Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Crow's Nest

Episode Date: October 4, 2021

Our story tonight is called “The Crow’s Nest” and it’s about a hike to a high spot when the trees are turning in the Autumn. It’s also about the generosity of a stranger, a bowl of granola, and a chance meeting where the forest thins and the view is best.So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase 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. Are you part of the Bob Wittersheim fan club? If so, go check out our new merch section at nothingmuchhappens.com. You can get a With Audio Engineering by Bob Wittersheim hashtag if you know you know hoodie or t-shirt,

as well as a really lovely collection of Nothing Much Happens gifts and goodies. And as always, you can get ad-free and bonus episodes at the same place. That's nothingmuchappens.com Now let me say a little about how this podcast works. I'm going to read you a simple, soothing story. It's mostly about mood and feeling, so you don't have to keep track of anything as you listen. Just let your mind follow along with the sound of my voice this will keep it from wandering and before you know it you'll be dropping off to sleep

I'll tell the story twice and I'll slow down a bit with a second telling if you wake again later in the night you could start the story over, or just think back to any part of the story that you can remember, especially any part that felt cozy or relaxing. So many listeners have confirmed what I've been telling you all this time, that the more you listen, the more quickly you'll drop off and the quality of your sleep will continue to improve. Now, turn out your light. Slip down into your sheets and feel how cool and soft they are around you.

Get your pillow in the right spot and let your whole body relax. You have done enough for today. It is enough. So let's take a deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Do that again. In and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Crow's Nest, and it's about a hike to a high spot where the trees are turning in the autumn. It's also about the generosity of a stranger,

a bowl of granola, and a chance meeting where the forest thins and the view is best. The Crow's Nest I'd been hearing the geese in the early mornings lately, their high calls as they flew in formation overhead. Of course, when I thought about it, they must be flying and calling all day long. But the mornings were when I was quietest and had a bit of space to notice things,

like birdsong or which trees had turned a bit more orange and red in the last few days, or the taste of my coffee. Today, I was setting aside the whole morning for noticing. A nice long hike along a new path I'd found near the lake. I'd fortified myself with a big bowl of granola, full of pumpkin seeds and chewy bits of dried apricot, and a slice of toast spread with apple butter. I'd filled my water bottle and tied on my boots,

and I was on my way. I drove out to the hike, with the windows cracked to let in the cool morning air. There was something, many things, to love about every season. The first flowers and clean rain of the spring. The bright, nourishing sun and lazy easiness of the summer. The muffling quiet of fresh snow, the cozy retreat of the winter. But down deep in my bones, I was an autumn lover.

It was when I felt most alive and awake. My senses thrilled at the smells and sights and the feel of the air. These first weeks of October were when, at least around here, the trees were at their brightest. the trees were at their brightest leaves were turning and just barely beginning to fall so the landscape looked like a painter's palette the colors bright but blending a bit

as one tree blurred into the next I found a spot but blending a bit as one tree blurred into the next. I found a spot in the little gravel lot ringed with logs to park my car, where there were already three or four others, though I might hike all morning without bumping into anyone. I'd found this trail one day as I'd been driving down dirt roads, looking for a different way home from a trip out of town. I've always preferred the scenic route whenever I can take it, so I've mapped out a lot of

the routes that ring the village just by taking random left and right turns over the years. I'd seen a hand-painted sign driven into the dirt on a corner, pointing to the crow's nest trail. I'd been in no hurry and followed the arrow to this little lot. Since then, it had become my favorite hike, and one I did at least once a week when I could. The land it ran through wasn't a state park. It was just someone's private acres.

Someone who thought the views it provided were simply too beautiful to be kept all to themselves. And besides that little sign on the corner, it wasn't advertised anywhere. It was a little secret you only found if you were out hunting for little secrets. I clipped my water bottle to my belt and started the first climb into the woods. This was hilly land,

and the path itself was narrow. So as I walked, I often reached out and touched the trees on either side. They helped me climb and keep my balance, but also just felt nice to touch. There was the smooth bark of the American beech, the gray scaly bark of the tamarack, and the stiff plates of the sugar maple.

I sometimes thought about who had walked this path back when these giants were saplings. What had they been thinking about as they climbed these hills? What had they eaten for breakfast? What was their favorite sound in the forest? And the forest was noisy, birds and rustling leaves and insects and small animals. A rafter of turkeys were gobbling away somewhere to my left. It sounded like a family quarreling over which way to take to the lake.

From the high points on the trail, I looked down into the forest floor. There were clear spaces and tiny ponds with streams, just a foot across running between them. There were trees that had fallen, some all the way to the ground where their trunks lay, being slowly eaten away by time and creatures, giving homes to chipmunks and fertile ground to mushrooms, others whose crowns got caught in the forked branches of their neighbors and would stay, leaning for

years, their roots half-tilted out of the soil I kept hiking up and around and then down and forward the light changed the forest was thinning and the path was creeping higher and higher. I rested a moment, propping my back against an oak tree and letting it hold me in place while I caught my breath.

That's when I saw them three deer about twenty feet ahead of me descending along the path as if they'd been out on their own hike had taken a moment to enjoy the view and now we're headed back home had taken a moment to enjoy the view, and now were headed back home, which, I supposed,

may very well be what was happening. It looked like an older Doe and her twins. Born a few months ago, who would soon be as big as she, I stood very still, not wanting to startle them. They paused in their descent, smelling and then spotting me. They looked thoroughly unconcerned, which made me sigh in relief. This must be a place where, when they met humans, they were not harmed by them. They pulled a few leaves from the trees around them

and chewed in no hurry to move on. It reminded me of letting my dog out into the yard when I was in a rush to get to work. How I expected her to do her business and come right back in when, instead, she often stopped and lifted her face to the breeze and just stood until it occurred to her to move. That, I thought, now watching the deer, is what it looks like when you don't know what time is.

The doe finally turned away from the path, and sure-footedly trotted through the brush and pine needles, and her twins followed her. I pushed away from the oak and started the last climb to the spot that gave this trail its name, the crow's nest. When I stepped out onto the highest path, I could see for miles along the horizon. I could see the lake below me, a thick row of white birch trees ringing the shore. I could see miles and miles of orange and yellow and red treetops, and far in the distance, roofs and chimney stacks,

water towers, and even further, the buildings of the next town over. I took in this view once a week, though it never failed to astonish me. Isn't that one of the things they say happy people regularly experience? Awe. Wonder. I'd already had a hundred moments of it today. From the geese flying overhead. To the taste of my apple-buttered toast,

the bright colors of the trees, the deer as they chewed, and now this, this view that a stranger I'd probably never meet generously shared with me. What a world. The crow's nest. I'd been hearing the geese in the early mornings lately. Their high calls as they flew in formation overhead.

Of course, when I thought about it, they must be flying and calling all day long. But the mornings were when I was quietest and had a bit of space to notice. Things like birdsong. Or which trees had turned a bit more orange and red in the last few days. Or the taste of my coffee.

Today, I was setting aside the whole morning for noticing, with a nice long hike along a new path I'd found near the lake. I'd fortified myself with a big bowl of granola full of pumpkin seeds and chewy bits of dried apricot and a slice of toast spread with apple butter. I'd filled my water bottle and tied on my boots when I was on my way. I drove out to the hike with the windows cracked to let in the cool morning air. There was something, many things, to love about every season.

The first flowers and clean rain of the spring, the bright, nourishing sun and lazy easiness of the summer, the muffling quiet of fresh snow and cozy retreat of the winter. But deep down in my bones, I was an autumn lover. It was when I felt most alive and awake. My senses thrilled at the smells and sights and the feel of the air. These first weeks of October were when, at least around here,

the trees were at their brightest. Leaves were turning and just barely beginning to fall. So the landscape looked like a painter's palette. The colors bright but blending as one tree blurred into the next. I found a spot in the little gravel lot ringed with logs to park my car where there were already three or four others, though I might hike all morning without bumping into anyone. I'd found this trail one day

as I'd been driving down dirt roads, looking for a different way home from a trip out of town. I've always preferred the scenic route whenever I can take it. So have mapped out a lot of the routes that ring the village, just by taking random left and right turns over the years. I'd seen a hand-painted sign driven into the dirt on a corner, pointing to the crow's nest trail. I'd been in no hurry and followed the arrow to this little lot. Since then, it had become my favorite hike,

and one I did at least once a week when I could. The land it ran through wasn't a state park. It was just someone's private acres. Someone who thought the views it provided were simply too beautiful to be kept all to themselves.

And besides that little sign on the corner, it wasn't advertised anywhere else. It was a little secret you only found if you were out hunting for little secrets. I clipped my water bottle to my belt and started the first climb into the woods. This was hilly land, and the path itself was narrow. So as I walked, I often reached out and touched the trees on either side. They helped me climb and keep my balance, but also just felt nice to touch.

There was the smooth bark of the American beech, the gray, scaly bark of the tamarack, and the stiff plates of the sugar maple. I sometimes thought about who had walked this path back when these giants were saplings. What had they been thinking about as they had climbed these hills? What had they eaten for breakfast? What was their favorite sound in the forest?

And the forest was noisy. Birds and rustling leaves, insects and small animals. A rafter of turkeys were gobbling away somewhere to my left. It sounded like a family quarrel over which way to take to get to the lake. From the high points on the trail, I looked down into the forest floor. There were clear spaces and tiny ponds with streams just a foot across running between them.

There were trees that had fallen, some all the way to the ground where their trunks lay, being slowly eaten away by time and creatures, giving homes to chipmunks and fertile ground to mushrooms, others whose crowns got caught in the forked branches of their neighbors

and would stay leaning for years. Their roots half tilted out of the soil. I kept hiking up and around and then down and forward. The light changed. The forest was thinning, and the path was creeping higher and higher.

I rested a moment, propping my back against an old oak tree, and letting it hold me in place while I caught my breath. That's when I saw them. Three deer, about twenty feet ahead of me, descending along the path as if they'd been out on their own hike. Had taken a moment to enjoy the view. And now we're headed back home which I supposed may very well be what was happening it looked like an older doe and her twins

born a few months ago who would soon be as big as she. I stood very still, not wanting to startle them. They paused in their descent, smelling and then spotting me. They looked thoroughly unconcerned, which made me sigh in relief. This must be a place where, when they met humans, they were not harmed by them. They pulled a few leaves from the trees and chewed in no hurry to move on. It reminded me of letting my dog out into the yard when I was in a rush to get to work. How I expected her to do her business

and come right back in, when instead she often stopped and lifted her face to the breeze and just stood until it occurred to her to move. That, I thought, now watching the deer, is what it looks like when you don't know what time is. The doe finally turned away from the path and sure-footedly trotted through the brush and pine needles, and her twins followed her. I pushed away from the oak and started the last climb to the spot that gave this trail its name, the crow's nest.

When I stepped out onto the highest path, I could see for miles along the horizon. I could see the lake below me, a thick row of white birch trees ringing the shore. I could see miles and miles of orange and yellow and red treetops and far in the distance roofs and chimney stacks, water towers and even further the buildings of the next town over. I took in this view once a week,

though it never failed to astonish me. Isn't that one of the things they say happy people regularly experience? Awe. Wonder. I'd already had a hundred moments of it today. From the geese flying overhead. To the taste of my apple-buttered toast, the bright colors of the trees,

the deer as they chewed, and now this. This view that a stranger I'd probably never meet generously shared with me. What a world. Sweet dreams.