Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Holly and The Ivy

Episode Date: December 13, 2021

Our story tonight is called The Holly and the Ivy and it’s a story about a trip into the woods on the first snowy day of winter. It’s also about handmade gifts given in friendship, refreshing your perspective and snowy owls hidden in plain sight.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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. For all the hashtag cozy life lovers in your world, we've got lots of lovely merch and gift options, including a gift subscription to our ad-free and bonus episode feeds. Find it all at nothingmuchappens.com.

Every episode is someone's first, so I like to explain how this podcast works. I'm going to tell you a story. It's a place to rest your mind, like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river. You only need to listen to begin to train your brain and nervous system for better sleep. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, you could turn the story right back on, or just think through the details you can remember, or even any comforting or pleasant memory. Or just think through the details you can remember. Or even any comforting or pleasant memory.

Now, it's time to turn off the light and snuggle yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find. You might have an ideal sleep shape that's tried and true. Get into it. Take a second to give yourself permission to let go. You don't need to hold on to anything from the day. You can let go now. Let's take a slow breath in through the nose and a soft sigh from the mouth. Nice. One more like that. Breathe in. Let it go. Good. Our story tonight is called The Holly and the Ivy. And it's a story about a trip into the woods on the first snowy day of winter. It's also about handmade gifts given in friendship,

refreshing your perspective, and snowy owls hidden in plain sight. The Holly and the ivy. We'd had a few dustings over the last week or so, and one full day of snow showers. But the ground had been still too warm to hold the flakes, and they'd melted as soon as they'd touched down. Then, yesterday, the temperature had dropped and stayed low all day. And as the sun set, it began to snow. I realized, as I watched it, that the snow showers of the week before had only ever been a trial run,

Mother Nature just testing the idea of blanketing our lawns and lanes in flakes. Now she was serious. This was a thick, layered snowfall that went on all night. I woke a few times in the wee hours, and though I didn't get up, I could see by just how brightly the moonlight was reflecting on my bedroom walls that there must be a good bit of snow piling up around me.

The idea of it, of it laying thick on the roof and branches around me, it felt like a second blanket covering not just me, but my whole home, the whole village. And that put me right back to sleep. woke and stepped up to the window, I saw that a half foot or so of snow was draped over every horizontal surface. It was a new and lovely sight

after watching the landscape bloom through the summer and color deeply in the fall, to see it now wrapped in shades of white and gray. I lived once in a place where the weather barely changed all year, And while that held its own attractions for me, I loved watching the seasons come and go. It felt refreshing, like rearranging the furniture or catching a reflection in a bit of glass

after a stylish new haircut. You recognized most of the landmarks, but the alterations made you look closer at the whole thing and reminded you that things change and that allowing them to is much more peaceful. and reminded you that things change, and that allowing them to is much more peaceful than fighting against them. I couldn't wait to get out into the snow and see those changes close up. Once I'd been fed and dosed with a cup of hot cocoa,

I bundled up with plenty of layers, looped a pair of binoculars around my neck, and stepped into the garage for a canvas bag and some garden snips, which fit nicely into the big pockets of my overcoat. When I went out through the side door into the yard, I got the satisfying experience of leaving the first footprint in an unbroken stretch of snow. It was a little like taking the first spoonful of peanut butter from the jar.

It just came with a little extra serotonin. The street hadn't been plowed yet. It just had a couple of tire tracks, cautiously worn down in its center. And I was glad that I could walk to raise my binoculars to my eyes and watch for birds. I saw a couple of bright red cardinals standing on branches, and I wondered what they thought about the new landscape. They were harder to see, but I spotted one or two snow buntings, with their russet-rouged cheeks and chests, and layers of black tail feathers ringed in white. Though I didn't see any snowy owls,

I heard a few of their raspy hoots echoing from far-off treetops. Snowy owls, unlike many of their fellows, are diurnal, so sometimes you can spot them as they move through the day. But on a morning like this, they disappeared into the white. I turned off the paved path and onto a rutted dirt road that led away from the houses and into a stretch of woods. I'd been coming to this little patch of wilderness for ages and even was allowed to collect sap from the maples in the spring.

Sometimes I saw deer or wild pheasants, or on a few rare occasions, I've been lucky enough to see a pilated woodpecker with its bright red crest of feathers in the branches. They were big birds, over a foot tall, and every time I'd seen one, it had taken my breath away. While I certainly kept my eyes open as I moved through the woodlands today, I was in search of flora rather than fauna.

I wanted to make some homemade holiday gifts for my neighbors. The tradition had started many years ago with just two of us on our street, leaving gifts on each other's doorsteps in the last weeks of the year. And then a family moved in at the end of the block, and someone new was in the cottage across the lane, and we wanted to include them. And actually, we wondered why we hadn't always included everyone. Hmm.

That was something to think on. Anyway, now we had a doorstep party where neighbors traveled from house to house like Santa Claus and left a small token. Lots of my neighbors were terrific bakers, and I got tins of cookies and cellophane-wrapped cranberry loaves that kept my afternoon tea company for as long as I could make them last. One neighbor gave handmade ornaments made of paper or hard-baked gingerbread

or dried orange slices. A gift I always looked forward to was a simple brown paper sack tied with a red ribbon that held three paper white bulbs. I had a vase with pebbles at its bottom so that the roots could just reach the water already sitting on my windowsill in anticipation. I usually made gifts from things I found on my walks. Pine cone potpourri,

door wreaths made with acorns, carefully saved maple leaves, and smooth rocks painted with stars and snowflakes. This year, if my walk today was fruitful, I was planning to make hanging baubles with holly leaves and berries and stems of ivy tied with twine. A friend at the flower shop had given me a box of those round foam cores that arrangements are sometimes built around, and at first I'd thought of making them with mistletoe, but holly and ivy sounded safer. I hoped they would still inspire a few kisses,

but without any danger of poisoning. On the path, the holly was easy to spot. There really is no plant that compares to it. Brilliantly glossy, with wide pyramidal leaves, cut so sharply that they seem to have been made by a fastidious paper artist,

and generously dotted with bright red berries. I took my shears from my pocket and began cutting small bunches of the holly until I had what I hoped would be enough for my gifts I delicately put the cuttings in my bag and walked on looking for ivy I had some in my own garden and walked on looking for ivy. I had some in my own garden that grew up over the pickets of my fence

and covered one side of my shed, but those plants were unprotected and had already been hit hard by the cold. I was looking for wild growing ivy, hoping to find some that had been sheltered enough in the last few hoping to find a place to hold on to. Same, I said under were getting chilly. It was time to head home and have another cup of cocoa. The holly and the ivy. We'd had a few dustings over the last week or so, and one full day of snow showers.

But the ground had been too warm to hold the flakes, and they'd melted as soon as they'd touched down. Then, yesterday, the temperature had dropped and stayed low all day, and as the sun set, it began to snow. I realized as I watched it that the snow showers of the week before had only ever been a trial run. Mother Nature just testing the idea of blanketing our lawns and lanes in flakes. Now she was serious. This was a thick, layered snowfall that went on all night. I woke a few times in the wee hours, and though I didn't get up, I could see, just by how brightly the moonlight was reflecting on my bedroom walls,

that there must be a good bit of snow piling up around me. The idea of it, of it laying thick on the roof and branches around me. It felt like a second blanket, covering not just me, but my whole home, the whole village. And that put me right back to sleep. When I woke and stepped to the window, I saw that a half foot or so of snow was draped over every horizontal surface. It was a new and lovely sight after watching the landscape bloom through the summer and color deeply in the fall

to see it now wrapped in shades of white and gray. I lived once in a place where the weather barely changed all year. And while that held its own attractions, I loved watching the seasons come and go. It felt refreshing, like rearranging the furniture, or catching your reflection in a bit of glass after a stylish new haircut. You recognized most of the landmarks, but the alterations made you look closer at the whole thing and reminded you that things change, and allowing them to is much more peaceful than fighting against them. I couldn't wait to get out into the snow and see those changes close up.

Once I'd been fed and dosed with a cup of hot cocoa, I bundled up with plenty of layers, looped a pair of binoculars around my neck, and stepped into the garage for a canvas bag and some garden snips, which fit nicely into the big pockets of my overcoat. When I went through the side door into the yard, I got the satisfying experience of leaving the first footprint in an unbroken stretch of snow. It was a little like taking the first spoonful of peanut butter from the jar.

It just came with a little extra serotonin. The street hadn't been plowed yet. It just had a couple of tire tracks, cautiously worn down in its center. And I was glad that I could walk to where I was going and leave my car behind. I tromped along the sidewalks, stopping now and then to raise my binoculars to my eyes and watch for birds. I saw a couple of bright red cardinals

standing on branches, and I wondered what they thought about the new landscape. They were harder to see, but I spotted one or two snow buntings, with their russet-rouged cheeks and chests, and layers of black tail feathers ringed in white. Though I didn't see any snowy owls, I heard a few of their raspy hoots echoing from far off treetops. Snowy owls, unlike many of their fellows, are diurnal, so sometimes you can spot them as they move through the day. But on a morning like this,

they disappeared into the white. I turned off the paved path and onto a rutted dirt road that led away from the houses and into a stretch of woods. I'd been coming to this little patch of wilderness for ages and even was allowed to collect sap from the maples in the spring. Sometimes I saw deer or wild pheasants,

or on a few rare occasions, I'd been lucky enough to see a pilated woodpecker with its bright red crest of feathers in the branches. They were big birds, over a foot tall. And every time I'd seen one, it had taken my breath away. While I certainly kept my eyes open as I moved through the woodlands today, I was in search of flora rather than fauna. I wanted to make some homemade

holiday gifts for my neighbors. The tradition had started many years ago with just two of us on our street leaving gifts on each other's doorsteps in the last weeks of the year. And then a family moved in at the end of the block and there was someone new

in the cottage across the lane. And we wanted to include them. And actually, we wondered why we hadn't always included everyone. Hmm. That Hmm, that was something to think on. Anyway, now we had a doorstep party, where neighbors traveled from house to house like Santa Claus, and left a small token. Lots of my neighbors were terrific bakers, and I got tins of cookies and cellophane-wrapped cranberry loaves that kept my afternoon tea company for as long as I could make them last. One neighbor gave handmade ornaments made of paper, or hard-baked gingerbread, or dried

orange slices. A gift I always looked forward to was a simple brown paper sack tied with a red ribbon that held three paper white bulbs. I had a vase with pebbles at its bottom so that the roots could just reach the water already sitting on my windowsill in anticipation. I usually made gifts from things I found on my walk. Pine cone potpourri, door wreaths made with acorns and carefully saved maple leaves. And smooth rocks painted with stars and snowflakes.

This year, if my walk today was fruitful, I was planning to make hanging baubles with holly leaves and berries and stems of ivy tied with twine. A friend at the flower shop had given me a box of those round foam cores that arrangements are sometimes built around. And at first I'd thought of making them with mistletoe, but holly and ivy sounded safer. I hoped they would still inspire a few kisses, but without any danger of poisoning. On the path, the holly was easy to spot. There really is no plant that compares to it.

Brilliantly glossy, with wide, perimidal leaves, cut so sharply that they seem to have been made by a fastidious paper artist, and generously dotted with bright red berries. I took my shears from my pocket and began cutting small bunches of the holly, until I had what I hoped would be enough for my gifts. I delicately put the cuttings in my bag and walked on, looking for ivy. I had some in my own garden that grew up over the pickets of my fence and covered one side of my shed. But those plants were unprotected

and had already been hit hard by the cold. I was looking for wild-growing ivy now, hoping to find some that had been sheltered enough in the last few days to still be green. And I discovered some, ascending a long-dead sycamore tree. It grew by throwing out tendrils in all directions, hoping to find a place to hold on to. Same, I said, under my breath, as I bent down to snip a few vines of it from the forest floor. My bag was full and my toes were getting chilly.

It was time to head home and have another cup of cocoa. Sweet dreams.