Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Tell the Bees (Encore)

Episode Date: May 22, 2025

Originally aired May 20, 2024, Season 13, Episode 41 Our story tonight is called Tell the Bees, and it is a story that so many of you have asked for. I know that the podcast has seen many of you through difficult times, and often, you’ve asked for a story that might be a balm to a heavy or grieving heart, and this is my first attempt at that. If you want to avoid any heaviness tonight, that’s understandable. Marmalade and Crumb are always there for you instead. Tell the Bees is a story about a long walk through the clover on a path toward good listeners. It’s also about a rosebush with a new home, four-leaf clovers, a house with shutters and gopher trails, and saying things aloud when you’re ready to take your finger out of the dam. Subscribe to our Premium channel. The first month is on us. 💙 NMH merch, autographed books and more! Pay it forward subscription  Listen to our daytime show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much.  First This, Kathryn’s guided mediation podcast. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi friends, want every episode ad free? Tap the link in our show notes to subscribe. If you're on Apple Podcasts, just hit subscribe on our show page. Easy and it helps keep the show going. 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. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep breaths and sweet dreams. Now, I have a story to tell you, and it is designed to be a gentle landing spot for your mind. When your mind has a place to focus rather than wander,

sleep becomes so much easier. Just by listening, you'll shift your brain into task positive mode, and sleep will come. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story back on. You'll slip right back to sleep, usually within seconds.

Our story tonight is called Tell the Bees. And it is a story that so many of you have asked for. I know that the podcast has seen many of you through difficult times, and often you've asked for a story that might be a balm to a heavy or grieving heart. And this is my first attempt at that. If you want to avoid any heaviness tonight that's understandable. Marmalade and crumb are always there for you instead.

Tell the Bees is a story about a long walk through the clover on a path toward good listeners. It's also about a rose bush with a new home, four-leaf clovers, a house with shutters, go for trails, and saying things aloud when you're ready to take your finger out of the dam. Now, switch off the light. Set down your device.

Hopefully you have looked at a screen for the last time today. Plump your pillow and pull your blanket up over your shoulder. Let my voice be like a guardian as you sleep, keeping you safe and at ease. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. One more, breathe in and out. Good. Tell the bees. The clover was flowering all across the hillside.

Tiny white globes scattered like pearls were sprouting an inch above the surface of green. Walking through them, I wondered how rare four-leaf clovers actually They stretched as far as I could see in nearly every direction, and I supposed among the millions that blanketed the land, there must be many, many with four leaves rather than three. Once I'd spent an afternoon, some time in my teens, picking through clover, looking for the lucky ones with a friend. He'd assured me that they weren't as rare as people thought, and I seemed to remember that we'd found a half-dozen or so that day between sprawling in the sun on a blanket and listening to music. I hadn't thought of that day or that friend in ages, and as I climbed the next hill, I smiled, wondering where he was now,

if he remembered me when the clover bloomed. The sky was wide and azure today, The sky was wide and azure today, a few high feathery clouds and lots of sun. It was so close to summer now that it didn't even feel a bit like spring. Like spring, the trees were in full leaf. The hyacinths and magnolia had finished blooming, and lavender and garden flocks and salvia were beginning to show their flowers. The days were warm, sometimes hot, and the evenings lasted till well after dinner. We could sit out on the porch till the stars came out, still comfortable in short sleeves, and sleep with the windows open all night.

I was on a walk with a purpose today. I often rambled across the hills, just following my feet, not trying to get anywhere in particular, just enjoying the paths I found. just enjoying the paths I found. Today, I had set out with the destination and goal in mind. I was on my way to tell the bees. It was an old tradition to tell the bees about the changes in your life and family. Births, deaths, weddings, arrivals and departures. You told them when they happened. Told them the names of newborn babies, the date that someone passed or moved or returned home. I hadn't grown up with the tradition. I hadn't grown up with fields of clover and hills to walk, but here I was now. And at this stage of my life, I found it was a useful, somewhat cathartic conversation

to have. And when there was news, I would make this track and pass it along. I wasn't a beekeeper myself. For this apiarian heart-to-heart, I walked to the edge of my neighbor's property, where their hive sat. They didn't mind that I came for a chat now and then.

They didn't mind that I came for a chat now and then. I could see the clearing from the top of the hill, the sunny space ringed by trees, a few hives built into wooden frames with a bit of space around each colony. I came down the slope slowly, watching for gopher trails and rabbit dens, and found a fallen trunk to sit on, a dozen feet or so away from the hives. I laughed at myself. I felt silly, suddenly, and remembered that I always did when I came to tell the bees, at least for the first few minutes. I closed my eyes and felt the ground under my shoes, the rough bark against my legs. What if I just let myself feel the mix of emotions in the moment without trying to fix any of it?

It was something I'd been working on lately. It was something I'd been working on lately. When a big feeling arose inside of me, rather than try to find a way out, a way to block it, I experimented with just letting it come and letting it go. It felt dangerous because often we've got our finger in the dam. And it feels like if we take it out,

we'll be swept away in the wave we've held at bay for so long. and the wave we've held at bay for so long. But so far, though it hadn't always been easy or fun, I hadn't been washed away. And I stopped feeling afraid that I would be. So I let myself feel silly, a bit unsure of why I was doing this and what I expected to come from it. I took slow breaths and felt my belly expand when I breathed in. Felt it contract when I breathed out. There was a loosening across my collarbones, a softness between my shoulder blades.

Well, it's been a while since I came to visit, I started. There's a new family moved in, across from us. I point it in the direction. If you fly straight that way, in the greenhouse with the shutters. And we're going on a trip in a few weeks, first camping trip of the year. We've been fixing up that camper since last fall and I think it's ready for our first voyage out. And we'll be gone for a week or so. I took another deep breath.

I was warming to it, to just saying out loud the things that had been bumping around inside my head for a while. We planted a big rose bush in the side yard. I've never been very successful with roses, but I hope this one makes it. If it's not too far, maybe you could buzz over and see it. Were the bees listening? I could see them from where I sat on my log, busy tending to their colony's needs, probably flying out to visit that field of clover I'd come through, carrying home the pollen and nectar. My hope the rose bush makes it, I said again, because I dug it from Grandpa's garden and

I wouldn't want to let him down. He had such a green thumb. It was a roundabout way to deliver the news, to tell the bees the heavy shadow on my heart. But I thought they would understand. We each got something from the garden, all of us grandkids, and I took the rose bush and a few of those succulents he used to call hen and chicks from the flower bed by the front door. I had noticed that with grieving, it was sometimes like cleaning out your closet. It might get worse before it got better.

Still, speaking the words, I could feel a lifting of the weight on my heart. Telling the bees was helping me loosen my grip on the big feelings inside. Sometimes all you are left with when someone is gone is the pain of missing them. So you keep the wound fresh, preferring the hurt over nothing at all, but telling the bees about Grandpa recalled all that I had from him. That I was sad and missing him and that I was happy and remembering him.

I sat for a while longer, listening to the hum from the hives, I figured it was the least I could do after they had listened to me so dutifully. I was happy to hear what they were up to. Then I pushed back up onto my feet, feeling that sort of cleared out quiet that comes after a good cry. I was looking forward to the long walk back, to watering my rose bush and watching it bloom through the summer. Tell the bees. The clover was flowering all across the hillside. Tiny white globes, scattered like pearls, were sprouting an inch above the surface of the green. Walking through them, I wondered how rare four-leaf clovers actually were. They stretched as far as I could see

in nearly every direction. And I supposed among the millions that blanketed the land, there must be many, many with four leaves here rather than three. Once I'd spent an afternoon, some time in my teens, picking through clover, looking for the lucky ones with a friend. He'd assured me that they weren't as rare as people thought. And I seemed to remember that we'd found a half dozen or so that day between sprawling in the sun on a blanket and listening to music. I hadn't thought of that day or that friend in ages. And as I climbed the next hill, I smiled, wondering where he was now, if he remembered

me when the clover bloomed. The sky was wide and azure today. The few high feathery clouds and lots of sun. It was so close to summer now that it didn't even feel a bit like spring. The trees were in full leaf, the hyacinths and magnolia had finished blooming, and lavender, garden phlox, and salvia were beginning to show their flowers. The days were warm, sometimes hot, and the evenings lasted till well after dinner. We could sit out on the porch till the stars came out, still comfortable in short sleeves, and sleep with the windows open all night. I was on a walk with a purpose today.

I often rambled across the hills, following my feet, not trying to get anywhere in particular, just enjoying the paths I found. Today, I had set out with a destination and goal in mind. I was on my way to tell the bees. It was an old tradition to tell the bees about changes in your life and family. Births, deaths, weddings, arrivals and departures. You told them when they happened.

Told them the names of newborn babies. The date that someone passed, or moved, or returned home. I hadn't grown up with the tradition, but I hadn't grown up with fields of clover and hills to walk. Here I was now. And at this stage of my life, I found it was a useful, somewhat cathartic conversation to have. And when there was news, I would make this trek and pass it along.

I wasn't a beekeeper myself. For this apiarian heart to heart, I walked to the edge of my neighbor's property where their hive sat. They didn't mind that I came for a chat now and then. I could see the clearing from the top of the hill. The sunny space ringed by trees. A few hives built into wooden frames with a bit of space around each colony.

I came down the slope slowly, watching for gopher trails and rabbit dens, and found a fallen trunk to sit on, a dozen feet or so away from the hives. I laughed at myself. I felt silly suddenly, and remembered that I always did when I came to tell the bees, at least for the first few minutes. I closed my eyes and felt the ground under my shoes, the rough bark against my legs. What if I just let myself feel the mix of emotions in the moment without trying to fix any of it. It was something I'd been working on lately when a big feeling arose inside of me, rather than try to find a way out, a way to block it. I experimented with just letting it come

and letting it go. It can feel dangerous because often we've got our finger in the dam and it feels like if we take it out we'll be swept away in the wave we've held at bay for so long. But so far, though it hadn't always been easy or fun, I hadn't been washed away, and I stopped feeling afraid that I would be. So I let myself feel silly, feel a bit unsure of why I was doing this and what I expected to come from it. breaths and felt my belly expand when I breathed in, felt it contract when I breathed out. There was a loosening across my collarbones,

softness between my shoulder blades. Well, it's been a while since I came to visit I started. There's a new family moved in across from us. I pointed in the direction. If you fly straight that way, the greenhouse with the shutters. And we're going on a trip in a few weeks. First camping trip of the year. We've been fixing up that camper since last fall.

And I think it's ready for its first voyage out, so will be gone a week or so. I took another deep breath. I was warming to it, to saying out loud the things that had been bumping around inside my head for a while. We planted a big rose bush in the side yard. I've never been very successful with roses, but I hope this one makes it. If it's not too far, maybe you could buzz over and see it. Were the bees listening? I could see them from where I sat on my log, busy tending to their colony's needs, probably flying out to visit that field of clover I'd come through and carrying home the pollen

and nectar. I hope the rose bush makes it, I said again, because I dug it from Grandpa's garden and I wouldn't want to let him down. He had such a green thumb. It was a roundabout way to deliver the news, to tell the bees the heavy shadow on my heart. But I thought they would understand. We each got something from the garden. But I thought they would understand.

We each got something from the garden, all of us grandkids. And I took the rose bush and a few of those succulents I used to call hen and chicks from the flower bed by the front door. I had noticed that with grieving, it was sometimes like cleaning out your closet. It might get worse before it got better. Still, speaking the words, I could feel a lessening of weight on my heart. Telling the bees was helping me loosen my grip on the big feelings inside. Sometimes, all you are left with when someone is gone

is the pain of missing them. So you keep the wound fresh, preferring the hurt over nothing at all. But telling the bees about Grandpa, I recalled all that I had from him. Not just the roses and the hen and chicks, but years of memories and advice and silly jokes. Both things could be true, that I was sad and missing him, and that I was happy and remembering him. I sat for a while longer, listening to the hum from the hives. I figured it was the least I could do after they had listened to me so dutifully. I was happy to hear what they were up to. Then I pushed back onto my feet, feeling that sort of cleared out quiet that comes after a good cry. I was looking forward to the long walk back to watering my rose bush and watching it bloom through the summer.

Sweet dreams.