Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Spring in the Yard

Episode Date: May 12, 2018

Our story tonight is called “Spring in the Yard” and it’s a story about getting outside at the end of a long winter, being in the fresh air, and tidying things up. It’s also about quiet companionship, dogs, and the last fire of the season. So get cozy and ready to sleep. This episode mentions alcohol. 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. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. Now let me say a bit about how to use this podcast.

I'm about to tell you a bedtime story to help you relax and drift off to sleep. The story is simple, and not much happens in it, and that is kind of the idea. It's a cozy place to rest your mind I'll read the 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 second telling don't worry that's sometimes how it goes. Relax. Walk yourself back through whatever bits of the story you can remember.

Lean into them. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed. This is a type of brain training. We're training your brain to follow along with the shape of the story. Like an upturned leaf floats along on the surface of a river. Each time you use a story to settle your mind,

it will happen more quickly and with more ease. So have some patience if you are new to this. And if you find yourself awake again later in the night, don't panic. That won't help. Just start back at the beginning of the story. And before you get very far, you'll drift right back to dreamland.

Now, it's time to settle in. Turn off your light. Put down all of your devices. You've looked at a screen for the last time today. Stretch deep into your sheets and settle into your favorite sleeping position. You're sending a signal to mind and body that it's time to turn everything off. Take a slow, deep breath in through your mouth. Nice.

Let's do it again. Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Spring in the Yard. And it's a story about getting outside at the end of a long winter. Being in the fresh air and tidying things up. It's also about quiet companionship,

dogs, and the last fire of the season. Spring in the yard. The snow had finally gone a few weeks before, and after a few days of good strong wind and sun, the mud was drying, and it was time to get out into the yard and see what needed doing. I was anxious to be out there. It had been a long winter,

and I felt sun-starved and missed the feeling of fresh air on my face. It was a sunny Saturday and the temperature was rising into the fifties. We smiled at each other as we put on old boots and found our gardening gloves.

The dogs were as eager as we were, barking at the back door and jumping with spring fever. I let them out and laughed as they leapt and tripped over one another. They ran for the pure joy of it, chased around trees and scratched at the fresh earth. We stepped out into the sunshine and took great lungfuls of air into our chests. The smell was that wonderful combination of dirt and last year's leaves, fresh buds and moss. Our property was deep with gardens and paths and a bit of woods at the back. The dogs knew where it stopped and started and stuck close inside the borders. I ambled off toward the shed with one of the dogs close behind me.

We were all so curious today. when I opened the shed doors and let the sunlight pour in. Dust particles leapt up and swirled like a murmuration of swallows. I stood and watched then dug out some trowels and rakes and yard bags and dumped them all into a wheelbarrow and rolled it out into the yard we were quiet as we worked and rolled it out into the yard. We were quiet as we worked,

listening to the sound of the birds making plans in the trees above us. We might stop and say something, or call out to the dogs or one another or laugh. But mostly we just worked. It felt so good to put the beds in order,

to clean out old leaves and dead growth, and see the fresh black dirt ready for planting. After a few hours' work, we looked up to see dark clouds rolling in. The temperature was dropping and rain was on its way. We packed our tools back into the shed and set the yard bags under the porch so they wouldn't get wet. The dogs had long ago gotten bored and gone in, and although the light was fading,

we reached for each other's hands and took a walk through the yard to look at what we'd done. This was always our habit, at least a few evenings a week. We would walk together through the beds and paths, sometimes with wine glasses in our hands, and point out to each other new growth, fresh flowers, or paw prints. When the first drops landed on our necks and faces, we turned back to the house. Inside, we found the dogs stretched out over sofas and rugs,

snoring away and sometimes kicking their legs in imagined sprints. We lit candles and started a fire with the last logs of the season. Hungry, I asked. Hmm, came back. I had made a pot of soup that morning, and now relit the stove under it. It was a lentil soup with potatoes and carrots and Indian spices. I sliced up a lemon to squeeze into it and turned to a loaf of sourdough bread bought the day before. I cut it into thick slices

and laid them on a sheet pan. I turned on the broiler and drizzled olive oil over the bread. The soup began to simmer again as I slid the pan into the oven. While the bread toasted, I sliced open a couple avocados that I managed to catch at exactly the right moment. They were a perfect green, soft enough to mash and with no black spots. I remembered the broiler in time and slid the toasts onto a platter I scooped out healthy spoonfuls of the avocado onto each toast

and mashed it in with my fork then plenty of salt and pepper and mashed it in with my fork. Then plenty of salt and pepper, some black sesame seeds, and dashes of hot sauce on top. I took out a huge wooden tray and began to lay it. A cloth so things wouldn't slide around. Bowls of lentil soup, the lemon wedges,

the platter of toasts, napkins, spoons, more salt and pepper, a bottle of fizzy water, glasses, and the half bottle of red wine left from the night before. I could hear the fire crackling and the soft sighing of the dogs as I headed into the great room. We had a deep sofa in front of the fire, and I found room on the table in front of it for the tray. I sat down and leaned back into the cushion. An arm slid around my shoulders and pulled me close.

We leaned into each other, nose to nose, cheek to cheek, lips to lips. The rain fell outside. Spring in the yard. The snow had gone a few weeks before. And after a few days of good, strong wind and sun, the mud was drying, and it was time to get out into the yard and see what needed doing. I was anxious to be out there. It had been a long winter, and I felt sun-starved and missed the feeling of fresh air on my face.

It was a sunny Saturday, and the temperature was rising into the fifties. We smiled at each other as we put on old boots and found our gardening gloves. eager as we were, barking at the back door and jumping with spring fever. I let them out and laughed as they leapt and tripped over one another. They ran for the pure joy of it, chased around trees, and scratched at the fresh earth.

We stepped out into the sunshine and took great lungfuls of air into our chests. The smell was that wonderful combination of dirt and last year's leaves, fresh buds and moss. Our property was deep with gardens and paths and a'm stuck close inside the borders. I ambled off toward the shed close behind me. We were all so curious today. When I opened the shed doors

and let the sunlight pour in, dust particles leapt up and swirled like a murmuration of swallows. then dug out some trowels and rakes and yard bags and dumped them all into a wheelbarrow and rolled it out into the yard. We were quiet as we worked, listening to the sound of the birds making plans in the trees above us. We might stop and say something, or call out to put the beds in order,

to clean out the old leaves and dead growth, and see the fresh black dirt ready for planting. After a few hours' work, we looked up to see dark clouds rolling in. The temperature was dropping and rain was on its way. We packed our tools back into the shed and set the yard bags under the porch so they wouldn't get wet. The dogs had long ago gotten bored and gone in,

and although the light was fading, we reached for each other's hands and took a walk through the yard to look at what we'd done. This was always our habit, at least a few evenings a week, we would walk together through the beds and paths, sometimes with wine glasses in our hands,

and point out to each other new growth, fresh flowers, or paw prints. When the first drops landed on our necks and faces, we turned back to the house. Inside, we found the dogs stretched out over sofas and rugs snoring away and sometimes kicking their legs in imagined sprints we lit candles and started a fire with the last logs of the season.

Hungry? I asked. Hmm, came back. I had made a pot of soup that morning and now relit the stove under it. It was a lentil soup, with potatoes and carrots, and Indian spices. I sliced up a lemon

to squeeze into it and turned to a loaf of sourdough bread bought the day before. I cut it in thick slices and laid them on a sheet pan. I turned on the broiler and drizzled olive oil all over the bread.

The soup began to simmer again as I slid the pan into the oven. While the bread toasted, I sliced open a couple avocados that I had managed to catch at exactly the right moment. They were a perfect green soft enough to mash and with no black spots. I remembered the broiler in time and slid the toasts onto a platter. I scooped out healthy spoonfuls of the avocado onto each toast and mashed it in with my fork. then plenty of salt and pepper,

some black sesame seeds, and dashes of hot sauce on top. I took out a huge wooden tray and began to lay it. A cloth so things wouldn't slide around. the lemon wedges, the platter of toasts, napkins, spoons, more salt and pepper, a bottle of fizzy water, glasses,

and the half bottle of red wine left from the night before. I could hear the fire crackling and the soft sighing of the dogs as I headed into the great room. We had a deep sofa in front of the fire and I found room on the table in front of it for the tray. I sat down and leaned back into the cushion.

An arm slid around my shoulders and pulled me close. We leaned into each other. Nose to nose. Cheek to cheek. Lips to lips. The rain fell outside. Sweet dreams.