain. And that signal says, it's time for sleep. Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose.

And a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. Breathe in, and out. Our story tonight is called Snowed In, and it's a story about watching the snow come down from the cozy warmth of home. It's also about treating yourself to things you usually don't have time for,

a memory of kindness and the quiet hush of deep snow. Snowed in. They'd said so from the day before. They'd said it would snow all night, and through the next day, and that the drifts would pile up in our doorways and alleyways, in our fields and intersections, and that we had all better stay safe in our houses.

And we agreed. Across the village, through the county, we agreed. Today, we were all snowed in. I lay in my bed, in the muffled quiet of the early morning, thinking about the snow, laid like a thick blanket on the ground, on the bare limbs of trees,

on the roof above my head, and on every surface it could find. I didn't move yet, just felt my limbs, relaxed and warm under the comforter, and thought how good it is to know that you have a snow day, and how it is even better to have known it from the night before. I'd slept deep and woke without remembering my dreams and felt like, in a couple different ways, I had a clean slate for the day.

I slipped my feet into the waiting slippers beside my bed, pulled a long, thick sweater over my shoulders, and stepped out to the window. I pulled back the curtain slowly and enjoyed the small spark of anticipation in my belly as I looked out at the covered land. I've grown up with snow. I've seen this a thousand times.

I've had this same moment of the morning after a heavy snowfall, standing in pajamas with my nose pressed against a cold windowpane since I was a child. But still, I'm always amazed. The morning light was thin and threw long shadows over the drifts, caught the still-falling flakes in their airy descent, and showed the crisp, unbroken surface, sloping and rolling through the land around my old farmhouse.

I took a moment there, just watching the snowfall, my arms wrapped around me against the chill of the window, and enjoyed the gift of a day blocked off by Mother Nature. Snow days as a child were about excitement and rushing from the snow in the sled to the warm kitchen with cups of chocolate and back out again. As an adult, they were a relief. You were forced to rest and relax, and no one could reasonably expect anything from you for the day. And in a busy world that sometimes moved too fast for me,

that respite was good medicine. Now I'd stocked up the day before, and my kitchen was full of all the necessities for a snow day. A pound of fresh coffee beans, a long loaf of seedy bread for sandwiches and toast, a bakery bag full of scones and muffins, a sack of winter oranges and grapefruits. My fridge held a jug of fresh juice and plenty of green veg, and in my pantry I had neat rows of home-canned tomatoes and pickles, jars of beans, sacks of rice, and packages

of crackers and pastas. I looked out the kitchen window and said to the falling snow, keep coming down, I have enough for weeks. I started brewing some coffee, poked around the muffins, broke off a corner of one and nibbled it. Well, if you're going to do it, I thought, might as well do it right, and pulled the waffle iron out of a cupboard. After all, this was part of the joy of a snow day, having time to do things you usually didn't, and no reason at all not to.

I poured a cup of coffee, pulled some ingredients from shelves, and started mixing and whisking and heating the iron. I set a place for myself at the kitchen table, setting my favorite chipped plate down with a napkin and a fork. I had a flash of memory, something my aunt had done when we were young. She had a special plate in her cupboard.

It was painted gold in an old pattern and matched nothing else. But if you'd done well on a test, or if it was your birthday, or if you'd had a bad day and just needed to feel special and cared for, she'd set it at your place, and you'd come to the table and sit down in front of it and probably sit a bit taller and feel her warm hand on your shoulder and dinner was sweeter the memory warmed me through

as I ladled batter into the hot iron and I smiled as it sizzled and scented the air. With pancakes and waffles, it's always the rule of three. Undercook the first one, burn the second one. The third is perfect once I had a plate full I sat down with a fresh cup of coffee and a warmed jug of maple syrup and watched the snow come down as I ate I peeled an orange

and ate the segment slowly between sips I rinsed my plate and tidied up the kitchen and ate the segments slowly between sips. I rinsed my plate and tidied up the kitchen and walked from window to window looking out. I'd brought in firewood the night before and had the grate filled and ready to light. I struck a long match, and held it to the paper and kindling,

and watched it take and burn. I laid in a few bigger pieces and squatted on the hearth for a few moments, till my face and fingers were warmed through. The wind was blowing now, and I watched as little swirling spirals of snow appeared and diminished in the air. Maybe later I'd bundle up and take a long tromp through the fields and woods, and then reward myself with a cup of something hot. But for now, I didn't intend to leave my cozy spot. I could see myself spreading a jigsaw puzzle over the table

and working away at it a while, as a movie played in the background, or reading for hours, or laying in a hot bath till my fingers turned pruney. But first, full from breakfast and warm in front of the fire, I stretched out onto the sofa, pulled a long blanket over my legs, and felt like the best idea was probably to close my eyes and listen to the crackle of the logs and take a long winter's nap.

Snowed in. They'd said so from the day before. They'd said it would snow all night and through the next day and that the drifts would pile up in our doorways and alleyways in our fields

and intersections and that we had all better stay safe in our houses and we agreed across the village, through the county, we agreed. Today,

we were all snowed in. I lay in my bed, in the muffled quiet of the early morning, thinking about the snow, laid like a thick blanket on the ground, on the bare limbs of trees, on the roof above my head, and on every surface it could find.

I didn't move yet, just felt my limbs relaxed and warm under the comforter, and thought how good it is to know that you have a snow day, and how it is even better to have known it from the night before. I'd slept deep and woke without remembering my dreams, and felt like, in a couple different ways, I had a clean slate for the day.

I slipped my feet into the waiting slippers beside my bed, pulled a long, thick sweater over my shoulders, and stepped to the window. I pulled back the curtain slowly and enjoyed the small spark of anticipation in my belly as I looked out at the covered land. I've grown up with snow I've seen this a thousand times I've had this same moment of the morning after a heavy snowfall

standing in pajamas with my nose pressed against a cold windowpane since I was a child. But still, I'm always amazed. The morning light was thin and threw long shadows over the drifts, caught the still-falling flakes in their airy descent, and showed the crisp, unbroken surface sloping and rolling through the land around my old farmhouse. I took a moment there,

just watching the snowfall, my arms wrapped around me against the chill of the window, and enjoyed the gift of a day blocked off by Mother Nature. Snow days as a child were about excitement, and rushing from the snow in the sled to the warm kitchen with cups of chocolate and back out again. As an adult, they were a relief. You were forced to rest and relax, and no one could reasonably expect anything from you for the day. And in a busy world that sometimes moved too fast for me,

that respite was good medicine. Now, I'd stocked up the day before, and my kitchen was full of all the necessities for a snow day. A pound of fresh coffee beans, a long loaf of seedy bread for sandwiches and toast, a bakery bag full of scones and muffins, A sack of winter oranges and grapefruits. My fridge held a jug of fresh juice and plenty of green veg, and in my pantry I had neat rows of home-canned tomatoes and pickles. Jars of beans, sacks of rice, and packages of crackers and pastas. I looked out the kitchen window and said to the falling snow,

Keep coming down. I have enough for a few weeks. I started brewing some coffee, poked around the muffins, broke off a corner of one, and nibbled it. If you're going to do it, I thought, might as well do it right, and pulled the waffle iron out of the cupboard. After all, this was part of the joy of a snow day, having time to do the things you usually didn't, and no reason not to.

I poured a cup of coffee, pulled some ingredients from the shelves, and started mixing and whisking and heating the iron. I set a place for myself at the kitchen table, setting my favorite chipped plate down with a napkin and a fork. I had a flash of memory, something my aunt had done when we were young. She had a special plate in her cupboard. It was painted gold in an an old pattern and matched nothing else. But if you'd done well on a test, or if it was your birthday, or if you'd had a bad day and just needed to feel special and cared for, she set it at your place, and you'd come to the table and sit down in front of it, and probably sit a bit taller, and feel her warm hand on your shoulder,

and dinner was sweeter. The memory warmed me through as I ladled batter into the hot iron, and I smiled at it as it sizzled and scented the air. With pancakes and waffles, it's always the rule of three. Undercook the first one, burn the second one, and the third is perfect. Once I had a plateful, I sat down with a fresh cup of coffee and a warmed jug of maple syrup and watched the snow come down as I ate. I peeled an orange and ate the segment slowly between sips. I rinsed my plate and tidied up the kitchen, and walked from window to window, looking out.

I'd brought in firewood the night before and had the grate filled and ready to light. I struck a long match and held it to the paper and kindling and watched it take and burn. I laid in a few bigger pieces and squatted on the hearth for a few minutes till my face and fingers were warmed through. The wind was blowing now, and I watched as a little swirling spiral of snow

appeared and diminished in the air. Maybe later I'd bundle up and take a long tramp through the fields and woods and then reward myself with a cup of something hot. But for now I didn't intend to leave my cozy spot. I could see myself spreading a jigsaw puzzle over the table and working away at it while a movie played in the background or reading for hours

or laying in a hot tub till my fingers turned pruney. But first, full from breakfast and warm in front of the fire, I stretched out onto the sofa, pulled a long blanket over my legs, and felt like the best idea was probably to close my eyes and listen to the crackle of the logs and take a long winter's nap. Sweet dreams.