Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Summer Nights

Episode Date: June 16, 2018

Our story tonight is called “Summer Nights” and it’s a story about a day at the lake with friends, a huge summer feast, and sweet night air. It’s also about the feeling of realizing when something is good and being happy about it. 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. All stories are written and read by me, Katherine Nicolai, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Let me explain a bit about how to use this podcast. Just like when you were a child being tucked in for bed, you're going to hear a story to send you off to dreamland. 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 bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or the second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of thumb in general when you're trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. Relax. 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 bit of patience at the beginning. And if you find yourself awake again later in the night, just think back through the story again, and you'll go right back to sleep. Now it's time to turn off the light and to 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 the signal says, it's time for sleep. Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose

and then a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Our story tonight is called Summer Nights, and it's a story about a day at the lake with friends, a huge summer feast,

and sweet night air. It's also about the feeling of realizing when something is good and being happy about it summer nights we swam all day we ran down the dock our wet feet slapping on the sun bleached boards and made sloppy

dives and cannonballs into the lake. We tooled around on paddle boards and kayaks. We floated lazily on inner tubes, fingers trailing in the water. We talked. We sang along to the radio and told jokes and cracked each other up. Then we pulled ourselves up onto lounge chairs, jammed straw hats over our faces, stretched out and fell asleep in the hot summer sun.

When we woke, we raided the coolers for cold drinks, ate chips and salsa, jumped back in the lake, and dripped water over our magazines and paperback books. When the sun had tipped into the afternoon sky, we pulled shorts and tank tops over our swimsuits and padded into the house to make a big summer feast of a dinner. The gardens were overflowing and the farmer's market stalls had been too tempting to resist that week, so the house was full of summer vegetables and fresh fruits. We handed two dozen ears of corn to a few of our group who carried them to the back porch to shuck off the fresh leaves into brown paper bags. We lit the barbecue and laid out thick slices of seasoned eggplant and squash and tiny new potatoes.

We marinated portobello mushrooms and added them sizzling to the grill. I had an Italian grandma who taught me that when vegetables were in the peak of their season, as all of our hall were, to show them simply, with good olive oil, garlic, a bit of sea salt, and an herb or two. We had buckets of fresh tiny tomatoes from the garden, and I made them into an insalata di pomodoro, per grandma's recipe, with lots of fresh basil torn in.

As the vegetables were coming off the grill, I cut thick slices of farm bread, two loaves at least, rubbed them all over with fresh garlic, drizzled olive oil, and sprinkled salt and pepper and set them out on the grill to crisp. As we were all coming to the table, I laid huge trays of the bruschetta, topped with grandma's tomatoes in the center. Here were the grilled vegetables, the fresh salads, the hot sweet corn, and plates of fresh guacamole, homemade hummus and salsas, and herby pestos. We talked over each other,

reached for dishes past them, ate off each other's plates, poured cold water into cups, dug beer out of the cooler, and bottles of rosé and prosecco, and ate and ate and ate. We stayed at the table, talking as the sun started to sink down behind the trees, pushed our plates back and lit citronella candles

to ward off summer bugs. Someone brought out bowls of fresh berries and a hot cobbler from the oven. No, we cried. No more. We can't. But we found a way. We carried our plates into the house, and some kind soul started washing dishes. Someone started to dry. We turned up the radio and sang as we tidied and wiped down the counters. I snuck to my room and pulled on an old pair of lounge pants and a warm, soft hoodie. My skin was sun-kissed and chilled, and the fresh clothes felt so good. I washed my face and put on some lip balm and found my flip-flops and headed back out.

Now there was a fire, and all the chairs had been pulled up. We propped our feet up and looked at the stars that were just starting to show. Fireflies were blinking in the trees, and a breeze brought the smell of the water into our noses. There is a feeling, on summer nights, when you look up at the sky and suddenly remember how old the universe is, how big it is, and how small and simple you are. It is always a comfort to me to remember that I am small,

and so may as well take some joy where I find it, and set aside my worries and grudges. I looked around at the faces of my friends, the firelight shining in their eyes, laughing and talking and making memories together. I felt simple contentment and gratitude to be where I was and with them. I leaned my head back against the old Adirondack chair and took a deep breath of summer night air. Tonight I would sleep, deep and peaceful. Summer Nights

We swam all day. We ran down the dock, our wet feet slapping on the sun-bleached boards, and made sloppy dives and cannonballs into the lake. We tooled around on paddle boards and kayaks We floated lazily on inner tubes Fingers trailing in the water We talked

We sang along to the radio and told jokes And cracked each other up Then we pulled ourselves up onto lounge chairs, jammed straw hats over our faces, stretched out and fell asleep in the hot summer sun. When we woke, we raided the coolers for cold drinks, ate chips and salsa, jumped back in the lake,

and dripped water over our magazines and paperback books. When the sun had tipped into the afternoon sky, we pulled shorts and tank tops over our swimsuits and padded into the house to make a big summer feast of a dinner. The gardens were overflowing, and the farmers' market stalls had been too tempting to resist that week. So the house was full of summer vegetables and fresh fruits. We handed two dozen ears of corn to a few of our group, who carried them out to the

back porch to shuck the fresh leaves off into brown paper bags. We lit the barbecue and laid out thick slices of seasoned eggplant and squash and tiny new potatoes. We marinated portobello mushrooms and added them sizzling to the grill. I had an Italian grandma who taught me that when vegetables were in the peak of their season, as all of our hall were, to show them simply, with good olive oil, garlic, a bit of sea salt, and an herb or two. We had buckets of fresh tiny tomatoes from the garden, and I made them into an insalata di pomodoro per grandma's recipe, with lots of fresh basil torn in. As the vegetables were coming off the grill, I cut thick slices of farm bread,

two loaves at least, rubbed them all over with fresh garlic, drizzled olive oil and sprinkled salt and pepper, and set them on the grill to crisp. As we were all coming to the table, I laid huge trays of the bruschetta topped with grandma's tomatoes in the center. Here were the grilled vegetables, the fresh salads, the hot sweet corn, and plates of fresh guacamole, homemade hummus and salsas and herby pestos. We talked over each other, reached for dishes, passed them, ate off each other's plates,

poured cold water into cups, dug beer out of the cooler and bottles of rosé and prosecco, and ate and ate and ate. We stayed at the table talking as the sun started to sink down behind the trees, pushed our plates back and lit citronella candles to ward off summer bugs. Someone brought out bowls of fresh berries and a hot cobbler from the oven.

No, we cried. No more. We can't. But we found a way. We carried our plates into the house, and some kind soul started washing dishes. Someone started to dry. We turned up the radio and sang as we tidied and wiped down the counters. I snuck to my room and pulled on an old pair of lounge pants and a warm, soft hoodie. My skin was sun-kissed and chilled,

and the fresh clothes felt so good. I washed my face, put on some lip balm, and found my flip-flops, and headed back out. Now there was a fire, and all the chairs had been pulled up around it. We propped our feet up and looked at the stars that were just starting to show. Fireflies were blinking in the trees, and a breeze brought the smell of water into our noses. There is a feeling, on summer nights, when you look up at the sky and suddenly remember how old the universe is, how big it is,

and how small and simple you are. It is always a comfort to me to remember that I am small, and so may as well take some joy where I find it, and set aside my worries and grudges. I looked around at the faces of my friends, the firelight shining in their eyes, laughing and talking and making memories together.

I felt simple contentment and gratitude to be where I was and with them. I leaned my head back against the old Adirondack chair and took a deep breath of summer night air. Tonight I would sleep. Deep and peaceful. Sweet dreams.