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

Episode Date: November 4, 2019

Our story tonight is called “The Cabin in the Woods” and it’s a story about a trip along winding roads and a special place at the end of them. It’s also about pine cones high in their branches, a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the kitchen table, and a calm quiet feeling that comes from being far away from everything. So get cozy and ready to sleep. This episode mentions alcohol. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, 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. Our audio engineer is Bob Wittersheim. We are proud members of the CuriousCast podcast network. You can follow us on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter for pictures of cozy things and calm reminders to breathe

and enjoy the small pleasures around you. If you need more Nothing Much in your life, go to nothingmuchhappens.com where you can order some lovely pieces inspired by our stories. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's simple, and not much happens in it, and that is the idea.

The story is a soft place to rest your mind, a simple and pleasant way to occupy it, so that it doesn't wander away and keep you up. All you need to do is listen in a relaxed way. Just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple details of the story. And soon, very soon, you'll be deeply asleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again,

or just think your way back through any part of the story that you can remember. We're training your brain to settle and rest, and the more you do this, the better your sleep will get. It's time. Turn off your light. Snuggle your body down into your sheets. And get as comfortable as you can. Take a moment just to feel how good it is to be in bed. To be about to sleep.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Nice. Let's do that again. Breathe in and out. Our story tonight is called The Cabin in the Woods, and it's a story about a trip along winding roads and a special place at the end of them. It's also about pine cones high in their branches,

a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the kitchen table, and the calm, quiet feeling that comes from being far away from everything. The Cabin in the woods. It took a few hours in the car to get there, and I, in the passenger seat, had been dozing, listening to the slow swish of the windshield wipers. It wasn't storming,

but there was a slow misting rain that coated the windows and pushed the drying leaves from their branches as we made our way along country roads to the cabin. I blinked my eyes open a few times and let out a slow sigh. A hand reached out for mine and I squeezed. I slipped my feet back into my shoes

and said in a sleepy voice, Almost there. Almost. The road was curving and climbing. Tall pines and bright red maples stood on either side, and I felt my shoulders relaxing down my back. The closer we got, the calmer I felt. There was some point on these twisting roads.

I wasn't sure if it was always the same point, not a particular mile marker or faded billboard, but a general distance away from everything else and closer to the cabin, where I suddenly felt like I had stepped into a hot shower, and my muscles softened, and my breath got deeper. Soon we were turning down a dirt road, then another. We made a left at the fork and turned onto the long pebble drive of the cabin. I sat up taller in my seat and looked through the trees and the mist and squeezed my sweetheart's

hand again as the shape of the A-frame came into view. It stood in an open space among the trees, a small meadow which in the summer was filled with sweet Williams and black-eyed Susans and now had drifts of fallen leaves ready for our rakes it was small a true cabin with just enough room for the two of us

and the snugness of it, the simplicity that comes from small places and fewer choices, was an immediate, calming tonic. Inside, we hung our damp jackets on hooks by the door and turned on a few lights, looking around at our tiny space. There was a small kitchen, lined with old cupboards and open shelves,

upon which stood a few cookbooks, tucked between the percolator and the canisters of coffee and oats and flour and sugar. I set a sack of groceries on the counter. We'd stopped at a roadside stand, and I'd bought a few pears with papery bronze skin that I might bake into a tart tomorrow. I'd also bought a squat butternut squash and a stem of Brussels sprouts.

I drew back the thin patterned curtain over the pantry and saw a mason jar half full of arborio rice and a couple containers of broth. I'd roast the squash and the sprouts and stir them into the risotto for dinner. In the middle of the cabin, there was a small square of living space with a stone fireplace and sofa,

an old striped afghan thrown over the back. Some houses have blankets. Some cottages have throws. But cabins have afghans, crocheted years ago by someone's aunt in elaborate patterns, or with an amalgam of the last bits of yarn left in the basket. They don't match anything, but in a cabin, a sofa without one just looks wrong. There was a bathroom with black and white tiles and a small, clawfoot tub, and I slipped

our toothbrushes into the cup by the sink. I opened the taps and let the water run for a few moments to clear out the rust and dust. I took fresh towels out of the cupboard and hung them behind the door. There would definitely be a long bath before the weekend was over. The tilting walls of the A-frame leaned in on either side

and took your eyes up and out toward the trees around us. We opened the sliding glass to let a bit of fresh air in and stepped out onto the tiny deck where we ate our meals in warm weather. The cabin was situated in a spot that gave a view over the treetops as the land dropped down into a valley below us. I looked up into the highest branches of the pines and saw they were filled with cones I thought of the cones wrapping their scales around the precious seeds protecting them from cold and wind waiting for the warm weather to open up and let them go.

Yes, this is the time of year for holding tight. We stepped back in and closed the door behind us. I took the creaking stairs up to the sleeping loft, where our bed was spread with a thick comforter. I unpacked our bags into the old dresser and rooted around in the closet. I found a stack of old jigsaw puzzles and sat on the floor with them for a few moments, looking at the pictures on the boxes.

There was a Parisian streetscape, illustrated in bright reds and oranges and glossy black. There was a field dotted with rolls of hay and a paddock of sheep in the distance, and one with a tall masted ship on open water, its deck bustling with sailors coiling ropes and tying knots. I tucked the Paris street under my arm and leaned to look over the edge of the loft. I'd heard the door open and close a few times and saw that the wood stall was filling up and a fire was coming to life in the grate. I carried my puzzle down to the kitchen table and opened it up and began picking through the pieces

to find the edges and the corners. A glass of wine was set down beside me as I worked. A teacher had told me once that learning about yourself was a bit like putting a puzzle together. You started with obvious markers and worked your way in toward the bits that were blurry or whose context wasn't clear

until it was clicked into place. Sometimes, she said, you might find a piece along the way that doesn't seem to fit anywhere, and suddenly realize it must go to someone else's puzzle. When you did, you'd smilingly set it aside, and focus instead on the picture that was taking shape in front of you. I liked that.

I sat and looked around at the picture in front of me. A snug, friendly place to retreat to with the person I loved. A dinner to cook, a fire to warm by. A bed to lay in as we listened to the rain falling on the old cedar roof, tomorrow leaves to rake and flower beds to prepare for the winter. In this small space, we would do small things and enjoy them hugely in the time that we had. The cabin in the woods.

It took a few hours in the car to get there, and I, in the passenger seat, had been dozing, listening to the slow swish of the windshield wipers. It wasn't storming, but there was a slow misting rain that coated the windows and pushed the drying leaves from their branches as we made our way along country roads to the cabin. I blinked my eyes open a few times and let out a slow sigh.

A hand reached out for mine and squeezed. I slipped my feet back into my shoes and said in a sleepy voice, I'm almost there. Almost. The road was curving and climbing. Tall pines and bright red maples stood on either side. And I felt my shoulders relaxing down my back.

The closer we got, the calmer I felt. There were some point on these twisting roads I wasn't sure if it was always the same point not a particular mile marker or faded billboard but a general distance away from everything else and closer to the cabin, where I suddenly felt like I had stepped into a hot shower, and my muscles softened, and my breath got deeper. Soon we were turning down a dirt road, then another.

We made a left at the fork and turned onto the long pebble drive of the cabin. I sat up taller in my seat, and looked through the trees and the mist, and squeezed my sweetheart's hand again. As the shape of the A-frame came into view. It stood in an open space among the trees, a small meadow, which in the summer was filled with sweet Williams and black-eyed Susans,

and now had drifts of fallen leaves ready for our rakes. It was small, a true cabin with just enough room for the two of us. And the snugness of it, the simplicity that comes from small spaces and fewer choices, was an immediate, calming tonic. Inside, we hung our damp jackets on hooks by the door and turned on a few lights,

looking around at our tiny space. There was a small kitchen, lined with old cupboards and open shelves, upon which stood a few cookbooks, tucked between the percolator and the canisters of coffee and oats and flour and sugar. I set a sack of groceries on the counter.

We'd stopped at a roadside stand, and I'd bought a few pears with papery bronze skin that I might make into a tart tomorrow. I'd also bought a squat butternut squash and a stem of Brussels sprouts. I drew back the thin, patterned curtain over the pantry and saw a mason jar, half full of arboreal rice and a couple containers of broth.

I'd roast the squash and sprouts and stir them into the risotto for dinner. In the middle of the cabin, there was a small square of living space with a stone fireplace and a sofa, an old striped afghan thrown over the back. Some houses have blankets. Some cottages have throws. But cabins have afghans, crocheted years ago by someone's aunt, in elaborate patterns,

or with an amalgam of the last bits of yarn left in the basket. They don't match anything, but in a cabin, a sofa without one just looks wrong. There was a bathroom with black and white tiles and a small clawfoot tub, and I slipped our toothbrushes into the cup by the sink. I opened the taps and let the water run for a few moments to clear out the rust and the dust. I took fresh towels out of the cupboard and hung them behind the door. There would definitely be a long bath before the weekend was over. The tilting walls of the A-frame leaned in on either side and took your eyes up and out toward the trees all around us.

We opened the sliding glass to let in a bit of fresh air and stepped out onto the tiny deck where we ate meals in warm weather. The cabin was situated in a spot that gave a view over the treetops as the land dropped down into a valley below us. I looked up into the highest branches of the pines and saw that they were filled with cones. I thought of the cones,

wrapping their scales around the precious seeds, protecting them from cold and wind, waiting for the warm weather to open up and let them go. Yes, this is the time of year for holding tight. We stepped back in and closed the door behind us. I took the creaking stairs up to the sleeping loft, where our bed was spread with a thick comforter. I unpacked our bags into the old dresser and rooted around in the closet.

I found a stack of old jigsaw puzzles and sat on the floor with them for a few moments, looking at the pictures on the boxes. There was a Parisian streetscape, illustrated in bright reds and oranges and glossy black. There was a field dotted with rolls of hay and a paddock of sheep in the distance, and one with a tall masted ship on open water, its deck bustling with sailors coiling ropes and tying knots. I tucked the Paris street under my arm and leaned to look over the edge of the loft. I'd heard the door open and close a few times

and saw that the wood stall was filling up and a fire was coming to life in the grate. I carried my puzzle down to the kitchen table, and opened it up, and began picking through the pieces to find the edges and the corners. A glass of wine was set down beside me as I worked. A teacher had told me once that learning about yourself was a bit like putting a puzzle together. You started with obvious markers and worked your way in toward the bits that were blurry

or whose context wasn't clear until it was clicked into place. Sometimes, she said, you might find a piece along the way that doesn't seem to fit anywhere, and suddenly realize it must go to someone else's puzzle. When you did, you'd smilingly set it aside and focus instead on the picture that was taking shape in front of you. I liked that. I sat and looked around at the picture in front of me. A snug, friendly place to retreat to with the person I loved,

a dinner to cook, a fire to warm by, a bed to lay in as we listen to the rain falling on the old cedar roof, tomorrow, leaves to rake and flower beds to prepare for the winter. In this small space, we would do small things and enjoy them hugely in the time that we had. Sweet dreams.