Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Summer at the Inn

Episode Date: June 27, 2022

Our story tonight is called Summer at the Inn and it’s a story about a morning by the lake at the great old house. It’s also about setting a table with care, a blue jay sitting at a feeder and how to borrow someone else’s joy and wear it as your own. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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 Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If you've ever been interested in meditation, but you don't know where to start, or you're convinced you can't do it,

join me on my new podcast. I've been teaching meditation for 20 years, and I can help make it make sense. It's called First This, and you can find it on any podcast app. Now, let me say a bit about how this podcast works. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. And the story, if you let it, will become a place to rest your mind. When your mind rests, you will drop off into sleep.

It really is that simple. It's when our minds run wild that we can't fall asleep. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the middle of the night, try just thinking your way back through whatever details from the story you can remember, or even just one of your own pleasant memories. This is a kind of brain training. Your sleep will improve over time, and this response will only get stronger. But be patient if you're new at this. All right, it's time. Turn off your light. Set down anything you are looking at. Slide down into the sheets and get as comfortable as you can. Feel your whole body getting heavier, deeply relaxed. I'll be here, keeping watch as you rest. Let my voice be your guardian. It's safe to let go.

Now take a slow breath in through your nose. Let it out with a sigh. Do one more in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Summer at the Inn. And it's a story about a morning by the lake at the great old house. It's also about setting a table with care.

A blue jay sitting on a feeder, and how to borrow someone else's joy and wear it as your own. Summer at the Inn Full summer was upon us. The trees across the lake were decked with thousands of waving green leaves. The tadpoles I'd been watching at the water's edge had grown through their awkward adolescence

and were now hopping through the high grasses. And their croaking was loud enough to hear from the porch at night. The days got hot by ten or eleven, and the hammocks in the shady side yard filled up after lunch. The inn was booked up, and I'd had to hang the no-vacancy sign at the end of our long drive. Many of our guests were returnees, and some had come when they were children, long before the inn's renovation. I loved watching a car roll down the circle drive

to stop at our front door. The occupants stepping out to stretch their limbs after a long drive and smile up at our beautiful old house, excited to settle in for their stay. Most folks came in late on a Sunday to stay for the week. And when I woke up early on Monday mornings and pushed open the window in my third-floor room to see clear skies and the calm blue lake. I would feel a burst of giddiness in my stomach for them. Their vacation was just beginning,

and it would be a beautiful week at the inn. People don't realize often, but you can borrow another person's joy, share it around, and it still doesn't run out. After all, we often borrow each other's anger and worry, so why not their excitement? And today was a perfect day for giddy vacation joy, warm and with that lush summer feeling as soon as the sun came up.

We did a breakfast service from seven till nine, though we usually had the coffee hot and ready in a big silver samovar in the hall by 6.30 for any early risers. We weren't a big hotel. When we fired on all cylinders, we had nine guest rooms, and our small staff managed it all very well. I like to think that not being big gave us a chance to tend to the details with even more care.

So in the mornings, while Chef was setting up the coffee and baking their signature cinnamon crunch coffee cakes, I set the tables on the screened-in porch with a level of precision that I took pride in. I had crisp, white tablecloths that came from the launderers with sharp iron creases in them, and I tossed them out over the tables one by one. we had a huge collection of china that I'd been buying from estate sales for years. And while we might only have a few pieces in each pattern,

we matched them up where we could. And I laid out plates and napkins and cups turned over in their saucers. I set out salt and pepper shakers and beakers of chilled water and glasses. And lastly, a simple bud vase with a single stem of whatever was blooming in our flower garden. When the tables were set, I walked through the long hall toward the front office. We got a half-dozen copies of the local paper delivered each morning, and I collected them from the front step. I liked to fan them out beside the samovar for guests to pick up and read with breakfast. As I passed through the hall,

I could hear some folks sleepily coming down the stairs, and I ducked into the office to press the call button. Our old house had once been a private residence fancy enough to have these call buttons and I sometimes imagined the lady of the house sitting in her parlor ringing for tea when I'd begun to renovate the inn ringing for tea.

When I'd begun to renovate the inn and had found the remnants of the ancient system in the walls, I'd been determined to get at least some of them working again. I didn't want them for the guests' use, but for ours. I had one behind the front desk that rang down in the kitchen,

and I pressed the toe of my shoe down over it. I was letting Chef know that our first diners were sitting down, and I always laughed when I did this. Chef had their ducks in a row better than I ever did, and I liked to imagine them, standing in front of a counter full of pastries and freshly cut fruit. Their apron pristine and the work surface already cleaned. Just shaking their head

and waiting for me to come pick up the plates. It was our joke. Breakfast went smoothly, and as our guests headed out to sit in the lounge chairs by the water, or borrow bikes from the shed, I helped our housekeeper clean and make up beds. Since most of our guests stayed for a full week, it meant there wasn't much to do at the front desk.

I could flit through the rooms, changing the water and the flower vases, running the sweeper over the old and slightly threadbare rugs, and stepped out to one of the outbuildings and pried open a big pail of bird feed. I caught up a galvanized scoop and filled it with safflower seeds and white proso millet. I carried it out to the feeders hung from the oak tree outside the library window, and as carefully as I could, filled them all up. When I'd become the innkeeper here, the first after years of the house sitting empty, I'd had quite a lot of work ahead of me to bring this place back to life. One day, I'd been cleaning in the kitchen for hours. It had been a long week in which we'd found a leak in one of the second-floor bathrooms

and more broken windows in the attic than we'd imagined. I'd been worn out and worried and come out here for a breath of fresh air. I'd sat down beneath this oak and leaned my head back against the trunk. And among the branches, I'd spotted a bird feeder, very old and handmade, and long empty of seed. But on the feed rail was a tall blue jay. He sat, as if waiting patiently for me to fill the feeder. It felt like a gentle nudge toward patience to keep going. Even after things have sat empty for a long time, they can still come back to life.

They aren't forgotten. I'd saved that feeder, repainted it, and hung it with new wire. And keeping it full was a way to say thank you for that moment of encouragement. With the scoop now empty in my hand, I strolled around the side of the inn and found Chef in their garden, pulling radishes from the dirt and checking on the eggplants, which were just starting to appear from their flowers. I could hear kids splashing in the water, low voices and drowsy conversation, and could smell the lake and the hawthorn trees still in bloom. Here's to patience, I thought.

Summer at the inn. Full summer was upon us. The trees across the lake were decked with thousands of waving green leaves. The tadpoles I'd been watching at the water's edge had grown through their awkward adolescence and were now hopping through the high grasses, and their croaking was loud enough to hear from the porch at night. The inn was booked up, and I'd had to hang the no vacancy sign at the end of the long drive. Many of our guests were returnees, and some had come when they were children, long before the inn's renovation.

I loved watching a car roll down the circle drive to stop at our front door. The occupants tumbling out to stretch their limbs after a long drive. Smile up at our beautiful old house, excited to settle in for their stay. Most folks come in late on a mornings and pushed open the window in my third floor room to see clear skies and the calm blue lake I would feel a burst of giddiness in my stomach for them. Their vacation was just beginning,

and it would be a beautiful week at the inn. People don't realize often, but you can borrow another person's joy, share it around, and it still doesn't run out. After all, we often borrow each other's anger and worry, so why not their excitement? And today was a perfect day for giddy vacation joy. It was warm and with that lush summer feeling as soon as the sun came up.

We did a breakfast service from seven till nine, though we usually had the coffee hot and ready in a big silver samovar in the hall by 630 for any early risers. We weren't a big hotel. When we fired on all cylinders, We had nine guest rooms. And our small staff managed it all very well. I like to think that not being big gave us a chance to tend to the details with even more care. So in the mornings, while Chef was setting up the coffee and baking their signature cinnamon crunch coffee cakes,

I set the tables on the screened-in porch with the level of precision that I took pride in I had crisp white tablecloths from the launderers with sharp iron creases in them. And I tossed them out over the tables, one by one.

We had a huge collection of china that I'd been buying from estate sales for years. And while we might only have a few pieces in each pattern, we matched them up where we could. And I laid out plates and napkins and cups turned over in their saucers. I set out salt and pepper shakers and beakers of chilled water and glasses. And lastly, a simple bud vase with a single stem of whatever was blooming in our flower garden. When the tables were set, I walked through the long hall toward the front office. We got a half-dozen copies of the local paper delivered each morning,

and I collected them from the front step. I liked to fan them out beside the samovar for guests to pick up and read with breakfast. As I passed through the hall, I could hear some folks sleepily coming down the stairs, and I ducked into the office to press the call button. Our old house had once been a private residence, fancy enough to have these call buttons, and I sometimes imagined the lady of the house sitting in her parlor, ringing for tea. When I'd begun to renovate the inn

and had found the remnants of the ancient system in the walls. I'd been determined to get at least some of them working again. I didn't want them for the guests' use, but but for ours. I had one behind the front desk that rang down in the kitchen and I pressed the toe of my shoe down over it. I was letting Chef know that our first diners were sitting down, and I always laughed when I did this. Chef had their ducks in a row better than I ever did,

and I liked to imagine them standing in front of a counter full of pastries and freshly cut fruit, their apron pristine and the work surface already cleaned, just shaking their head and waiting for me to come pick up the plates. It was our joke. Breakfast went smoothly, and as our guests headed out to sit in the lounge chairs by the water or borrow bikes from the shed,

I helped our housekeeper clean and make up beds. Since most of our guests stayed for a full week, it meant there wasn't much to do at the front desk, and I could flit through the rooms, changing the water in the flower vases, running the sweeper over the old and slightly threadbare rugs and opening windows to let the air in. When the house was in order,

I stepped out to one of the outbuildings and pried open a big pail of bird feed. I caught up a galvanized scoop and filled it with safflower seeds and white proso millet. I carried it out to the feeders hung from the oak tree outside the library window, and as carefully as I could, filled them all up. When I'd become the innkeeper here, the first after years of the house sitting empty, I'd had quite a lot of work ahead of me to bring this place back to life. One day I'd been cleaning in the kitchen for hours.

It had been a long week in which we found a leak in one of the second floor bathrooms, and more broken windows in the attic than we'd imagined. I'd been worn out and worried, and come out here for a breath of fresh air. I'd sat down beneath this oak and leaned my head back against the trunk. And among the branches, I'd spotted a bird feeder, very old and handmade, and long empty of seed.

But on the feed rail was a tall blue jay. He sat as if waiting patiently for me to fill the feeder. It felt like a gentle nudge toward patience to keep going. Even after things have sat empty for a long time, they can still come back to life. They aren't forgotten. I'd saved that feeder repainted it and hung it with new wire and keeping it full was a way to say thank you for that moment of encouragement with the scoop now empty in my hand, I strolled around the side of the inn and found Chef

in their garden, pulling radishes from the dirt, checking on the eggplants, which were just starting to appear from their flowers. I could hear kids splashing in the water, low voices and drowsy conversation. And I could smell the lake and the hawthorn trees still in blue. Here's to patience, I thought. Sweet dreams.