Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Gardener's Arms

Episode Date: June 8, 2026

Our story tonight is called The Gardener’s Arms, and it’s a story about a developing friendship at the Inn by the lake. It’s also about sunrise and suspenders, peonies and paddling in the shallows and the safe harbor of someone you can count on. Subscribe to our Premium channel. The first month is on us. 💙 Start your business today with the industry’s best business partner, Shopify, and start hearing “cha-ching”. Sign up for your one-dollar-per-month trial today at ⁠⁠⁠shopify.com/nothingmuch Get 15% off OneSkin with the code NOTHINGMUCH at ⁠⁠⁠⁠oneskin.co/NOTHINGMUCH⁠⁠⁠⁠  #oneskinpod We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to ⁠Fauna & Flora⁠. Working to save nature, together. Pre-Register for the Village of Nothing Much app HERE! Use code VILLAGE-FOUNDER for 25% off! Sign-Up for our Newsletter ⁠⁠⁠HERE⁠⁠⁠ to be in the know! Pre-order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠here⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠! ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠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! 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. When I started building this show and my shop, it really felt like I had to figure everything out on my own. And there are so many pieces, it can get overwhelming fast. That's why having the right tools matter. And for a lot of businesses, that partner is Shopify. Shopify helps you run everything in one place, from your storefront to payments to getting your work out into the world, without needing a whole team behind you.

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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. For years now, we've met each other in the village through stories, and now for the first time, the village is becoming a real place. The Nothing Much Happens Community App. is opening soon with new ways to listen, wind down practices, community projects, live events,

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Learn more about them in our show notes. For ad-free episodes, subscribe to our premium feed at nothingmuch happens.com. You can also find links to our other shows. Did you know there is a daytime version of Nothing Much Happens? And a guided 10-minute meditation show with hundreds of episodes. Find it all at Nothing Much Happens.com. Just by listening to the sound of my voice and following along with the soft shape of the story,

we will train your brain to reliably settle and slidling. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, just press play again. Our story tonight is called The Gardener's Arms, and it's a story about a developing friendship at the inn by the lake. It's also about sunrise and suspenders, peonies, and paddling in the shallows, and the safe harbor of someone you can count on.

I've been thinking a lot lately about aging and how I see it differently than I used to. Getting older is a gift, not one given to everyone. So these days I'm less interested in fighting aging and more interested in caring for myself well and supporting my health. That's one reason one skin caught my attention. It was founded by scientists and built around longevity research.

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getting as comfortable as you can. Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to all day. Recognize that it is here. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in.

and out. Good. The gardener's arms. The sun rose so early these days. It wasn't easy to be the first one up at the inn. And though we hadn't acknowledged it aloud, Chef and I were in a bit of an early riser competition. On the days I snapped my suspenders into place and stepped out into the backguard. gardens, before the lights were on in the kitchens. I enjoyed a small harumph, rumbling through my mustache. And when they beat me to the first moments of dawn, I'm sure they likewise tied on their apron with a sniff of satisfaction. Today, if it weren't for Sycamore, I would have beat Chef by several minutes. But just as I was pulling on my rubber boots

at the scullery door, I heard a far-off tinkle that steadily grew louder. I smiled and shook my head. I was the only person at the inn, except, for I suppose the innkeeper herself, to have been deemed an appropriate out-of-doors chaperone for our resident cat, Sycamore.

He was still young, just a few years old, and couldn't be trusted not to wander off and get into mischief. His midnight black fur made it easy for him to hide. And since he was known to climb trees, he couldn't always get himself out of, He lived his life mostly indoors. No, not even chef could take him out into the herb gardens. Not that earning sycamore privileges was another competition between us. But I'm just saying that if it were, I would have won.

chef got distracted, watering, weeding, picking when they were in the yard, and Sycamore was well aware of it. So only I could take the cat out with me. And I knew that waiting for him to make his way down the great staircase, down the long hall, and through the butler's pantry, to the scullery would mean chef would beat me to the sunrise. Still, I sighed and patiently waited.

Cats' paws are meant to be quiet and stealthy, aren't they? Well, no one had told Sycamore this. He thumped clumsily along the floorboards. like a teenager who hadn't yet settled into his growing body. When he came around the corner, his front end made it through the doorway. But his rear half kept skidding along the polished planks till he balked off the molding. I shook my head again and propped my fists on my hips. You don't need to rush, Sicky.

I'll wait, I called out quietly. He made it on his second try, and I held out my arms in the practice way we'd established. All aboard, mate, I said, and Sycamore pulled his little body back like a slingshot and sprung up into my arms. I shifted him on to my shoulder, and he looped his tail around the back of my neck. When I pulled the back door open and stepped out into the gardens,

I turned to look into the kitchens and saw chef's frame backlit by the warming ovens. A coffee cup raised in salute. I couldn't see their face, but I could just bet there was a slightly smug grin spreading across it. That's all right, my boy. I cooed to Sycamore. They might have beat us today, but it just means the coffee cake is that much closer to being on the table. Sycamore wasn't listening. there were robins and finches to watch as they jumped through the brush. Squirrels and chipmunks were out to fetch their morning papers.

We had our own chores to attend to, among them deadheading the zinnias, leveling that wonky stepping stone in the path up to the hammocks, cutting daisies and sweet Williams for the guest rooms, and reattaching a cleat on the dock, whose rusty screws had become stripped. There were also the everyday sort of tasks a gardener must always be on top of,

weeding and watering, the general watching over to see what was getting too much sun, or had outgrown its plot and needed dividing. And the innkeeper hadn't mentioned it, but when I'd come through the hall the day before, I'd noticed an awful squeaking coming from the dumbwaiter as it moved between floors,

though my title was officially or unofficially, we probably had never made it official, that of Gardner. I was clever with a wrench and an oil can. I made small repairs throughout the inn. In fact, if I was being honest, I got a bit peeved when the innkeeper called in someone from the village to mend something I could do myself.

It was silly, I suppose, just that I felt a bit protective of this place, and that if the pocket door in the dining room was coming off its track, well, I should be the one to fix it. Sycamore and I wandered down to the lake. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and the sun was just starting to show through the tree-trane. on the far shore. Just like Sycamore had missed the note about cats being sure-footed. He also hadn't been informed that he was supposed to dislike the water as I strolled down to the

end of the dock. He slipped down into my arms and peered into the lake below. The deck railing was wide enough for him to sit comfortably on. And I helped him settle there before I tightened the toe line on one of the rowboats, close to the water. I could see the reflection of my own face and remembered squatting in the same spot. The first time Sicky had tried his paw at swimming, He'd seen fish moving under the surface and leapt, nearly giving me a heart attack. Though startled by the sudden liquidity of his environment, he'd been a strong swimmer from the start.

I'd thrown myself down on the deck, ready to dive in and scoop him up if necessary. But he'd been a strong swimmer from the start. But he'd calmly paddled over and reached a paw up to me. I'd seen my own half-shocked, half-proud face mirrored in the lake, then hoisted him out and held him to my chest, letting his fur soak through the flannel. I'd hustled him into the boathouse, where I knew the innkeeper kept a stay. stack of beach towels for guests and wrapped him up in one. We'd sat on an old folding chair in the warm air in there, till he was nearly dry, and my own heart rate had dropped to something

normal. Since then, he occasionally waded in from the shore, kitty paddling among the minnows, and always with my careful eye on him. But more frequently took his swims in the big wash tub in the stable. I'd fill it with the hose on hot mornings. And he'd cool off for a bit before drying in the sun. All of this was still running through my memory when I finished retying the line and smelled the unmistakable scent of coffee,

wafting down from the dining porch. I called to Sycamore, and he climbed back up to my shoulder. Coffee's ready, lad, I said, and pulled my short shears from my pocket. If I was going up to ask a cup from the innkeeper, well, my mother had raised me better, than to come empty-handed. The peonies at the foot of the old tree house

were still blooming, and I happened to know they were her favorite. The guests would be up and about soon, and we, the small staff of the inn, would all have our handsful. I smiled as I thought of it. The gardener's arms. The sun rose so,

early these days. It wasn't easy to be the first one up at the inn. And though we hadn't acknowledged it aloud, Chef and I were in a bit of an early riser competition. On the days, I snapped my suspenders into place and stepped out into the back garden. before the lights were on in the kitchens. I enjoyed a small herumph, rumbling through my mustache, and when they beat me to the first moments of dawn, I'm sure they likewise tied on their apron with a sniff of satisfaction. Today, if it weren't for Sycamore,

I would have had chef beat by several minutes. But just as I was pulling on my rubber boots at the scullery door, I heard a far-off tinkle that steadily grew louder. I smiled and shook my head. I was the only person at the inn, except for, I suppose, the innkeeper herself, to have been deemed an appropriate, out-of-doors chaperone for our resident cat, Sycamore.

He was still young. just a few years old, and couldn't be trusted, not to wander off and get into mischief. His midnight black fur made it easy for him to hide, and since he was known to climb trees, he couldn't always get himself out of. he lived his life mostly indoors. No, not even chef could take him out into the herb gardens. Not that earning sycamore privileges was another competition between us. But I'm just saying that if it were, I would have won.

Chef got distracted, watering, picking, and weeding when they were in the yard. And Sycamore was well aware of it, so only I could take the cat out with me. And I knew that waiting for him to make his way down the great staircase, down the long hall, and through the butler's pantry to the scullery would mean chef would beat me to the sunrise. Still, I sighed and patiently waited. Cats, paws, are meant to be quiet and stealthy, aren't they? Well, no one had told Sycamore that. He thumped clumsily along the floorboards, like a teenager who hadn't yet settled into a growing body.

When he came around the corner, his front end made it through the doorway, but his rear half kept skidding along the polished planks till he bonked off the molding. I shook my head again and propped my fists on my hips. You don't need to rush, Sicky. I'll wait. I called out quietly.

He made it on his second try. and I held out my arms. In the practice way we'd established. All aboard, mate, I said. And Sycamore pulled his little body back like a slingshot and sprung up into my arms. I shifted him onto my shoulder, and he looped his tail around the back of my arm.

neck. When I pulled the back door open and stepped out into the gardens, I turned to look into the kitchens and saw a chef's frame backlit by the warming ovens. A coffee cup raised in salute. I couldn't see their face. But I could just bet there was a slightly smug grin spreading across it. That's all right, my boy. I cooed to Sycamore. They might have beat us today, but it just means the coffee cake is that much closer to being on the table.

Sycamore wasn't listening. There were robins and finches to watch as they jumped through the brush. Squirrels and chipmunks were out fetching their morning papers. We had our own chores to attend to, among them deadheading the zinnias, leveling that wonky stepping stone in the path up to the hammocks

cutting daisies and sweet Williams for the guest rooms and reattatching a cleat on the dock whose rusty screws had become stripped and there were the everyday sort of task.

A gardener must always be on top of the weeding, the watering, the general watching over to see what was getting too much sun or had outgrown its plot and needed dividing. And the innkeeper hadn't mentioned it, but when I'd come through the hall, the day before. I'd noticed an awful squeaking coming from the dumbwaiter as it moved between floors.

Though my title was officially, or unofficially, we probably had never made it official, that of Gardner. I was clever with a wrench, an oil can. I made small repairs

throughout the inn. In fact, if I was being honest, I got a bit peaved when the innkeeper called in someone from the village to mend something I could do myself. It was silly, I suppose.

Just that I felt a bit protective of this place. and that if the pocket door in the dining room was coming off its track, well, I should be the one to fix it. Sycamore and I wandered down to the lake. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and the sun was just starting to show through the sun. the tree trunks on the far shore, just like Sycamore had missed the note about cats being

sure-footed. He also hadn't been informed that he was supposed to dislike the water. As I strolled down to the end of the dock, he slipped down into my arms and peered into my arms and peered into the lake below. The deck railing was wide enough for him to sit on comfortably, and I helped him settle there before I tightened the tow line on one of the rowboats. Close to the water, I could see the reflection of my own face and remembered squatting in the same spot. The first time, Sicky, had tried his paw at a swim. He'd seen fish moving under the surface

and leapt, nearly giving me a heart attack, though startled by the sudden liquidity of his environment. He'd been a strong swimmer from the start. I'd thrown myself down on the deck, ready to dive in and scum. coop him up, if necessary. But he'd calmly paddled over and reached a paw up to me. I'd seen my own, half-shocked, half-prowed face, mirrored in the lake,

then hoisted him out and held him to my chest, letting his fur soak through the flannel. I'd hustled him into the boathouse, where I knew the innkeeper kept a stack of beach towels for guests and wrapped him up in one. We'd sat on an old folding chair in the warm air till he was nearly dry, and my own heart rate had dropped

to something like normal. Since then, he occasionally waded in from the shore, kitty paddling among the minnows, and always with my careful eye on him. But more frequently, he took his swims in the big washtub in the stable. I'd fill it with the hose on hot mornings.

And he'd cool off for a bit before drying in the sun. All of this was still running through my memory when I finished retying the line and smelled the unmistakable scent of coffee, wafting down from the dining porch. I called to Sycamore, and he climbed back up to my shoulder. Coffee's ready, lad, I said, and pulled my short shears from my pocket.

If I was going up to ask a cup from the innkeeper, well, my mother had raised me better than to come empty-handed. The peonies at the foot of the old treehouse were still blooming. And I happened to know they were her favorite. The guests would be up and about soon. And we, the small staff of the inn, would have our hands full. I smiled as I thought of it. Sweet dreams.