Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Sunrise at the Cabin

Episode Date: April 1, 2024

Our story tonight is called Sunrise at the Cabin, and it’s a story about welcoming the coming day with a friend at your side. It’s also about dry leaves left over from Autumn crunching under your feet, the beauty of imperfect things, changing light, a coffee cup steaming in the morning air, and the gift of an early start.   We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Meals on Wheels. Meals on Wheels works to support our senior neighbors and extend their independence and health as they age. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts. Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Meals on Wheels, who work to support our senior neighbors

to extend their independence and health as they age. Learn more about them in our show notes. I want to thank some recent subscribers to our premium feed. So, thank you, Emma Rose. Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you, Pip. Natasha, thank you. You are helping us to continue to provide this service that so many depend on.

A premium subscription works out to just 10 cents a day and gives you over 35 bonus episodes with more publishing each month and completely ad-free listening. You can subscribe through the link in our show notes or by searching NMH Premium on Apple Podcasts. Now, especially if you are new here, and if you are, welcome. We're so glad you're here.

Let me say a little bit about how this works. Your mind needs just the right amount and type of engagement to make falling asleep easier. And after six years, yeah, I've kind of cracked the code. I'll tell you a soft, soothing bedtime story. It's short on plot, but full of relaxing details. All you have to do is listen, and we'll guide your brain to reliable sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, you can just start the story time through. If you wake later in the night, you can just start the story over again

or think through any part of it that you can remember. This is brain training, so give it some time for it to really become ingrained. Our story tonight is called Sunrise at the Cabin, and it's a story about welcoming the coming day with a friend at your side. It's also about dry leaves left over from autumn crunching under your feet. The beauty of imperfect things. Changing light. A coffee cup, steaming in the morning air.

And the gift of an early start. Now, lights out, my dears. Arrange your pillows and blankets so that you are as comfortable and comforted as possible let your whole body soften jaw, shoulders the muscles around your eyes. Everything goes heavy into the sheets. You are exactly where you're supposed to be right now. Nothing is needed from you.

Draw a deep breath in through the nose. And sigh from your mouth. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. Sunrise at the cabin. I'm not sure how it started. I've never been an early riser. Nor am I a night owl. I like to go to bed early and stay tucked in till late. But recently, I've been waking up before the sun, rested and ready, wanting to get up and get going. At first I resisted, flipped my pillow to the cool side, and tried to slip back into a dream, or propped myself up and read my book,

hoping my eyes would grow heavy again. Then I realized that whatever the cause of this resetting of my internal clock, I could take advantage of it, enjoy it rather than try to wind the hands back. And since then, I've become a sunrise enthusiast, watching it from different locations, And since then, I've become a sunrise enthusiast, watching it from different locations

and with a growing appreciation for the quiet optimism it inspired in me. Today was no different. I woke with no alarm, just a feeling of being replete, done with sleep and bed, and crept quietly around in the darkness so as not to wake the household. I put on thick socks, swapped my thin pajamas for warm sweats, and felt around on the bedside table till I found my glasses. I kept to the edges of the stairs to minimize squeaking as I came down into the kitchen and padded over to the coffee maker.

As I ran water in the sink and rinsed the carafe, I peered out into the yard our cabin is set at the edge of a valley land dropping away in front of us then rising up and up on the other side more than a hill but not quite a mountain there are a scattering of houses on the winding roads and a few had lit windows glowing in the early morning

I wondered if they too were spooning grounds into their coffee filters, smelling the scent of the brew. When the pot was half full, I poured some into my favorite mug and pulled my hood up over my head. I stepped into my garden clogs and slid the door to the deck open. It was cool, still early in the spring, but not cold. And as I stepped out and was about to close the door behind me, I heard the jingle of my dog's collar.

I waited a moment as he came sleepily down the stairs and outside with me. He stopped to lean against my leg and let me rub his head then ran out ahead of me we tromped across the yard the first birds of the morning clearing their throats in the nests above us and singing

at the far edge of the yard just before the drop-off in the nests above us and singing. At the far edge of the yard, just before the drop-off, we had a fire pit, ringed with Adirondack chairs, and I brushed a few dried leaves from the seed of one and sat down. My dog brought me a stick he'd found and wagged his tail in the low light, waiting for me to toss it. I threw it back toward the house

and heard his paws thudding into the soft ground as he chased after it. I sighed and leaned back in my chair, bringing the cup close to my face and watching the steam lift into the air. The light was changing around me, so subtle that it was difficult to notice unless I paid close attention. And I paid close attention. I noticed that I could see the outline of tree trunks and a few of the bigger branches, though their tops were lost in the darkness.

My dog returned, laid down beside the chair, and catching the stick between his paws, nod at it as I waited for the sun to rise. It would come up nearly in the center of the valley, not exactly the center, a little to one side, and I liked that. Lopsided, imperfect things felt lived in and less fragile than the ones that lined up just perfectly. The horizon the horizon was glowing brighter, and the sky above it more blue. My senses were wide awake, taking in all that they could,

and it made me feel calm and content. I'd heard someone once ask why being present was such a big deal. Why work at it? The answer they'd gotten was simple, and it rang true to me since I'd taken up watching sunrises. When our minds and bodies are in the same place, we feel better. We act more reasonably. We make more sense. This morning ritual, the dog chewing his stick beside me, the changing lines of light and color,

the taste of my coffee, it made sense, helped me make sense of myself and my day. Finally the sun crested over the land in the distance and instantly I smiled. If every stitch of land all over the world has its own special moment each day, is singled out to be seen and honored, this was ours. I set my cup on the arm of my chair, stood and walked closer to the drop-off, looking down into the valley

that was filling up with bright light. The houses on the hill, whose windows were lit coffee had been brewing, now just reflected sun. I turned my face to it, let it shine through my closed lids and revive me. After a few minutes, again feeling replete, I turned and whistled for my dog. And he came, ambling over, his stick a bit smaller but still in his mouth. I tossed it for him again and bent to gather up a few more broken branches and dried out seed pods. Today would be a good day to clear the yard of fallen kindling and brush

and pile it high in the fire pit for tonight. The days were getting longer and warmer now that we were past the equinox, and I liked to be outside for as much of it as possible. Just as I was dropping the wood into the pit, I'm thinking that a second cup of coffee would hit the spot. I heard the windows above the sink creak open and a voice call out, breakfast is ready. Coming, I called back, and we turned

back to the house. Sunrise at the cabin. I'm not sure how it started. I've never been an early riser, nor am I a night owl. I like to go to bed early and stay tucked in till late. But recently I've been waking up before the sun, rested and ready, wanting to get up and get going. At first, I resisted, flipped my pillow to the cool side and tried to slip back into a dream, or propped myself up and read my book, hoping my eyes would grow heavy again. then I realized that whatever the cause of this resetting of my internal clock, I could take advantage of it, enjoy it, rather than try to wind the hands back.

And since then, I've become a sunrise enthusiast, watching it from different locations, and with a growing appreciation for the quiet optimism it inspired in me. Today was no different. I woke with no alarm, just a feeling of being replete, done with sleep and bed, and crept quietly around in the darkness

so as not to wake the household. I put on thick socks, swapped my thin pajamas for warm sweats, and felt around on the bedside table till I found my glasses. I kept to the edges of the stairs to minimize squeaking as I came down into the kitchen

and padded over to the coffee maker. I ran water in the sink and rinsed the carafe. I peered out into the yard. Our cabin is set at the edge of a valley, land dropping away in front of us, then rising up and up on the other side. More than a hill, but not quite a mountain. There are a scattering of houses on the winding roads, and a few had lit windows glowing in the early morning. I wondered if they, too, were spooning grounds into their coffee filters

smelling the scent of the brew. When the pot was half full I poured some into my favorite mug and pulled my hood up over my head. I stepped into my garden clogs and slid the door to the deck open. It was cool, still early in the spring but not cold. And as I stepped out and was about to close the door behind me, I heard the jingle of my dog's collar. I waited a moment as he came sleepily down the stairs and outside with me.

He stopped to lean against my leg and let me rub his head, then ran out ahead of me. We tromped across the yard, the first birds of the morning clearing their throats in their nests above us and singing. At the far edge of the yard, just before the drop-off, we had a fire pit. Ringed with Adirondack chairs, and I brushed a few dried leaves from the seat of one and sat down.

My dog brought me a stick he'd found and wagged his tail in the low light, waiting for me to toss it. I threw it back toward the house and heard his paws thudding into the soft ground as he chased it. I sighed and leaned back in my chair, bringing the cup close to my face and watching the steam lift into the air. The light was changing around me, so subtle that it was difficult to notice

unless I paid close attention. I paid close attention I noticed that I could see the outline of tree trunks and a few of the bigger branches though their tops were still lost in the darkness My dog returned, laid down beside the chair, and catching the stick between his paws, gnawed at it as I waited for the sun to rise. It would come up nearly in the center of the valley, not exactly the center, a little to one side, and I liked that. Lopsided, imperfect things felt lived in,

and less fragile than the ones that lined up just perfectly. The horizon was glowing brighter, and the sky above it more blue. My senses were wide awake, taking in all that they could, and it made me feel calm and content. I'd heard someone ask once, why being present was such a big deal? Why work at it? The answer they'd gotten was simple and rang true to me since I'd taken up watching sunrises. When our minds and bodies are in the same place, we feel better. We act more reasonably.

We make more sense. This morning ritual, the dog chewing his stick beside me, the changing lines of light and color, the taste of my coffee, it made sense, helped me make sense of myself and my day. Finally, the sun crested over the land in the distance,

and instantly I smiled. If every stitch of land all over the world has its own special moment each day, to be singled out, to be seen and honored, this was ours. I set my cup on the arm of my chair and walked closer to the drop-off, looking down into the valley that was filling up with bright light. The houses on the hill, whose windows were lit when my coffee had been brewing, now a just-reflected sun. I turned my face to it, let it shine through my closed lids and revive me. After a few minutes, again feeling replete,

I turned and whistled for my dog, and he came ambling over, his stick a bit smaller, but still in his mouth. I tossed it for him again, and bent to gather up a few more broken branches, and dried out seed pods. Today would be a good day to clear the yard of fallen kindling and brush, and pile it high in the fire pit for tonight. The days were getting longer and warmer now that we were past the equinox, and I liked to be outside for as much of it as possible. Just as I was dropping the wood into the pit and thinking that a second cup of coffee would hit the spot, I heard the window above the sink creak open

and a voice call out, Breakfast is ready. Coming, I called back. And we turned back to the house. Sweet dreams.