Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Cabin in Summer

Episode Date: June 23, 2025

Our story tonight is called The Cabin in Summer, and it’s a story about days spent in the sunny garden and the shaded forest. It’s also about lemon balm and raspberries, the cool water of the creek running over your ankles, mushroom hunting and threshold sweeping, and the wisdom of wild places handed down from one generation to the next. Subscribe to our Premium channel. The first month is on us. 💙 We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the National Book Foundation. They work to celebrate the best literature published in the United States, expand its audience, and ensure that books have a prominent place in our culture. Jaspr Air Scrubber: Learn more at ⁠jaspr.co⁠ , and use the code SLEEP to get $300 off. 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. Let's take a deep breath together. In through the nose. And out through the mouth. It feels good to breathe deeply. And the air we breathe, especially at night, matters more than we might think. While we sleep, our bodies are hard at work, restoring, repairing, and recharging—but that work can be quietly disrupted by what's floating in the air—things like dust, pollen, and other allergens. I didn't used to think much about indoor air quality, but once I did, I realized, if

we care about what we eat and drink, why not care just as much about what we breathe? That's why I sleep with a Jasper air scrubber in my room. It has no annoying lights and doubles as a gentle white noise machine that's become essential to my bedtime rhythm. But more than anything, it's turned my bedroom into a sleep sanctuary. A space where the air helps me sleep, deeply and peacefully. I can't recommend Jasper enough. You can learn more at Jasper.co.

And if you use the code SLEEP, you'll get $300 off. That's JASPR.CO. Use code sleep for $300 off. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicholai. I write and read all the stories 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 the National

Book Foundation. They work to celebrate the best literature published in the United States, expand its audience, and ensure that books have a prominent place in our culture. You can learn more about them in our show notes. Did you know that we make extra long episodes of NMH? We call them Much More Happens. I know, I crack me up. We just released our second summer favorites edition

and it is over eight hours long. So if you wake in the night, you don't have to do anything. You just hear me for a few seconds and you're right back to sleep. They're available only on our premium feed. So go sign up. It's so cheap, 10 cents a day, and the first month is on us.

Find the link in our notes or at nothingmuchhappens.com. Now, I'm going to tell you a bedtime story, and it will occupy your mind enough to keep it from wandering, but not so much that it will keep you up. All you have to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. This is a kind of brain training, so know that it will get better and better with time. Our story tonight is called The Cabin in Summer, and it's a story about days spent in the

sunny garden and the shaded forest. It's also about lemon balm and raspberries, the cool water of the creek running over your ankles, mushroom hunting and threshold sweeping, and the wisdom of wild places handed down from one generation to the next. So lights out, devices down. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. You are about to fall asleep, and you will sleep deeply all night. Draw a deep breath in through the nose. Let it out with a sigh.

Nice. Once more, breathe in. Let it all go. Good. The cabin in summer. Thank goodness for old trees. All around the cabin, they stood tall and covered us in shade. Even on the warmest days of summer, they kept us cool. We could retreat inside after hours in the garden or long walks on the trails, and we'd instantly feel a relief of the dim rooms and the fresher air. And this summer was proving to be a warm one, for sure. Our gardens were thriving from the sunny days. Our tomatoes particularly loved the high heat and abundant light. We'd planted basil around and among the tomato cages. And

every day I pinched them back to keep flowers away and more leafy growth coming. The zucchini and peppers were growing fast, and the pumpkin patch was promising an exciting jack-o-lantern carving season to come. Along the split rail fence at the garden's back, vines of wild raspberries grew. And most days I picked enough to fill a mug from the cupboard. Entwined with the vine and growing in low mounds along the fence posts was lemon balm, in low mounds along the fence posts was lemon balm, which I hadn't planted but had somehow found its way here. Lemon balm reminded me a bit of mint in the shape of its leaves, and even slightly in its fragrance. The leaves were crinkly and heart-shaped, and when I bruised them gently, they gave off the scent, yes, of lemon, but something softer, like lemon zest and grass and mint altogether. I'd been picking stems of it along with the raspberries, and sometimes to add to my iced tea. But also because for me,

it figured into a good night's sleep. In plenty of traditions, lemon balm was thought to lift hearts, to sweeten thoughts, and even dreams. So returning to the cool rooms of the cabin with my raspberries and my posy of herbs. I cut a few stems and tuck them into a little satchel. Nothing fancy. It could be a bit of cheesecloth, an old handkerchief, or a scrap of pillowcase. I'd tie it shut with a bit of twine and tuck it under our pillows to ward off nightmares and bring us sweet dreams. Every few days I refreshed the herbs, and I found the ritual soothing even if it wasn't exactly rational.

I didn't need it to be. Work in a garden long enough, and you'll learn there are rhythms we hardly tap into, patterns unseen by most, that there are more things in garden and woods than are dreamt of in most philosophy. And it made me happy to do something small, to take care of us. It made me smile. And maybe that was the magic of it. In the same vein, I'd set out two raspberries and a thimble full of water on the windowsill at night. For the fairies, of course.

When most mornings the berries would be gone, the thimble tipped over and dry, except for the dew that had settled on it. I was betting I was making some starling or warbler happy with my evening traditions. But after all, birds are a sort of fairy, aren't they? There was also the creek to pay regular visits to. Sometimes we went all together, the dog as well. We'd walk the trails after

dinner and hunt mushrooms that grew from the tree trunks. Chaga and wood ears and hen of the woods, or hens of the wood, we weren't sure which. But often I went by myself. I loved listening to the babble of the water, watching it as it rushed over rocks or spiraled in eddies. Stepping into it on a hot day with my bare feet, feeling the cool water rising up over my ankles. It was a heavenly feeling and one that washed most thoughts from my head. There is a saying that a person can't step into the same river twice, for the river has changed and so has the person. And that did feel true each trip out. Even when the summer days repeated themselves with familiar actions, meals, and rhythms.

I was different. And so was the water. When it made me think of another bit of folklore, I must have learned it when I learned to use lemon balm and feed the fairies. The advice was that trees are keepers, and rivers are carriers. So tell the trees the things you need held, your secrets and memories, the puzzles you haven't worked out yet, and the wishes that weren't quite fully formed, they would hold them for you.

But tell the water what you wanted carried away. Your worries and cares. Things you were done with and didn't serve you any longer. In the evenings when the dishes were drying on the drain board and the fireflies were beginning to shimmer in the yard before I set out the berries or we laid our heads down on our lemon scented pillows. I'd do one last bit of housekeeping, one more traditional practice that had been handed down to me. When we were done reading our books on the porch, when the dog had made his last trip out into the grass, I'd be the last to go in.

I kept a broom in the corner of the porch, and I took a moment to sweep the steps and the threshold. I swept in counter-clockwise circles, a pattern called Widdershins. And as I went, I cleared the day out of my mind. I swept out the cobwebs and spare used up thoughts, any unkindness or uncharitable thinking. And once the threshold was clean, I turned the broom over so its bristles faced up and prompted back in the corner. The upturned broom was meant to protect us from any unwelcome visitors in the night and was a habit I'd learned directly from my grandmother.

She'd even used it when she was ready for a house guest to be on their way. She'd send me into her cleaning cupboard to stand the broom up on its end, and within ten minutes, sure enough, we would have the house to ourselves again. I often thought of her as I stepped inside and closed the door on the night. Grateful for the wise women who pass down ways to send worries into water, wishes into action, and to build a safe place to lay your head and dream in peace. The Cabin in Summer The cabin in summer. Thank goodness for old trees all around the cabin. They stood tall and covered us in shade. Even on the warmest days of summer, they kept us cool.

We could retreat inside after hours in the garden, or long walks on the trails. And we'd instantly feel the relief of the dim rooms, the fresher air. And this summer was proving to be a warm one, for sure. Our gardens were thriving from the sunny days. particularly loved the high heat and abundant light. We'd planted basil around and among the tomato cages, and every day I pinched them back to keep their flowers away and more leafy growth coming. The zucchini and peppers were growing fast, and the pumpkin patch was promising an exciting jack-o-lantern carving season to come. Along the split rail fence at the garden's back, vines of wild raspberries grew. And most days I picked enough to fill a mug from the cupboard.

Entwined with the vine, and growing in low mounds along the fence posts was lemon balm, which I hadn't planted, but had somehow found its way here. Lemon balm reminded me a bit of mint in the shape of its leaves and even slightly in its fragrance. The leaves were crinkly and heart-shaped, and when I bruised them gently, them gently. They gave off the scent, yes, of lemon, but something softer, like lemon zest and grass and mint altogether. I'd been picking stems of it along with the raspberries, sometimes just to tuck behind and sometimes to add to my iced tea. But also because, for me, it figured into a good night's sleep. In plenty of traditions, lemon balm was thought to lift hearts, Lemon balm was thought to lift hearts, to sweeten thoughts and even dreams. So returning to the cool rooms of the cabin with my raspberries and my posy of herbs. I'd cut a few stems and tuck them into a little satchel.

Nothing fancy. It could be a bit of cheesecloth, an old kerchief, a scrap of pillowcase. I'd tie it shut with a bit of twine and tuck it under our pillows to ward off nightmares and bring us sweet dreams. Every few days, I refreshed the herbs and I found the ritual soothing, even if it wasn't exactly rational. I didn't need it to be.

Work in a garden long enough, and you'll learn there are rhythms we hardly tap into, patterns unseen by most. There are more things in garden and woods than are dreamt of in most philosophy. And it made me happy to do something small to take care of us. It made me smile when maybe that was the magic of it. In the same vein, I'd set out two raspberries and a thimble full of water on the windowsill at night. For the fairies, of course. On most mornings, the berries would be gone. The thimble tipped over and dry, except for the dew that settled on it. I was bedding, I was making some starling or warbler happy with my evening tradition.

But after all, birds are a sort of fairy, aren't they? There was also the creek to pay regular visits to. Sometimes we all went together. The dog as well. We'd walk the trails after dinner and hunt mushrooms that grew from tree trunks. Chaga and wood ears and hen of the woods, or hens of the wood. We weren't sure which. But often I went by myself. I loved listening to the babble of the water, watching it as it rushed over rocks or spiraled in eddies. I'm stepping into it on a hot day with my bare feet, feeling the cool water rising up over my head. There is that saying, that a

person can't step into the same river twice, for the river has changed, and so has the person. When that did feel true each trip out, even when the summer days repeated themselves with familiar actions, meals, and rhythms, I was different, and so was the water. It made me think of another bit of folklore. I must have learned it when I learned to use lemon balm and to feed the fairies. The advice was that trees are keepers and rivers are carriers. So tell the trees the things you need held, Your secrets and memories. The puzzles you haven't worked out yet. And the wishes that weren't quite fully formed. They would hold them for you.

But tell the water what you wanted carried away. Your worries and your cares. The things you were done with and didn't serve you any longer. In the evenings when the dishes were drying on the drain board and the fireflies were beginning to shimmer in the yard, before I set out the fairy's meal or we laid our heads down on lemon scented pillows. I do one last bit of housekeeping, one more traditional practice that had been handed down to me. When we were done reading our books on the porch, and the dog had made his last trip out into the grass, I'd be the last to go in. I kept a broom in the corner of the porch. And I took a moment to sweep the steps and the threshold. I swept in counter-clockwise circles, a pattern called Widdershins, and as I went I cleared

the day out of my mind. I swept out the cobwebs and spare mused up thoughts, many on kindness or on charitable thinking. And once the threshold was clean, I turned the broom over so its bristles faced up and propped it back in the corner. The upturned broom was meant to protect us from any unwelcome visitors in the night, and was a habit I'd learned directly from my grandmother. She'd even used it when she was ready for a house guest to be on their way. She'd send me into her cleaning cupboard to stand the broom up on its end. And within 10 minutes, sure enough,

we'd have the house to ourselves again. I often thought of her as I stepped inside and closed the door on the night. Grateful for the wise women who pass down ways to send worries into water, and to build a safe place to lay your head and dream in peace. Sweet dreams.