Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Sunday Reset

Episode Date: November 7, 2022

Our story tonight is called Sunday Reset and it’s a story about a day set aside to plan for a good week ahead. It’s also about sheets hung on the line, drying in the last warm rays of the autumn, a record spinning on the turntable and a changed outlook after advice from a friend.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 Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. If you need more nothing much in your life, my book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available from your favorite bookseller.

It is full of beautiful color illustrations, old favorites and never-before-heard stories, recipes, a map of the village, and a cozy index, so you can search for stories by your favorite feel-good topic. It's been translated into many languages and is for sale all over the world. If you're in the States, you can get an autographed copy, or if you're not, an autographed book plate from nothingmuchappens.com.

Now, just by following along with my voice and the gentle turns of the story I'm about to tell you, you will be training your brain to have a reliable response. That is, to relax, focus, and tip into slumber. Well, that response gets stronger with practice, so have a bit of patience if you're new to this. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, think back through any part of the story you can remember. Often that will put you right back to sleep. And if it doesn't, please don't hesitate to just turn the story right back on. The longer you wait to get back on track, well, you're missing sleep, but you're also giving the gears a chance to turn and build momentum.

Now, switch off your light. Set down your device. It's time. Make your body as comfortable as you can. If there are leftovers from your to-do list today, recognize they weren't, in the end, meant for today. And that's okay. Feel your limbs going heavy, your eyes softly closing. Breathe in through your nose and sigh from the mouth. Again, in and out. Good.

Our story tonight is called Sunday Reset. And it's a story about a day set aside to plan for a good week ahead. It's also about sheets hung out on the line, drying in the last warm rays of autumn, a record spinning on the turntable, and a changed outlook after advice from a friend. Sunday reset. It changed how I thought about it when I changed what I called it. Funny how that works sometimes. How words can reframe things, change a perspective. I used to try to use my Sundays to clean. Sundays were for chores, and just thinking about that made me resent it a bit.

I knew the dishes needed to be done, and fresh sheets needed to be put on the bed, but I begrudged giving a day of the week to it. Then I took some advice from a friend of mine. She talked about resetting her space at the end of the week to make the next week easier, more enjoyable. And I could get behind that. started to reset. To think of it not as what needed to be cleaned up from last week, but what would be a gift to future me. And not just along the lines of food in my fridge or clear counters, but what would help me focus and feel rested and taken care of. It turned the day into something I looked forward to and took my time with.

And today was a reset day. The fall was turning into winter, but it sometimes happens when the seasons change. Mother Nature was treating us, sometimes it felt like she was teasing us, by rewinding into weather from a few months before. So as the sun rose, I stepped out onto my balcony and my slippers, with a blanket pulled around me and a hot cup in my hand, and felt quite comfortable in the nearly warm morning air. I let the sun shine on my face and closed my eyes and imagined my battery charge percentage climbing point by point from the warmth and the brightness. On the street below, I could hear people walking, dogs barking. The coffee shop at the end of the block must be roasting beans this morning.

I could smell the dark, chocolatey scent in the air. When my cup was empty, I stepped back inside and set it in the sink. Before I did anything else, I wanted to wash my face and get dressed. As long as I was in my pajamas, I was like a car in neutral.

But once I was dressed, teeth brushed and face seen to, I was in gear, moving forward. I stripped my bed and started a load of laundry, opening a few windows along the way to let in some fresh air. Then I went from room to room, resetting. It didn't take long, hanging up the sweaters and jackets that had landed outside of the closet over the week. Sorting through magazines and mail and tidying my dresser

and coffee table. I swept the floors and wiped down the kitchen counters. I realized I was working in silence and wanted a bit of music to keep me company. I'd bought myself a fancy vintage-style record player

for my birthday a few months before and was slowly growing my vinyl collection. I liked to play records while I reset. That way, every half hour or so, I'd need to flip the record or choose a new one. And it kept me on my feet and interested. I picked out an album that had first come out when I was a freshman in high school. It was wistful and angsty, a voice that had felt like a revolution at the time. I still knew all the words.

I took the record from the sleeve, propping the sleeve on my now-listening-to shelf, and lowered the record carefully onto the turntable. It was an automatic player, so I just lowered the lid and turned the dial, and the arm lifted and positioned itself over the spinning disc until the needle found its groove. I smiled at the first few bars, thinking about my younger self,

listening in my dark bedroom before falling asleep. Sure that all the very big things I was feeling had never been felt quite like this before. In some ways, that had been the reset I needed then. Year by year, I'd gotten myself to the next day, the next season, and so I was grateful for all those previous iterations of me. I guessed one day I'd look back on the me of now with the same affection that I had for my younger self. We were doing our best, and it was enough. I heard the musical chime of the washing machine completing its cycle, and took my clothes rack out onto the balcony. In this warm sunlight, my sheets would dry pretty quickly, and the fresh air would seep into the fabric,

so that every time I turned over in the night and my nose found the pillow, I would breathe it in while I slept. I might even dream of summer wind and open spaces. I took the damp linens out in a big basket and started to shake them out and pin up each piece. It was something my grandmother had always done when she was hanging towels on the line.

She'd shake them out vigorously, snapping the fabric over the grass. She said it made the towels fluffier. And though these were sheets and pillowcases, I still did the same thing. I clamped my hands firmly around the edges of my sheet and draped it over the railing as I shook it. I spotted my neighbor in the apartment opposite, watering his plants on his balcony, and we waved. The street was getting busier as folks took advantage of the weather.

It made me think about what else would help set me up for the week. A walk in the park. A new book from the bookshop. I checked the fridge and pantry and saw that I was still pretty well stocked for lunches and such. But wouldn't it be nice to have a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery for sandwiches? While the sheets dried, I'd head down onto the street and pick up a few other things. Epsom salts and eucalyptus oil for a bath. A bouquet of fall flowers for the kitchen table, a quart of soup from the deli for dinner, and maybe

a new record to listen to before bed. I was taking care of me in lots of little ways, and it sure felt good. Sunday reset. It changed how I thought about it. When I changed what I called it. Funny how that works sometimes. How words can reframe things, change a perspective. I used to try to use my Sundays to clean. Sundays were for chores, and just thinking about that made me resent

it a bit. I knew the dishes needed to be done, and fresh sheets needed to be put on the bed. But I begrudged giving a day of the week to it. Then I took some advice from a friend of mine. She talked about resetting her space at the end of the week to make the next week easier, more enjoyable. I could get behind that. So I started to reset, to think of it not as what needed to be cleaned up from last week, but what would be a gift to future me, and not just along the lines of food in my fridge

and clear counters but what would help me focus and feel rested and taken care of. It turned the day into something I looked forward to and took my time with. And today was a reset day. The fall was turning into winter.

But, as sometimes happens when the seasons change, Mother Nature was treating us. Sometimes it felt like she was teasing us by rewinding into weather from a few months before. so as the sun rose I stepped out onto my balcony in my slippers with a blanket pulled around me and a hot cup in my hand and felt quite comfortable in the nearly warm morning air.

I let the sun shine on my face and closed my eyes and imagined my battery charge percentage climbing point by point from the warmth and brightness. On the street below, I could hear people walking, dogs barking. The coffee shop at the end of the block must be roasting beans this morning. I could smell the dark chocolate set it in the sink. Before I did anything else, I wanted to wash my face and get dressed. As long as I was in my pajamas, I was like a car in neutral. But once I was dressed,

teeth brushed, and face seen to, I was in gear, moving forward. I stripped in gear, moving forward. I stripped my bed and started a load of laundry, opening a few windows along the way to let in some fresh air. Then I went from room to room resetting it didn't take long

hanging up the sweaters and jackets that had landed outside of the closet over the week sorting through magazines and mail and tidying my dresser and coffee table. I swept the floors and wiped down the kitchen counters. I realized I was working in silence

and wanted a bit of music to keep me company. I'd bought myself a fancy vintage-style record player for my birthday a few months before, and was slowly growing my vinyl collection. I liked to play records while I reset. That way, every half hour or so, I'd need to flip the record or choose a new one. And it kept me on my feet and interested. I picked out an album that had first come out when I was a freshman in high school. It was wistful

and angsty, a voice that had felt like a revolution at the time. I still knew all the words. I took the record from the sleeve, propping the sleeve on my now-listening-to shelf, and lowered the record carefully onto the turntable. It was an automatic player,

so I just lowered the lid and turned the dial, and the arm lifted and positioned itself over the spinning disc until the needle found its groove. I smiled at the first few bars, thinking about my younger self, listening in my dark bedroom before falling asleep, sure that all the very big things I was feeling had never been felt quite like this before. In some ways, that had been the reset I needed then.

Year by year, I'd gotten myself to the next day, the next season. And so I was grateful for all those previous iterations of me. I guessed one day I'd look back on the me of now with the same affection that I had for my younger self we were doing our best and it was enough I heard the musical chime of the washing machine completing its cycle, and took my clothes rack out onto the balcony. In this warm sunlight, my sheets would dry pretty quickly, and fresh air would seep into

the fabric so that every time I turned over in the night and my nose found the pillow. I would breathe it in while I slept. I might even dream of summer wind and open spaces. I took the damp linens out in a big basket and started to shake out and pin up each piece. It was something my grandmother had always done

when she hung towels on the line she'd shake them out vigorously snapping the fabric over the grass she said it made the towels fluffier the fabric over the grass. She said it made the towels fluffier, and though these were sheets and pillowcases, I still did the same thing. I clamped my hands firmly around the edges of my sheet and draped it over the railing as I shook it out.

I spotted my neighbor in the apartment opposite, watering his plants on his balcony, and we waved. The street below was getting busier as folks took advantage of the weather. It made me think about what else would help set me up for the week. A walk in the park. A new book from the bookshop.

I checked the fridge and pantry and saw that I was still pretty well stocked for lunches and such. But wouldn't it be nice to have a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery for sandwiches? While the sheets dried, I'd head down onto the street and pick up a few other things. Epsom salts and eucalyptus oil for a bath.

A bouquet of fall flowers for the kitchen table. A quart of soup from the deli for dinner. And maybe a new record to listen to before bed. I was taking care of me in lots of little ways. And it sure felt good. Sweet dreams.