Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Boathouse

Episode Date: July 24, 2023

Our story tonight is called The Boathouse and it’s a story about an escape down to the end of the dock on a hot day. It’s also about a drawer full of old maps with dotted lines to mark journeys taken, the scent of lavender on your skin, and enjoying the pockets of ordinary magic wherever they can be found. This week we are giving to Ferst Readers (ferstreaders.org) “Strengthening communities by providing quality books and literacy resources for children and their families to use at home during the earliest stages of development.”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 create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to First Readers, strengthening communities by providing quality books and literacy resources for children and their families to use at home

during the earliest stages of development. Find a link to them in our show notes. People often tell me that they wish they could live in the village of nothing much. And while I can't give you exact coordinates, I can offer you a few more places where you might be able to find your way into the streets and shops and gardens. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens,

has beautiful illustrations, windows into this world, as well as stories you'll never hear on the podcast. It's available all over the world. Check your favorite bookseller or ask at your local library. You can also now subscribe to our ad-free premium feed right through the Apple Podcast app. There's more info at nothingmuchappens.com. 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 get into trouble. But the job is easy and such a pleasure. I'll tell you a story. I'll actually tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

And 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 the story that you can remember. This trains the brain over time to shift out of its wandering default mode and into the restful response of the task positive mode. 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 position. 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. This will keep your jaw relaxed. At first let's take a deep breath in through the nose and sigh from your mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Boathouse. And it's a story about an escape down to the end of the dock on a hot day. It's also about a drawer full of old maps with dotted lines to mark journeys taken, the scent of lavender

on your skin, and enjoying the pockets of ordinary magic wherever they can be found. The Boathouse. Midsummer was here, with her heat and humidity and bright, blinding sunlight. And the boathouse was shady and cool and quiet. I went often in the afternoon, a little escape.

And that was an idea that had appealed to me ever since I was little. To disappear every now and then, to be swallowed up in my own space and step out of time for just a little while. In the back of the closet, in my childhood bedroom,

there had been a tiny door. It didn't lead anywhere. It was a leftover access point for some plumbing or something similar. And by the time I found it, when I was five or six, it had been nailed shut and out of use for decades. But that didn't matter to me. closet and to pretend to open it up and slip through into another world. That feeling of possibility and adventure that had led me to discover a world of imagination still featured pretty prominently in my mind. discover a world of imagination, still featured pretty prominently in my mind.

On walks through the woods or neighborhoods, deep in the stacks at the library, or stargazing on a warm night. I never stopped seeing the potential of a bit of magic to weave its way into the moment. And the boathouse was full of magic. Today, when I was in need of my escape, I strolled out along the gravel path that cut through the seagrass and lavender. I stopped to reach for a handful of lavender blossoms, rubbing the

herb between my palms, and then cupping them over my face and taking a deep breath in and out. I tried to parse apart the scents that made up lavender. Sweetness. Honey. Bright like lemons, a tiny bit of the pungency of pine and rosemary, earthy and floral and soapy.

I took another breath, closing my eyes and feeling my shoulders relaxing onto my back. I rubbed my scented hands over my hair and down my arms, hoping to carry it all with me for a while. Further down the path, I came to the steel breakwall that edged the lake. I thought of the feeling of the warm steel under my bare feet when I was little, about to jump into the water. How I'd climb out a few seconds later and do it all over again, and the wet footprints that would dry in the sun within a minute or so.

Today, I had a feeling I'd rather not step my bare foot upon it. The heat was layered in the air around me, seemed to vibrate in the plants and bounce off the surface of the lake. I brought my hand up to my brow, shielding my eyes against the sun. I stepped out onto the dock and hurried down its length toward the boathouse. The dock reached a good way out into the water, and that was part of the magic of it, like its own tiny island on the lake. I knew every knot in the boards, an old bit of rope wrapped around the pilings.

The boathouse was painted a light blue, summer sky blue, with white trim, though the paint was peeling and chipped in places. The door stuck a bit, and I braced my shoulder against it as I pushed it open. I stood for a moment before I shut the door behind me, the rush of the cooler air and to breathe in the smell of the old wood and the water. I felt myself relax in an instant.

There are layers to that, aren't there? You soften, and then you realize you are still holding or tensing, and that you can let go even more. My face, my eyes, my shoulders all eased. And I was glad to be here in this moment. I shut the door behind me and stepped into the dim space. The floorboards creaked in a friendly, welcoming way that I had heard them do for ages. The boathouse had many things in it, but a boat wasn't one of them. There had been a few over the years, but just now it was bare.

And I liked the space that afforded. Along the walls, a whole collection of oars hung, and beside them, on a dusty shelf, a trophy for second place in a rowing competition that had been raced long before I was born.

There was a bench built into the back wall where I'd taken many midday naps. There were old tools in a cabinet that must have been used on the boats that had been moored here. Life jackets, coils of rope, a few kerosene lanterns, and a drawer full of old maps of waterways. When I didn't have a book with me, I could spend ages looking through those maps. Some of them had notations written on them in faded pencil.

Dates and wind speed and temperature. How long a trip had taken. I'd imagine myself on a sailboat or old wooden crisscraft, adventuring through the rivers and lakes and canals, taking in sunsets and spotting cranes in the high grass at the water's edge. I'd run my fingertip along the dotted lines drawn around shallow spots and sandbars and thought where I might toss an anchor overboard to stop for a swim. Light reflected through the water and rippled on the walls around me. From the open boat well, there was a steady sound of waves slapping at the wooden stilts and mooring.

I smiled, thinking of this place as my wishing well. I didn't toss a coin in. The lake preferred not to be treated that way. But I could dream here. And isn't that the same as wishing? I took my spot on the bench leaning back against the seat and propping my feet up on an old crate

I didn't mean to stay much longer there were cucumbers in the garden ready to be picked and sheets on the line that must be dry by now. But still, I let my eyes fall shut, and my body relax just a bit more. When we find these magical spaces, the door at the back of the closet, the gate to the hidden garden, the floating house in the middle of the lake.

Well, we mustn't miss the chance to soften and imagine. And be carried away by daydreams. The Boathouse. by daydreams. The Boathouse Midsummer was here with her heat and humidity and bright, blinding sunlight. And the Boathouse was shady and cool and quiet.

I went often in the disappear every now and then. To be swallowed up in my own space and step out of time for just a little while. In the back of the closet in my childhood bedroom there had been a tiny door. I didn't lead anywhere. It was a leftover access point for some plumbing or something similar. And by the time I found it, when I was five or six, it had been nailed shut and out of use for decades.

But that didn't matter to me. I loved to crawl to the back of the closet and pretend to open it and slip through into another world. possibility, an adventure that had led me to discover a world of imagination, still featured pretty prominently in my mind. on walks through the woods or neighborhoods, deep in the stacks at the library, or stargazing on a warm night, I never stopped seeing the potential of a bit of magic to weave its way into the moment. And the boathouse was full of magic. Today, when I was in need of my escape, I strolled out along the gravel path that cut through the seagrass and lavender.

I stopped to reach for a handful of the lavender blossoms, rubbing the herb between my palms, and then cupping them over my face and taking a deep breath in and out. I tried to parse apart the scents that made up lavender. Sweet, honey, bright like lemons,

a tiny bit of the pungency of pine and rosemary, and earthy and floral and soapy, and floral, and soapy. I took another breath, closing my eyes and feeling my shoulders relaxing onto my back. I rubbed my scented hands over my hair and down my arms, hoping to carry it all with me for a while. Further down the path, I came to the steel break wall that edged the lake. I thought of the feeling of the warm steel under my bare feet when I was little and about to jump into the water. how I'd climb out a few seconds later and do it all over again

and the wet footprints that would dry in the sun within a minute or so. Today, I had a feeling I'd rather not step my bare foot upon it. The heat was layered in the air around me, seemed to vibrate in the plants and bounce off the surface of the water. I brought my hand up to my brow, shielding my eyes against the sun. I stepped out onto the dock and hurried down its length toward the boathouse. The dock reached a good way out into the water, and that was part of the magic of it. Like a tiny island on the lake.

I knew every knot in the boards. An old bit of rope wrapped around the pilings. The boathouse was painted a light blue, summer sky blue, with white trim, though the paint was peeling and chipped in places. The door stuck a bit, and I braced my shoulder against it as I pushed it open.

I stood for a moment before I shut the door behind me, just to feel the rush of the cooler air and to breathe in the smell of the old wood and water. I felt myself relax in an instant. There are layers to that, aren't there? You soften, and then you realize you're still holding or tensing, and that you can actually let go even more. My face, my eyes, my shoulders, all eased, and I was glad to be here in this moment. I shut the door behind me

and stepped into the dim space. The floorboards creaked in a friendly, welcoming way that I had heard them do for ages. The boathouse had many things in it, but a boat wasn't one of them. There had been a few over the years, but just now it was bare, and I liked the space that afforded. Along the walls, a whole collection of oars hung, and beside them, on a dusty shelf, a trophy for second place in a rowing competition that had been raced long before I was born.

There was a bench built into the back wall where I had taken many midday naps. There were old tools in a cabinet that must have been used on the boats that had been moored here. Life jackets, coils of rope, a few kerosene lanterns, and a drawer full of old maps of waterways. When I didn't have a book with me, I could spend ages looking through those maps. Some of them had notations written on them in faded pencil.

Dates and wind speed and temperature. How long a trip had taken. I'd imagine myself on a sailboat or old wooden criss-craft adventuring through the rivers and lakes and canals taking in sunsets and spotting cranes in the high grass at the water's edge.

I'd run my fingertip along the dotted lines drawn around shallow spots and sandbars, and thought where I might toss an anchor overboard to stop for a swim. Light reflected through the water and rippled on the walls around me. From the open boat well, there was a steady sound of waves slapping at the wooden stilts and mooring.

I smiled, thinking of this place as my wishing well. I didn't toss a coin in. The lake preferred not to be treated that way. But I could dream here. And isn't that the same as wishing? I took my spot on the bench, leaning back against the seat. And propping my feet up on an old crate. I didn't mean to stay much longer.

There were cucumbers in the garden, ready to be picked, and sheets on the line that must be dry by now. But still, I let my eyes fall shut, and my body relax just a bit more. When we find the magical spaces, the door at the back of the closet, the gate to the hidden garden,

the floating house in the middle of the lake, well, we mustn't miss the chance to soften and imagine and be carried away by daydreams. Sweet dreams.