Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Front Door and the Back Door

Episode Date: April 25, 2022

Our story tonight is called The Front Door and the Back Door and it’s a story about a bit of Spring Cleaning inside and outside the house. It’s also about butterflies drawn in chalk on the sidewalk, a message arriving at the just the right moment, and seedlings waiting for their chance to grow. So get cozy and ready to sleep. 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. Bob and I are sending you a re-release of an episode today because I'm just getting over a cold that has been really rough on my voice. I may sound okay now, but after a minute or so, I get really creaky and I'm afraid that I'll wake you up. And I want to say that this may happen from time to time. We've been publishing non-stop for four

years now, and we'll take breaks for a week or so a few times a year in the future, because everybody needs a break. In the meantime, we hope you will enjoy this favorite of mine from Season 5. Now, let's get ready to sleep. I'll read you a story. It's a place to rest your mind, like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river. Your mind will follow along with the moving current of my voice and our story. And before you know it, it will ease you into deep sleep.

I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read. If you wake in the night, take yourself back into the story, thinking back through any bit you can remember. This interrupts your brain's tendency to cycle through thought and will put you right back into sleep mode. It is brain training, and it might take a bit of practice, so be patient if you are

new to this. Now it's time to switch off the light. Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on. You've looked at a screen for the last time today. Adjust your pillows and your comforter until you feel completely at ease. If you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep, try resting the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help to keep your jaw relaxed.

Now take a deep breath in through your nose, sigh out through the mouth. Again, breathe in, and let it out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Front Door and the Back Door, and it's a story about a bit of spring cleaning inside and outside the house. It's also about butterflies drawn in chalk on the sidewalk, a message arriving at just the right moment, and seedlings waiting for their chance to grow.

The front door and the back door. The air was fresh and the day was sunny. The temperature had been sneaking up a few degrees at a time for the last week or so. And finally, today, there was a real warmth in the air. I started inside, by drawing aside curtains and opening windows. I stood at the kitchen sink, washing up after tea and oatmeal. curtains and opening windows. I stood at the kitchen sink, washing up after tea and oatmeal, and smiling at the feel of

the fresh air circling around me. Through the window, I could hear the movements of birds and squirrels, and beyond them a soft spring wind coming to dry up mud puddles. I could hear a lawnmower in the next block over being coaxed to life and my neighbor's dog barking through the fence. I dried my cup and bowl and put them back on their shelf. Often I'd have turned on music or a radio show to follow me through my chores, but it was nice to do my work with nothing but the sounds from outside keeping me company. I hung the dish towel from its hook beside the sink and moved into the living room,

opening more windows as I went. There was a jumble of books and blankets spread over the sofa. And as I folded and tidied, I stopped to read a few lines from one of the books. It was a book about Zen, with a few poems and meditations. The page I opened to just said,

Open the front door, and open the back door. Let thoughts move through. Just don't offer them a cup of tea. I smiled down at the words. Has that happened to you? That you read just the right thing at just the right moment. Not in that false way where you have to force a match,

but where there is just a flash of serendipitous harmony. It feels like being winked at, but you're not sure by who. I tucked the book under one arm and went to the front door and drew back the bolt. I opened it wide and let sunshine into the front hall. Through the screen door, I saw the kids in the yard across the street. They were writing their names and drawing butterflies and caterpillars and pastel chalk across their sidewalks. I went straight to the back door,

a sliding glass door that gave out to the back patio and opened it as wide as it would go. Dried hydrangea blooms from last year were shifting in the breeze. I felt like I could practically see the grass growing. I read the line in the book again, and dog-eared the page before closing it up and sliding it back onto its shelf. With a dustcloth in hand,

I worked my way around the room, shining up the tops of tables and the faces and picture frames. In the front hall, beside the open door, I stepped into my shoes and took the dust cloth out to shake over the edge of the front porch. My neighbor's doors were open, too, and I thought a bit more about the line in the book. I shook the dust cloth and watched the particles catching in the sunlight as they fell.

I went back inside to drop the cloth in the laundry basket and wash my hands. Some people, I thought, have their front door closed. Nothing gets in. They feel unreachable. And some people have their front door open, but the back door is closed. Everything gets in and nothing gets out. Letting things come and go, thoughts rise up and move on without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging or ruminating.

It was a tricky skill, and one I guessed we could all use some practice with. I thought of people I knew who had doors closed and reminded myself that it's always easier to see these things in others and that likely we were all both types of people many times every day. All we could do was try to open the places that had been shut, to turn on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to let things come and let them go. With the house in order, I was eager to get out into the yard. There were hours left on this sunny day,

so I rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening gloves and started to work my way through the beds. I hadn't cut much back in the autumn as the falling leaves and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to the little creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd read that pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought. And spring was a better time for that. So now there was quite a bit to clear. Those dried hydrangea blossoms, and last year's broad, pale hosta leaves,

and twigs and pine needles. I worked my way around the house and into the backyard, where I had a few raised beds I'd built the year before. The soil inside was dark and fortified with compost. I turned it over with my trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a helicopter seed from the maple overhead that was already sprouting roots. I'd been growing seedlings for the last month on an upstairs windowsill, and soon, maybe in another week or so, they'd be ready to go into the beds. I'd spent a few dreary winter days

carefully reading through seed catalogs and making charts of germination periods and hours of likely sunlight I crossed my fingers thinking about the seeds I'd picked I'd been a bit adventurous figuring I could buy carrots and tomatoes and beans at the farmer's market.

So I'd give my bit of space over to more exotic eats. Up on the sill, several varieties of chilies were sprouting. Perhaps it had been the cold of the winter that made me crave spice. I'd also planted cantaloupe seeds, and watermelon radish, and and mouse melons, because why not? I thought the planting could be a way for me to practice keeping my doors open and my tea to myself. I'd do my work, then step back and let whatever happened next happen. The front door and the back door. The air was fresh and the day was sunny.

The temperature had been sneaking up a few degrees at a time for the last week or so. And finally, today, there was a real warmth in the air. I started inside by drawing aside curtains and opening windows. I stood at the kitchen sink washing up after tea and oatmeal and smiling at the feel of the fresh air circling around me.

Through the window, I could hear the movement of birds and squirrels, and beyond them, a soft spring wind coming to dry up mud puddles. I could hear a lawnmower in the next block over being coaxed to life, and my neighbor's dog barking through the fence. I dried my cup and bowl and put them back on their shelf. Often, I'd have turned on music or a radio show to follow me through my chores. But it was so nice to do my work with nothing but the sounds from outside,

keeping me company. I hung the dish towel from its hook beside the sink, and moved into the living room, opening more windows as I went. There was a jumble of books and blankets spread over the sofa, and as I folded and tidied, I stopped to read a few lines from one of the books. It was a book about Zen, with a few poems and meditations. The page I opened to just said, Open the front door, and open the back door.

Let thoughts move through. Just don't offer them a cup of tea. I smiled down at the words. Has that happened to you? That you read just the right thing at just the right moment? Not in that false way, where you have to force a match, but where there is just a flash of serendipitous harmony. It feels like being winked at, but you're not sure by who.

I tucked the book under one arm and went to the front door and drew back the bolt. I opened it wide and let sunshine into the front hall. Through the screen door, I saw the kids in the yard across the street. They were writing their names and drawing butterflies and caterpillars in pastel chalk across their sidewalks. I went straight to the back door, a sliding glass door that gave out to the back patio, and opened it as wide as it would go. Dried hydrangea blooms from last year were shifting in the breeze.

I felt like I could practically see the grass growing. I read the line in the book again and dog-eared the page before closing it up and sliding it back onto its shelf. With a dust cloth in hand, I worked my way around the room, shining up the tops of tables and the faces in picture frames. In the front hall, beside the open door, I stepped into a bit more about the line in the book. I shook the dust cloth and watched the particles cloth in the laundry basket and wash my hands. Some people, I thought, have their front door closed.

Nothing gets in. They feel unreachable. And some people have their front door open, but the back door is closed. Everything gets in, and nothing gets out. Letting things come and go, thoughts rise up and move on, without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging or ruminating.

It was a tricky skill, and one I guessed we could all use some practice with. I thought of people I knew who had doors closed, and reminded myself that it's always easier to see these things in others, and that likely we were all both types of people many times every day. All we could do was to open up the places that had been shut, to turn on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to let things come and let them go. With the house in order, I was eager to get out into the yard. There were hours left on this sunny day, so I rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening gloves and started to work my way through the beds.

I hadn't cut much back in the autumn, as the falling leaves and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to the little creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd read that pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought. And spring was a better time for that. So now there was quite a bit to clear. Those dried hydrangea blossoms and last year's broad pale hosta leaves and twigs and pine needles. I worked my way around the house and into the backyard, where I had a few raised beds I'd built the year before. The soil inside was dark and fortified with compost. I turned it over with my trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a helicopter seed from the maple overhead

that was already sprouting roots. I'd been growing seedlings for the last month on an upstairs windowsill, and soon, maybe in another week or so, they'd be ready to go into the beds. I'd spent a few dreary winter days carefully reading through seed catalogs and making charts of germination periods and hours of likely sunlight. I crossed my fingers thinking about the seeds I'd picked out. I'd been a bit adventurous, figuring I could buy carrots and tomatoes and beans at the farmer's market. So I'd give my bit of space over to more exotic eats. Up on the sill, several varieties of chilies were sprouting. Perhaps it had been the cold of the winter that made me crave spice. I'd also planted cantaloupe seeds, and watermelon radish, and tiger nuts, and mouse melons.

Because, why not? I thought the planting could be a way for me to practice, keeping my doors open and my tea to myself. I'd do my work, then step back. And let whatever happened next happen. Sweet dreams.