Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Joy of Missing Out

Episode Date: November 13, 2023

Our story tonight is called The Joy of Missing Out, and it’s a story about recharging your body when your battery has run down. It’s also about frost on the windows, reading a favorite book snuggled deep under the covers, being honest about what you need, and giving others permission to do the same. Subscribe for ad-free, bonus and extra long episodes now! nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription At NMH, we give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Greyhound Rescue. They ethically rescue, lovingly rehabilitate, and safely rehome greyhounds; giving them a voice through advocacy and education. greyhoundrescue.com.auPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Before anything else, we'd like to thank some recent subscribers to our premium feeds. So thank you, Dorian. Thank you, Charlene. Thank you, Marcus and Leslie. I promise not to put you through an NPR style pledge drive here,

but subscribing really does help keep these stories coming to you every week. There's a lot of work going on behind the scenes. It's not just me and Bob anymore. And when you subscribe, you make that possible, as well as getting ad-free bonus and extra-long, slightly-more-happens episodes. So if that's something you're interested in, we have a direct link in the show notes you can click and get started. You can even continue to listen on whatever app

you're using right now, so there's not even any new tech to figure out. At Nothing Much Happens, we give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Greyhound Rescue. They ethically rescue, lovingly rehabilitate, and safely rehome greyhounds, giving them a voice through advocacy and education. Find a link to them in our show notes. Now, the concept here is simple, but tried and true. I'm going to read you a bedtime story. And just by listening to it, by following along with the sound of my voice, will steer you into a deep, restorative sleep.

This is a sort of grown-up sleep training, and you'll notice that the more you do it, the faster you fall asleep or return to sleep in the night. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Now, it's time. Lights out. Set aside anything you've been playing with or working on.

And take a moment to prioritize your own comfort. And feel how good it is to be in bed right now. Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to since you got up this morning. Well, now it's here. You are safe. You are done for the day. And I'll be here keeping watch as you sleep. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose

and sigh through your mouth. One more time. Fill it up and let it go. Good. Our story tonight is called The Joy of Missing Out. And it's a story about recharging your body

when your battery has run down. It's also about frost on the windows, reading a favorite book, snuggled deep under the covers, being honest about what you need, and giving others permission to do the same. The Joy of missing out. We were a week or so away from Thanksgiving, and it felt like Halloween was yesterday and that Christmas would be tomorrow. As much as I loved this time of year, sometimes it seemed like a mad gallop,

rushing from October to the new year, and I wanted to slow it down and savor it before before it was gone. So instead of picking apples for next week's pies at the orchard or heading to downtown to stroll the streets and watch the shopkeepers put together their holiday window displays or meeting friends coming into town for dinner, or a hundred other things that I am thoroughly fond of, I am instead relaxing into the joy of missing

out. I realized this morning, as I sipped my coffee in bed, that my battery had run out. I just didn't have the energy to do today. And at first I resisted it, feeling like I should push myself up and into my clothes and out of the door, and that if I did, maybe I would find the energy. But I realized even if I did, I wasn't likely to find the joy.

I could put one foot in front of the other, but couldn't put an honest smile on my face. No, I needed a deep factory reset. And in the moment I surrendered to that, I felt myself relaxing. I hadn't even realized that I'd been wearing my shoulders like earrings, tensing against the day.

As I let my shoulders and my guard down, I breathed deeper. I felt a warm thank you for listening from my body spreading through my limbs. I would make no plans today and I would cancel the ones I did have. I drank till my cup was empty, pushed it onto my bedside table

and slid back down into my sheets. They were still warm and puffed up from a night of sleeping, and I burrowed in till just my head was out. There was frost on the window this morning, and I spent some time just looking at it, watching how the light of the rising sun struck and bounced off of it. I could feel that, given its struthers,

my body would not have awoken this early, and that there might be a way back into sleep. I took my book from the table and curled up around it keeping as much of me as possible in my cocoon of blankets as I opened it and began to read

a memory from childhood ran through my mind. Of the first time I read a whole chapter on my own. It had been a morning like this one, frost on the windows, and me tucked up in bed with a thin chapter book. I remember fumbling my way through the words I didn't recognize, sounding them out slowly but determinedly, until I turned a page and found a big two marking the start of the next chapter. I had felt so proud. It felt like I had reached a turning point. I could read now, all by myself, and whenever I wanted. I thought of little me, smiling at her book all those years ago and felt so tender toward her

and grateful as I was still turning pages and enjoying stories all these years later. My current read was one I read every autumn. It didn't matter if I was right in the middle of another book, if I had a tall stack waiting for me beside the bed, if the pages were starting to be dog-eared and the spine cracked.

Once it felt crisp and the leaves turned, I plucked this one from the shelf and treated myself to a long dip into its world, which was full of mystery and magic and near misses and impossible love. As my eyes moved over the lines on the a line, opening my eyes again, until I finally let the book fall onto the comforter beside me and drifted. I dreamt in a swirl of snow and colors, nothing concrete enough to form into a storyline. But with the atmosphere of Christmas, a sea of trees lit up on a mountainside, and excitement and sleigh bells.

When I woke again, I felt replete. I stretched my limbs in bed and took deep breaths at the window tying my robe around me I watched cars coming and going a neighbor wrapped in a huge parka with a scarf slipping down his back

was unpacking boxes of twinkle lights and a whole herd of reindeer onto his front lawn. I smiled as I scooped up my cold cup from beside the bed and felt how lovely it was to be missing out on all of that today. In the kitchen, I started a fresh pot of coffee

and sprinkled a good bit of cinnamon in with the grounds. As it brewed, the house filled with the lovely, roasty, sweet scent, and I sent a couple of messages to cancel the plans I'd had for that evening. I did it without the least bit of regret or guilt. Just knowing I was doing what I needed to do to take care of myself. The responses came back with little hearts and thumbs up. No one was mad. No one was expecting more of me than I could give. In fact, one friend gratefully said she'd decided to stay home too, that I'd given her the nudge she needed to slow down. That's the thing about just being honest about what you need.

When you do, you give others permission to do the same, and we all get a little closer to having those needs met. I thought of things I might like to do while missing out. Watch old movies. Take a long, hot bath. Fill up the bird feeders, do the crossword puzzle, maybe cook something,

or maybe just order something tasty that could be delivered right to my door. That sounded like plenty for a full day of doing nothing much. Yes, before I knew it, I'd be putting up the tree, rushing to a holiday concert, making a New Year's resolution. Well, here was an early resolution

I thought I might be able to stick to. Every now and then, when I felt the need, I would politely absent myself from the busy world and remember how to rest. The joy of missing out. We were a week or so away from Thanksgiving, and it felt like Halloween was yesterday, and that Christmas would be tomorrow. As much as I loved this time of year, sometimes it seemed like a mad gallop,

rushing from October to the new year. And I wanted to slow it down and savor it before it was gone. So instead of picking apples for next week's pies at the orchard or heading to downtown to stroll the streets and watch the shopkeepers put together their holiday window displays

or meet friends put together their holiday window displays, or meet friends coming into town for dinner, or a hundred other things that I am thoroughly fond of. I am, instead, relaxing into the joy of missing out. I realized this morning as I sipped my coffee in bed that my battery had run out. I just didn't have the energy to do today. And at first I resisted it, feeling like I should push myself up and into my clothes and out of the door, and that if I did, maybe I would find the joy.

I could put one foot in front of the other, but couldn't put an honest smile on my face. No, I needed a deep factory reset. And in the moment I surrendered to relaxing. I hadn't even realized that I'd been wearing my shoulders like earrings, tensing against the day. As I let my shoulders and my guard down, I breathe deeper. As I let my shoulders and my guard down, I breathed deeper and felt a warm thank you for listening from my body spreading through my limbs. I would make no plans today, and I would cancel the ones I did have. I drank till my cup was empty,

pushed it onto my bedside table, and slid back down into my sheets. They were still warm and puffed burrowed in till just my head was out. There was frost on the window this morning, and I spent some time just looking at it, watching how the light of the rising sun struck and bounced off of it. I could feel that, given its druthers, my body would not have awoken this early, and that there might be a way back into sleep. I took my book from the table and curled up around it, keeping as much of me as possible in my cocoon of blankets.

As I opened it and began to read, a memory from childhood ran through my mind. Of the first time I read a whole chapter on my own. It had been a morning like this one, frost on the windows, and me tucked up in bed with a thin chapter book. I remember fumbling my way through the words I didn't recognize, sounding them out slowly but determinedly, until I turned a page and found a big two marking the start of the next chapter. I had felt so proud. It felt like I had reached a turning point. I could read now, all by myself,

and whenever I wanted. I thought of little me, smiling at her book book all those years ago and felt so tender toward her and grateful as I was still turning pages and enjoying stories all these years later. My current read was one I read every autumn. It didn't matter if I was right in the middle of another book,

if I had a tall stack waiting for me beside the bed, if the pages were starting to be dog-eared and the spine cracked, once it felt crisp and the leaves turned, I plucked this one from the shelf and treated myself to a long dip into its world, which was full of mystery and magic and near misses and impossible love. As my eyes moved over the lines on the page, I felt my eyelids drooping. I kept starting over,

rereading a line, opening my eyes again, until I finally let the book fall onto the comforter beside me and drifted. I dreamt in a swirl of snow and colors, nothing concrete enough to form into a storyline, but with the atmosphere of Christmas, a sea of trees lit up on a mountainside,

and excitement, and sleigh bells. When I woke again, I felt replete I stretched my limbs in bed and took deep breaths at the window tying my robe around me I watched cars coming and going. A neighbor wrapped in a huge parka

with a scarf slipping down his back was unpacking boxes of twinkle lights. The whole herd of reindeer onto his front lawn. I smiled as I scooped up my cold cup from beside the bed and felt how lovely it was to be missing out on all of that today. In the kitchen,

I started a fresh pot of coffee and sprinkled a good bit of cinnamon in with the grounds. As it brewed, the house filled with a lovely, roasty, sweet scent, and I sent a couple messages to cancel the plans I'd had for that evening. I did it without the least bit of regret or guilt, just knowing I was doing what I needed to do to take care of myself. The responses came back in with little hearts and thumbs up.

No one was mad. No one was expecting more of me than I could give. In fact, one friend gratefully said she'd decided to stay home too, that I'd given her the nudge she needed to slow down. That's the thing about just being honest about what you need. When you do, you give others permission to do the same, and we all get a little closer to having those needs met.

I thought of things I might like to do while missing out. Watch old movies. Take a long, hot bath. Fill up the bird feeders. Do the crossword puzzle. Maybe cook something.

Or maybe just order something that could be delivered right to my front door. That sounded like plenty for a full day of doing nothing much. yes, before I knew it, I'd be putting up the tree, rushing to a holiday concert, making a New Year's resolution. Well, here was an early resolution I thought I might be able to stick to. Every now and then, when I felt the need,

I would politely absent myself from the busy world and remember how to rest. Sweet dreams.