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

Episode Date: May 30, 2022

Our story tonight is called The Canoe and it’s a story about sunny days spent near and on the water. It’s also about a journal to write about the best parts of the day in, falling asleep in crisp cool sheets and the way sunlight reflects on the water. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If you'd like to hear our stories without any ads, as well as listen to bonus episodes, you can subscribe to our premium feeds over at nothingmuchhappens.com.

We're just about to release a new bonus story there, and it's such a sweet one. It's called Care Package, and it would be a great story to listen to when you need to be reminded about how it feels to be thought of lovingly and gifted something to brighten your day. Again, it's at nothingmuchhappens.com. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. When your mind wanders and then races at night, keeping you up, making you feel anxious and exhausted. You need a way to guide it, to steer it into calm waters. That's what these stories are. They are quiet, simple places to rest your mind.

Just by following along with the sound of my voice, you'll begin to train your brain for better sleep. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, think back to any part of the story you can remember. Lean into whatever details you can recall, and you'll drop right back off. It's time. Turn off your light. Settle down into the most comfortable sleeping position you can find. You have done enough for today. It is enough. Now it's time to sleep. And I'll be here, watching over you as you drift.

Take a slow breath in through your nose. Sigh out through your mouth. Again, breathe in. Let it out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Canoe, and it's a story about sunny days spent near and on the water. It's also about a journal to write about the best parts of the day in,

falling asleep in crisp, cool sheets, and the way sunlight reflects on water. The canoe. It had been early evening when we'd pulled up to the lake. Our car was packed for a week of sunshine and rest as we crept up the gravel drive till we could see the lights of cottages across the water reflecting on the surface. We never even went to the door or thought of carrying anything inside. We stepped out of the car and walked to the edge of the lake. The air was cooler here than it had been at home, and we could smell that lovely marine scent of fresh water and the life that grows around it. Probably the day had been busy on the lake, swimmers and boaters out enjoying the summer weather.

But it seemed we had arrived just as everyone had gone in to eat dinner. And besides the atmospheric buzz of crickets and katydids, it was quiet when the water was still. We stood wrapped in each other's arms at the edge and breathed in the lake air and felt the last drops of tension drain out of us. We'd been gifted a week at a friend's cottage a few hours drive from home and we couldn't have been happier

we'd been out before for a weekend here and there and once even tried camping in a tent in the backyard. But this time it was just us, with all the comforts that the old house could offer. We found the key, hidden under the flowerpot on the shed's windowsill, and we let ourselves in. Cottages often become a catch-all sort of place for furniture and lamps and dishes,

things that were grown out of, and while they often don't match each other, they all fit in perfectly with the house itself. So this place was, and I was absolutely charmed by it. The bedside tables from different decades and very different shapes, but both with coffee rings stained on their wooden tops. A very old stove that I knew from experience could hold a giant pot for boiling a dozen ears of corn at a time,

and the creaky medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror that still had a box of Band-Aids in it, made in the year I was born. We carried in our groceries and clothes, and a couple quarts of fresh strawberries we'd picked up in a little town along the way. Our friend had left the place neat and ready for us, with fresh sheets on the bed and a vase of lilacs on the kitchen table. Beside it was a note and a little book and pen. Don't forget to write in the cottage journal before you go, the note said. Oh yes, I remembered that they did this.

They had a whole stack of them on a shelf somewhere going back years. When friends or family came for a visit, they'd always have them write something, even if it was just a line or two about their stay. And I flipped through the pages with a soft smile on my face, recognizing a few names, but also recognizing the feeling most every entry described

of being so happy to be away, to be here, to swim and cook and read and watch the fireflies come out each night. I set the journal back down and promised myself to write a line each day. That first night had us falling into bed soon after we arrived, tired out from the long day in the car. The bed was huge and made up with the kind of soft, crisp sheets they have in fancy hotels. I'd heard the argument before that as we spend a third of our lives in bed,

we shouldn't hesitate to make sure we're as comfortable as we can be when we're there. Waking in those sheets each morning convinced me, and I dropped a few not-so-subtle hints about what would make for a very good birthday present over coffee. Coffee which we drank outside by the water each morning, in Adirondack chairs, watching the birds skimming over the lake. Then breakfast and the first swim of the day. The water was still a little chilly especially in the mornings but nothing woke me up like a plunge from the dock and then we'd stretch out

and pretend to read but actually nap in the sun in the afternoons we rode our bikes into town and filled the baskets with local treats and knickknacks from the antique store. At night, we cooked out on the grill and lit a fire in the pit to sit around until the bugs chased us inside.

Our friend had invited us to explore the shed, a garage-sized pale yellow building behind the house, saying that there were old inner tubes and a croquet set and probably other fun things in there. We found the tubes and spent a day floating and falling out of them, laughing at each other as we did. When we returned them to the shed, we noticed a canoe with paddles resting along one wall. Hmm, we wondered.

How tricky would it be to wrangle it down to the water? And as we picked it up, a muscle memory from fifth grade summer camp kicked in and I convinced us both that we could swing it up over our heads and lock out our elbows

and carry it that way luckily I was right. When we got it to the water's edge and looked into the lake, I saw that the sandy bottom was covered in concentric rings of softly mounded silt. Minnows swam in small schools,

and I wondered what their awareness took in. Just shadow and light? Vibration and movement? Or anything more? I pulled myself away from their mysteries to sweep the cobwebs out of the canoe's corners. And then we waded in and managed to climb aboard without flipping over.

We took up our paddles and began to head out away from shore. Seeing houses, trees, all the familiar sights of this little spot from the water was a new experience. We whispered to each other about which houses we liked the most. The flower beds full of petunias by the old wood break wall. And the birdhouses propped up on poles 20 feet high where the purple martins bedded down at night. There was a sandbar

out near the middle of the lake, and the water was so clear, we could see down to its bottom. We pulled in our paddles and just drifted. Watching the water shimmer in the sun, the fish swimming below us, the birds calling around us. Tonight, when I picked up the journal and sat with it on the porch, I'd try to write about this. The canoe.

It had been early evening when we'd pulled up to the lake. Our car was packed for a week of sunshine and rest as we crept up the gravel drive till we could see the lights of cottages across the water reflecting on the surface. Before we even went to the door, or thought of carrying anything inside,

we stepped out of the car and walked to the edge of the lake. The air was cooler here than it had been at home, and we could smell that lovely marine scent of fresh water and the life that grows around it. Probably the day had been busy on the lake, swimmers and boaters out enjoying the summer weather. But it seemed we had arrived just as everyone had gone in to eat dinner. And besides the atmospheric buzz of crickets and katydids, it was quiet, and the water was still. We stood,

wrapped in each other's arms at the edge, and breathed in the lake air, and felt the last drops of tension drain out of us. We'd been gifted a week at a friend's cottage, a few hours' drive from home, and we couldn't have been happier. We'd been out before for a weekend here and there and once even tried camping

in a tent in the backyard. But this time it was just us, with all the comforts that the old house could offer. I found the key hidden under the flower pot on the shed's windowsill, and we let ourselves in. Cottages often become a catch-all sort of place for furniture and lamps and dishes.

Things that were grown out of. And while they often don't match each other, they all fit in perfectly with the house itself. So this place was. And I was absolutely charmed by it. The bedside tables from different decades and very different shapes, but both with coffee rings stained on their wooden tops. A very old stove that I knew from experience could hold a giant pot

for boiling a dozen ears of corn at a time. And the creaky medicine cabinet behind the mirror that still had a box of band-aids in it made in the year I was born. We carried in our groceries and clothes and a couple quarts of fresh strawberries we'd picked up in a little town along the way. Our friend had left the place neat and ready for us, with fresh sheets on the bed

and a vase of lilacs on the kitchen table. Beside it was a note and a little book and pen don't forget to write in the cottage journal before you go the note said oh yes I remembered that they did this. They had a whole stack of them on a shelf somewhere, going back years. when friends or family came for a visit,

they'd always have them write something, even if it was just a line or two about their stay. And I flipped through the pages with a soft smile on my face. Recognizing a few names, but also recognizing the feeling most every entry described. of being so happy to be away, to be here, to swim and cook and read and watch the fireflies come out each night. I set the journal back down and promised myself to write a line each day. That first night

had us falling into bed soon after we arrived. Tired out from the long day in the car. The bed was huge, and made up with the kind of soft, crisp sheets they have in fancy hotels. I'd heard the argument before that as we spend a third of our lives in bed, we shouldn't hesitate to make sure we are as comfortable as we can be

when we're there. Waking in those sheets each morning convinced me, and I dropped a few not-so-subtle hints about what would make for a very good birthday present over coffee. Coffee which we drank outside by the water each morning, in Adirondack chairs, watching the birds skimming over the lake. Then breakfast and the first swim of the day.

The water was still a little chilly, especially in the mornings, but nothing woke me up like a plunge from the dock. And then we'd stretch out and pretend to read, but actually nap in the sun. In the afternoons, we rode our bikes into town and filled the baskets with local treats and knick-knacks from the antique store. At night, we cooked out on the grill and let a fire in the pit to sit around until the bugs chased us inside.

Our friend had invited us to explore the shed, a garage-sized pale yellow building behind the house, saying that there were old inner tubes and a croquet set and probably other fun things in there. We found the tubes and spent a day floating and falling out of them, laughing at each other as we did. When we returned them to the shed, we noticed a canoe with paddles resting along one wall.

Hmm, we wondered how tricky it would be to wrangle it down to the water. and as we picked it up a muscle memory from fifth grade summer camp kicked in and I convinced us both that we could swing it up over our heads and lock out our elbows

and carry it that way. Luckily, I was right. When we got it to the water's edge and looked into the lake. I saw that the sandy bottom was covered in concentric rings of softly mounded silt. Minnows swam in small schools, and I wondered what their awareness took in. Was it just shadow and light, vibration and movement, or anything more? I pulled myself away from their mysteries to sweep the cobwebs out of the canoe's corners. And then we waded in and managed to climb aboard without flipping over. We took up our paddles and began to head out away from the shore. The lake wasn't big. We could see all of it from the end of the dock.

So we decided to just try a slow circle around the shore. Seeing houses, trees, all the familiar sights of this little spot from the water was a new experience.

We whispered to each other about which house we liked the most the flower beds full of petunias by the old wood break wall. And the birdhouses propped up on poles twenty feet high where the purple martins bedded down at night. There was a sandbar out near the middle of the lake,

and the water was so clear we could see down to its bottom. We pulled in our paddles and just drifted watching the water shimmer in the sun the fish swimming below us and the birds calling around us tonight when I picked up the journal and sat with it on the porch,

I'd try to write about this. Sweet dreams.