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

Episode Date: June 18, 2026

Originally aired June 23, 2025 (Season 15, Episode 50) 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. Go to ⁠AquaTru.com⁠ now for 20% off your purifier using promo code NOTHINGMUCH. AquaTru even comes with a 30-day best-tasting water guarantee. Subscribe to our ⁠⁠Premium channel.⁠⁠ The first month is on us. 💙 Pre-register for the Village of Nothing Much app⁠⁠. Use code VILLAGE-FOUNDER for 25% off for life. Pre-order Kathryn’s new book ⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠. ⁠NMH merch, autographed books, and more⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠ ⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠ ⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠ Follow us on ⁠Instagram⁠ Visit ⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠ for more Village fun. Come to the Cabin with this playlist! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Hi, I'm Catherine Nikolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories, about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up,

or when you want a little escape, that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the village of Nothing Much, wherever you listen. Welcome. to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

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. One of the things I'm trying to do as I get older is to make healthy choices easier because if something is complicated, I probably won't keep doing it. But if it becomes part of a ritual, I will. So for me, that's things like a morning latte, keeping water nearby while I'm writing, making tea in the afternoon. Water is just part of the rhythm of my day. And that's why I use aquatrue.

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That's a-Q-U-A-T-R-U-D-com. promo code, N-O-T-H-I-N-G-M-C-H. 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. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice.

One more. Breathe in. And out. 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 sun. 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. 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, sometimes just to tuck behind my ear and smell as I worked, 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, and cut a few stems

and tuck them into a little satchel. Nothing fancy. It could be a bit of cheese, cloth, an old handkerchief, ours grab 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 ral. 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. And 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 altogether. 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. 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.

And 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 kept. 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, their worries and cares, the things you were done with, and didn't serve you any longer. In the evenings, when the dishes were drying on the drainboard,

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, 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 Witter Shins. 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 propped it back in the corner. The upturned broom was meant to protect us for many 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. 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. Our tomatoes, particularly, loved the high heat. An 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. 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, sometimes just to tuck behind my ear and smell as I worked, 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 and 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, or 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. When you'll learn there are rhythms we hardly tap into.

Patterns unseen by most. There are more things in garden and woods than our drummed-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 window-sill at night. For the fairies, of course. And 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 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, 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 that 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. 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 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 drainboard 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 whittershins. And as I went, I cleared the day out of my mind. I swept out the cobwebs, and spare, mused up thoughts, any unkindness, or uncharitable 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 houseguess 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'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. It passed down ways to send worries into water, wishes into action, and to build a safe place,

to lay your head and dream in peace. Sweet dreams.