Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Sticks and Stones (Special Bonus)

Episode Date: March 20, 2023

Our story tonight is called “Sticks and Stones” and it’s a story about solitude and slowing down for a long walk. It’s also about a stream full of colored rocks, one man’s treasure, and a spot in the forest for admiring beautiful things.Sign up for Premium Plus here: https://nothingmuchhappens.supportingcast.fmhttps://linktr.ee/nothingmuchhappensPurchase 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. You might be able to hear that my usually soporific voice is less so this week. I've been a little under the weather, and I'm almost recovered. I don't want to keep anybody up with my voice tonight. So while I didn't want to interrupt the ongoing adventures of Marmalade and Crumb,

of which more await you next week, I thought this might be the perfect opportunity for a little treat. So we are bringing you a bonus episode that has only ever been available on our Premium Plus feed. The Premium Plus feed gives you our entire catalog, all ad-free episodes, as well as monthly bonus episodes, and our new Slightly More Happens long shows. If you'd like to subscribe, go to nothingmuchappens.com or see the link in our show notes. Now, sweet dreams, and on to the show. Whatever today has been like,

it can end in soothing rest, just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of our tale. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. Let the details you hear pull you into the world of the story, as if you were seeing and hearing what it has to offer. If you wake again in the middle of the night, turn your mind right back to those details. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow,

feeling refreshed. This is an effective form of brain training, and as the habit builds, you'll notice that you drop off sooner and Okay, lights out campers. Get as comfortable as you can. Scan from the top of your head down through your body to your toes. And just let things relax and soften as you go. Let's breathe in through the nose and out. Good. Our story tonight is called Sticks and Stones,

and it's a story about solitude and slowing down for a long walk. It's also about a stream full of colored rocks, one man's treasure, and a spot in the forest for admiring beautiful things. Sticks and Stones I followed the train tracks out of town from the little depot, past the corner shop in my boots, as the ground was still spongy and wet with spring rain.

I'd been taking this walk for ages, decades. It was one of my favorite trails, even though it wasn't quite a trail. Just a worn path through the grass, with the train tracks on one side and thick woods on the other. How this little patch of wilderness had escaped, turning into a neighborhood, I didn't know, but I was so glad it had. It was solitary, and except for the train that came through a few times a day,

very quiet. It had been cool when I left the house, but now, even in the shade of the trees at the edge of the path, I was getting warm. I slipped my sweater off and tied it around my waist. I edged around muddy spots and walked carefully where the ground was soft. I spotted a thin fallen branch hanging where it had caught in the crook of a tree on its way down after a winter storm after a winter storm, and left the path for a few minutes to tug it down. It was sturdy, about as big around as a baseball bat, and the perfect height for a walking stick. I stripped off the tiny branchlets from its length

and found a spot near a crook at shoulder height where my hand fit just right with the lines of bark. I'd learned to love a good walk from my grandfather, who, like me, was most at ease in the quiet. Thinking back, lots of those treks, which had seemed like epic safaris at the time, had only been around the long edge of the garden and into the apple trees at the back of the lot. But he'd always kept an eye out for a walking stick for me as we went, and we'd found one nearly every time. He was a patient man and never rushed my short legs to keep up.

He fit his pace to mine instead. We'd pick up horse chestnuts and shiny rocks and look for birds' nests in the trees. When we cleaned out his house a few years ago in the garage in an old barrel in the corner we'd found a few dozen In the garage, in an old barrel in the corner.

We'd found a few dozen short, thin sticks. My cousin had guessed it was just kinling he'd collected for the fireplace. But I recognized them. They were all my walking sticks from our adventures. He'd saved them one by one and kept them all these years. It was the only thing I'd asked for from all the things we packed and sorted. And now, that little barrel sat by my own back door. I was too big for those little sticks. But maybe one day, I'd have someone little to take on walks and point out nests and spider webs too.

So I kept them. Back on the path, I strolled on, liking the sound that the stick made when it crunched into the gravelly earth. I found that walking with the stick also helped me slow down a bit. Sometimes rushing just became second nature, and I would find myself hurrying through things needlessly and missing a lot of the best parts. When I added the stick into my stride,

it took me off autopilot and I enjoyed a true walking pace. I'd read years before a study on rushing and kindness that found when people felt under pressure to hurry, they were less likely to help someone in need. That had stuck with me. And I suspected that lots of harsh words and inconsiderate acts were rooted in feeling like there wasn't time

to stop and consider a different way. My walks were a way to regulate my own inner metronome. I always came away from them, reset to a better tempo. I started to feel a rumbling in the ground, and I watched a few kernels of wheat that the last cargo train had dropped, bouncing, vibrating on the tracks. A train was coming. I always tucked into the woods when one came by. I don't know why. I was on public land,

and no one would object to me walking here. Maybe it was because I didn't want my solitude interrupted. I liked not being seen. So I turned toward the trees and walked a dozen feet in. The train came closer. I liked the rushing sound of it and the way the wind blew over my legs. In the woods, bright colors caught my eye, and I noticed a blue and green scarf wound around a low-hanging branch. Often when I walked in the winter, if I found a glove or hat lost on the trail, I'd prop it up somewhere its owner might spy it.

And I guessed that was what was happening here. A lost scarf keeping a branch warm. But as I got closer, I saw that there were also dried flowers, hydrangeas, that were tucked into a big open knot. And looking down, a score of shiny, smooth rocks. It may have started with a lost scarf, but was becoming a place where little gifts to the forest itself were left.

I noticed a bunch of lilacs, still fresh and sweet, bound together with a string or propped by the roots, and the two halves of a bright blue robin's shell gently cupped in the earth. The sound of the train was fading in the distance. I felt that I wanted to add something to the offerings. I knew where some of those pretty stones had come from and cut a bit deeper into the woods. There was a stream, not even wide enough to be called a creek, that ran like a crooked line through the land,

and I walked till I heard the tinkling sound of it. My walking stick and I left prints in the silt of the banks. Till I found a spot to squat down and hunt for rocks. I usually resist the urge, when I go to the beach or some other stone-rich place, to pick up the smoothest, prettiest ones and put them in my pocket. What would I do with them when I got home? But here, I thought I might just take one, and I let my fingers trail through the water. It was so clear that I could see the rainbow of pebbles underneath. And I plucked a few up and let the moving stream rinse them in my palms. They were shades of earthy red and green. And even as pretty as they were, they didn't feel like the right ones. I dipped my hand back into the water

and felt my finger slip into something that might have been a ring. When I drew it out, I saw that it was a stone with a hole in it. It was about the size of my palm, and a light gray that grew paler as it dried. I'd heard about stones like these, but I'd never found one before. It felt like reaching into the grass

and coming away with a four-leaf clover. I rinsed my hands in the creek and pushed up on my walking stick and headed back to the tree. On a low branch, I threaded the stone over a clump of budding air and let it out and went with my stick back to the trail. sticks, and stones. I followed the train tracks out of town from the depot, past the corner shop in my boots, as the ground was still spongy and wet with spring rain. I'd been taking this walk for ages, decades. It was one of my favorite trails, even though it wasn't quite a trail, just a worn path through the grass,

with the train tracks on one side and thick woods on the other. How this little patch of wilderness had escaped, turning into a neighborhood, I didn't know. But I was so glad it had. It was solitary,

and except for the train that came through a few times a day, very quiet. It had been cool when I'd left the house. But now, even in the shade of the trees, at the edge of the path, I was getting warm. I slipped my sweater off and tied it around my waist. I edged around muddy spots and walked carefully where the ground was soft. I spotted a thin fallen branch hanging where it had caught in the crook of a tree on its way down after a winter storm

and left the path for a few minutes to tug it free. It was sturdy, about as big around as a baseball bat, and the perfect height for a walking stick. I stripped off the tiny branchlets from its length and found a spot near a crook at shoulder height where my hand fit just right with the lines of the bark. I'd learned to love a good walk from my grandfather, who, like me, was most at ease in the quiet. Thinking back, lots of those treks,

which had seemed like epic safaris at the time, had only been around the long edge of the garden and into the apple trees at the back of the lot. But he'd always kept an eye out for a walking stick for me as we went, and we'd found one nearly every time. He was a patient man and never rushed my short legs to keep up. He fit his pace to mine instead. We'd pick up horse chestnuts and shiny rocks

and look for birds' nests in the trees. When we cleaned out his house a few years ago, in the garage, in an old barrel in the corner, we'd found a few dozen short, thin sticks. My cousin had guessed it was just kindling he'd collected for the fireplace. But I recognized them. They were all my walking sticks from our adventures. He'd saved them one by one and kept them all these years. It was the only thing I asked for from all the things we packed and sorted. And now, that little barrel sat by my own back door. I was too big for those little sticks. But maybe one day

I'd have someone little to take on walks and point out nests and spiderwebs too. So I kept them. Back on the path, I strolled on, liking the sound that the stick made when it crunched into the gravelly earth. I found that walking with the stick also helped me slow down a bit. Sometimes rushing just became second nature, and I would find myself hurrying through things needlessly and missing a lot of the best parts.

When I added the stick into my stride, it took me off autopilot and I enjoyed a true walking pace. I'd read years before a study on rushing and kindness that found when people felt under pressure to hurry, they were less likely to help someone in need. That had stuck with me, and I suspected that lots of harsh words

and inconsiderate acts were rooted in feeling that there wasn't time to stop and consider a different way. My walks were a way to regulate my own inner metronome. I always came away from them, reset to a better tempo. I started to feel a rumbling in the ground, and I watched a few kernels of wheat that the last cargo train had dropped, bouncing, vibrating on the tracks. A train was coming. I always tucked into the woods when one came by.

I don't know why. I was on public land, and no one would object to me walking here. Maybe it was because I didn't want my solitude interrupted. I liked not being seen. So I turned toward the trees and walked a dozen feet in. The train came closer, and I liked the rushing sound of it and the way the wind blew over my legs. In the woods, bright colors caught my eye,

and I noticed a blue and green scarf wound around a low-hanging branch. Often, when I walked in the winter, if I found a glove or a hat lost on the trail, I'd prop it up somewhere its owner might spy it. And I guessed that was what was happening here, a lost scarf keeping a branch warm. But as I got closer, I saw that there were also dried flowers, hydrangeas tucked into a big open knot, and looking down, a score of shiny smooth rocks. It may have started with a lost scarf,

but was becoming a place where gifts to the forest itself were left. I noticed a bunch of lilacs, still fresh and sweet, bound together with a string propped by the roots and the two halves of a bright blue robin shell gently cupped in the earth. The sound of the train was fading in the distance, and I felt I wanted to add something to the offerings.

I knew where some of those pretty stones had come from and cut a bit deeper into the woods. There was a stream, not even wide enough to be called a creek, that ran like a crooked line through the land, and I walked till I heard the tinkling sound of it. My walking stick and I left prints in the silt of the banks, till I found a spot to squat down and hunt for rocks. I usually resist the urge when I go to the beach or some other stone-rich place to pick up the smoothest, prettiest ones and put them in my pocket. What would I do with them when I got home?

But here, I thought I might just take one. And I let my fingers trail through the water. It was so clear that I could see the rainbow of pebbles underneath, and I plucked a few up and let the moving stream rinse them in my palms. They were shades of earthy red and green, and even as pretty as they were, they didn't feel like the right ones. I dipped my hand back into the water and felt my finger slip into something

that might have been a ring. When I drew it out, I saw that it was a stone with a hole in it. It was about the size of my palm, and a light gray that grew paler as it dried. I'd heard about stones like these, but I'd never found one before. It felt like reaching into the grass and coming away with a four-leaf clover. I rinsed my hands in the creek

and pushed up on my walking stick and headed back to the tree. On a low branch, I threaded the stone over a clump of budding leaves and stepped back to admire trail. Sweet dreams.