Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Summer Storm (Encore)

Episode Date: July 17, 2023

Our story tonight is called Summer Storm and it’s a story about a cool cloudy day enjoyed from a favorite spot. It’s also about a simmering pot of soup on the stove, taking a day for pure rest, and an old friend to learn lessons with.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Our team is on vacation this week, and we want to remind you about the importance of rest and relaxation. So we are replaying a favorite episode from Season 8. It encourages you to think of rest like you think of drinking water.

When you need it, you don't try to get by on as little as possible. You don't feel guilty for feeling thirsty. You just take what you need. We'll be back with a new episode next week. We also want to let you know that you'll soon be able to subscribe to our premium ad-free feed

right through Apple Podcasts. And we'll have more about that on our socials and on our website. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. Your brain needs a job to do, and without one, it will wander off and likely get into trouble. But the job we have for it is easy and such a pleasure. I'll tell you a story.

In fact, I'll tell it twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Your job is just to listen and pull the details of it around you like a blanket. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again or just walk yourself back through any part of it that you can remember. This trains the brain over time

to shift out of its wandering default mode and into the restful response that happens in task mode. It's brain training, and it gets easier and more automatic over time. So have some patience if you're new at this. 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 get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax if you tend to clench your jaw when you sleep place the tip of your tongue at the spot where your top teeth meet the gums on the inside and sort of flatten your tongue across your upper palate. This will keep your jaw relaxed.

Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice. Do one more. In. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Summer Storm.

And it's a story about a cool, cloudy day enjoyed from a favorite spot. It's also about a simmering pot of soup on the stove, taking a day for pure rest and an old friend to learn lessons with. Summer Storm The rain didn't start until the evening, but the whole day had been dim and overcast, and while sunshine lifted my spirits, there was something soothing about a cloudy day. It felt like a suggestion from nature

to be quiet and do less. It felt like the moment when you realize you've been hunching your shoulders and you suddenly release them and feel the space around your heart open up. The windows the windows were open all over the house. I'd been keeping them closed against the heat most days this summer, opening them up only late at night and early in the morning, when the temperature outside finally dropped lower than inside, but the cloudy day had been cooler from the start. I'd lit candles against the gloom and put fresh sheets on my bed and played a favorite album on repeat for most of the day.

When the notes fell into my rather limited range, I'd lean into them, belting out and knowing every word. It reminded me of being twenty in my first car, singing at the top of my lungs along winding country roads. I still felt as carefree and ready for adventure as my 20-year-old self, even in my socks and with a mug of chamomile tea held under my chin. They don't tell you this about growing up. You don't lose your younger selves as you age. They aren't left behind. They just get added into the older versions, like cards shuffled together in a progressively fuller deck, a more true understanding of yourself and the world.

I had a friend who called this Earth School. And I liked thinking of it that way. What I learned, what lessons I had to go back and take over again. And the realization that there was no graduating, just moving on to other subjects and skills and interests. In the afternoon, the clouds got thicker and the shadows in the house were deep. I'd had a burst of energy in the morning and made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies,

a long simmering pot of black bean soup, and a crusty cottage loaf. I'd been nibbling at all three, here and there, whenever my stomach grumbled. And once the mixing bowls and cookie sheets were washed and put away, I'd felt ready to spend the remainder of the day doing very little and resting a lot. Rest is one of those too little used

but very effective forms of gentle medicine. I'd learned a long time ago to think of it as I might think of drinking water. If I was thirsty, I didn't hesitate to take a drink. I didn't try to get through the day first or get by on as little as possible. And I certainly didn't feel guilty

about taking as much as I needed. When I started to think of rest in the same way, it got easier to feel for when I needed it, to give it to I needed it. To give it to myself without hesitation. So, I'd made a nest on the sofa. A big, fluffy blanket.

Soft pillows. My book. my tea, and my dog, who, bless her in her senior years, had managed to sleep through all my singing. she was an old, gray-faced beagle whose long, floppy ears were as soft as velvet. And though she didn't follow me around the house anymore, she did wait till I sat down somewhere and then scooted up into the seat beside me. I'd finally turned off my music and just listened to the steady sound of her breathing. she had fawn speckles across her white and brown back and a stripe across the ankles of her back feet.

I unclipped her collar and massaged her neck as we snuggled on the couch. She let out sleepy, old dog grunts, and I thought back to our early days, when we'd run down the sidewalks together, her nose to the concrete, sniffing out the trails of every person and animal who'd passed by in the whole week before.

She didn't feel much like running these days, but her nose was still sharp. And most mornings, I could get her to play a favorite game. While she was out in the backyard, attending to her doggy business, I'd take one of her favorite cookies and walk it through the house, setting it here and there, and finally leaving it somewhere she could reach.

When I let her back in, I'd pat her back and tell her to find the cookie. She'd start sniffing and snuffling along the floors, and her nose would go everywhere the biscuit had, from one room to the other, until she found it and snatched it up with her teeth from the seat of a chair in the dining room, or the edge of a stair in the landing, or the inside of my shoe at the door. She was doing her own bit of earth school.

We lay together as the afternoon turned to evening. I took turns between reading my book and letting it fall onto my chest as I dipped into sleep. At some point, I got up to warm the soup, and as I stood by the kitchen window, tiny raindrops struck the pane, like droplets of paint flung from the end of a brush. The rain that we'd been expecting all day was finally falling. I nudged the window shut where the rain was coming in and spooned up a bowl of soup.

I cut a slice of bread and carried it all back to our nest. I settled back into my spot, and my dog hitched herself up a bit and laid her front paws over my leg. I didn't know how much she could hear or see. Maybe she was smelling it. But she lifted her head and seemed to watch the rain come down. It went from mist to full, round, heavy raindrops. And I thought of how

green the grass would be within a week from today's dousing. The sound of the falling rain rang through the house, steady and drumming on the roof, racing along the eaves and cascading through the downspouts. My water barrel would be full again in the morning. I broke bits of bread off, and she chewed them slowly as we watched the rain outside. Dinner and a show, I said to her. It had rained all night, and when we finally moved from the couch to the bed, we slept like rocks till the morning light broke through our curtains. I was vaguely aware that there had been lightning and thunder crashing in the distance sometime in the middle of the night. I think I'd sat up in bed to make sure she wasn't startled by the noise, but she lay at my feet, snoring soundly. when I opened the back door and we stepped outside

me still happily in my pajamas a bright blue cloudless sky stretched above us and the very best smell was coming up from the ground that deep after the storm rain smell very best smell was coming up from the ground. That deep, after-the-storm rain smell. It filled me back up with energy.

And after our day of rest, I thought we might just try a walk this morning. We had another day of school. Summer storm. The rain didn't start until the evening. But the whole day had been dim and overcast. And while sunshine lifted my spirits, there was something soothing about a cloudy day.

It felt like a suggestion from nature to be quiet and do less. It felt like the moment when you realize you've been hunching your shoulders and you suddenly release them and feel the space around your heart open up. The windows were open all over the house. I'd been keeping them closed against the heat most days this summer. Opening them up only late at night and early in the morning, when the temperature outside finally dropped lower than inside. But the cloudy day had been cooler from the start. I'd lit candles against the gloom and put fresh sheets on my bed and played a favorite album on repeat for most of the day.

When the notes fell into my rather limited range, I'd lean into them, belting out and knowing every word. It reminded me of being 20, in my first car, singing at the top of my lungs along winding country roads. I still felt as carefree and ready for adventure as my 20-year-old self, even in my socks and with a mug of chamomile held under my chin.

They don't tell you this about growing up. You don't lose your younger selves as you age. They aren't left behind. They just get added into the older versions, like cards shuffled together in a progressively fuller deck. A more true understanding of yourself and the world. I had a friend who called this Earth School

and I liked thinking of it that way. What I learned, what lessons I had to go back and take over again. And the realization that there was no graduating, just moving on to other subjects and skills and interests. In the afternoon, the clouds got thicker, and the shadows in the house were deep.

I'd had a burst of energy in the morning and made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, a long simmering pot of black bean soup and a crusty cottage loaf I'd been nibbling at all three here and there whenever my stomach grumbled and once the mixing bowls and cookie sheets were washed and put away,

I'd felt ready to spend the remainder of the day doing very little and resting a lot. Rest is one of those too-little-used but very effective forms of gentle medicine. I'd learned a long time ago to think of it as I might think of drinking water. If I was thirsty, I didn't hesitate to take a drink. I didn't try to get through the day first, or then get by on as little

as possible. And I certainly didn't feel guilty about taking as much as I needed. When I started to think of rest in the same way, it got easier to feel for when I needed it and to give it to myself without hesitation. So I'd made a nest on the sofa, a big, fluffy blanket, soft pillows, my book, my tea, and my dog, who, bless her in her senior years, had managed to sleep through all my singing. She was an old, gray-faced beagle, whose long, floppy ears were as soft as velvet.

And though she didn't follow me around the house anymore, she did wait till I sat down somewhere and then scooted up into the spot beside me. I'd finally turned off my music and just listened to the steady sound of her Fawn speckles across her white and brown back, and a stripe across the ankles of her back feet. I unclipped her collar and massaged her neck as we snuggled on the couch. She let out sleepy, old dog grunts, and I thought back to our early days

when we'd run down the sidewalks together, her nose to the concrete, sniffing out the trails of every person and animal who'd passed by in the whole week before. She didn't feel much like running these days, but her nose was still sharp, and most mornings I could get her to play a favorite game. While she was out in the backyard, attending to her doggy business, I'd take one of her favorite cookies and walk it through the house, setting it here and there, and finally leaving it somewhere she could reach. When I let her back in, I'd pat her back and tell her to find the cookie.

She'd start sniffing and snuffling along the floors. And her nose would go everywhere the biscuit had, from one room to the other, until she found it and snatched it up with her teeth from the seat of a chair in the dining room or the edge of a stair in the landing or the inside of my shoe at the door. She was doing her own bit of earth school. We lay together as the afternoon

turned to evening. I took turns between reading my book and letting it fall onto my chest as I dipped into sleep. At some point, I got up to warm the soup, and as I stood by the kitchen window, tiny raindrops struck the pane, like droplets of paint flung from the end of a brush. The rain that we'd been expecting all day was finally falling. I nudged the window shut where the rain was coming in and spooned up a bowl of soup. I cut a slice of bread and carried it all back to our nest. I settled back into my spot,

and my dog hitched herself up a bit and laid her front paws over my leg. I didn't know how much she could hear or see but maybe she was smelling it but she lifted her head and seemed to watch the rain come down it went from mist to full, round, heavy raindrops.

And I thought of how green the grass would be within a week from tonight's dousing. The sound of the falling rain rang through the house, steady and drumming on the roof, racing along the eaves and cascading through the downspouts. My water barrel would be full again in the morning. I broke bits of bread off, and she chewed them slowly as we watched the rain outside. Dinner and a show, I said to her. It had rained all night

and when we finally moved from the couch to the bed, we slept like rocks till the morning light broke through our curtains. I was vaguely aware that there had been lightning and thunder crashing in the distance, sometime in the middle of the night. I think I'd sat up in bed to make sure she wasn't startled by the noise, but she lay at my feet, snoring soundly. When I opened the back door and we stepped outside,

me still happily in my pajamas, a bright blue cloudless sky stretched above us, and the very best smell was coming up from the ground, that deep, after-the-storm rain smell. It filled me back up with energy, and after our day of rest, I thought we might just try a walk this morning. We had another day of school.

Sweet dreams.