Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Lookout

Episode Date: October 17, 2022

Our story tonight is called The Lookout and it’s a story about a hidden place deep in the woods with a very special view. It’s also about all the different names for Juneberries, a maple leaf and green stone, and enjoying your time when you’re alone.Purchase 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 Katherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We love to connect with you. Really, we do. So join us on your favorite social media feed, except TikTok.

I haven't quite got the energy to get anything going there yet. But everywhere else, we post lovely, relaxing pictures and quotes from the episode, in case you fall asleep before they even start. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. I have a story to tell you. and the story is a soft landing place for your mind whatever today has been like it can end in soothing rest

just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of our tale. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second telling. Let the details you hear pull you into the world of the story, as if you were seeing and hearing and tasting what it has to offer. If you wake again in the middle of the night, turn your mind right back to those details. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed.

This is a simple but effective form of brain training, and as the habit builds, you'll notice that you drop off sooner and stay asleep longer. out and get cozy. Pull the blanket up over your shoulder and feel your body go heavy into the sheets. I'll be here, a voice in the darkness, watching over and reading even after you've fallen asleep. All is well. All is well. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose. And then a soft sigh from the mouth. Nice.

Do that again. Breathe in, and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Lookout. And it's a story about a hidden place deep in the woods with a very special view. It's also about all the different names for June berries. A maple leaf and a green stone.

And enjoying your time when you're alone. The lookout. It wasn't exactly a secret. I'm sure lots of people had found this spot over the years. But it was a little off the path, and there were no signs or guideposts to point it out. The first time I'd found it,

I'd been chasing after June berries it was early summer and I knew they must be growing wild somewhere in the woods where I liked to hike I'd been keeping an eye out for fallen white petals in the undergrowth, and when I spotted some, I diverged from my usual route. Juneberry trees bloomed full of whitish flowers in April and May. And as the petals fell, the berries ripened. I'd had a good look in my foraging guide before I'd left the house

to be sure that I could recognize the shrub and the berry and had been tickled by all the names for this fruit. It was a Juneberry but also a serviceberry or a sarviceberry, a saskatoon, a sugarplum, a chuckley pear, a sugar pea,

or a maycherry. They all sounded tasty, and they were. I'd found a thicket full of ripe berries and stood for a few minutes, just eating right off the vine. They had a good, sweet flavor that did remind me a bit of cherries or even raisins. And as I picked more and circled around the tree,

something caught my eye in the distance. I walked, still popping berries into my mouth, deeper into the woods, drawn by a shaft of sunlight cutting through the branches. I saw stone steps half- in pine needles that rose up and wrapped around a platform, sitting high in the branches. I gingerly tested out the steps, finding them solid and firmly cemented into place, and chewing the last of my saskatoons, carefully climbed all the way up. It was just an open, flat space, the size of a couple parking spots, though I suspected there had once been a little wooden structure sat upon it. For the most part, all I could see were branches and the bright green spring leaves that had just fully unfurled. Then I turned in a slow circle and saw that on one side the land sloped away and the trees with it,

and I could see clear across the horizon, over the dip of a valley and the hills on either side. It was a lookout and maybe once had served to keep watch for fires or track migrations. Thus the small shelter whose marks were still visible in the concrete floor. I thought it had been built when the surrounding trees were less mature and likely had had a 360-degree view once, but now it was sheltered, and I liked that even better. That day I had gone back to fill a handkerchief with may cherries and sat with my legs dangling over the edge of the platform,

eating them slowly, looking out at the tens of thousands of trees and all the green, and listening to birds calling. I'd been careful to notice on the way back any small landmarks that would help me find it again. And now I knew it well.

I'd been there a few times over the summer, but was especially looking forward to the view in autumn. I'd been keeping watch on the trees in my neighborhood and while I was out on drives, waiting for the peak color moment. And it had finally come. On my way to the trailhead, I'd stopped to let a couple dozen cyclists

cross the dirt road in front of me. And I thought about how fresh that must feel, the cool air and the thrill of the small hills and all the sights they would see before winding up their ride. When my car was parked, and I'd snugly tied my hiking boots, I stepped out onto the trail. It was a funny thing. I did this all the time, here or other trails or the path in the park downtown.

Most days I walked for my exercise, my meditation, my own pleasure. But still, every time I set off, I was excited. Every time felt like an adventure. There was already a thin layer of fallen, dried leaves on the path, and they crunched under my boots. I dressed for a cool day, but just with a long-sleeved flannel and jeans, a thin beanie pulled over my ears. My rule of thumb was that if I was fully warm and comfortable

when I started to hike, I'd be overheated before the end. So I took it as a good sign that the air nipped at me a little as I walked. I followed the trail until I spotted a giant rock that had somehow been split in two. It was a boulder, in fact, as boulder is, somewhat surprisingly, a scientific designation,

and a rock must be at least 16 inches in diameter to earn it. And even split in two, this was. From there, I turned into the woods and made my own path. We'd had rain the week before and the ground was springy and covered in moss. A little further on was a tree with a branch about five feet overhead that grew straight out to the side on a 90-degree angle. What fun that must have been to climb when it was smaller. I turned again, and after a few paces,

found the juneberry tree that had fed me this spring. Beyond it was the lookout, the steps still half-covered in pine needles and still sturdy as I cautiously climbed. At the top step, I found a bright red maple leaf pinned down with a pretty green stone, and I thought that was likely a sort of hello from whoever else climbed here. While I was glad the spot was gently enjoyed, I was twice as glad to have it to myself today. I thought of that box that had been checked sometimes on my quarterly report cards in elementary school. Plays well with others.

And I did. But they should have also had a box for plays well alone. Because that is important too. I turned to the view and smiled wide, taking it in. Miles of trees and a rainbow of autumn colors spread out in every direction.

The air was cold and incredibly fresh. And as I sat, I pulled breaths of it in, as if I could keep some for later. Squirrels were running through the branches, and I noticed a pile of acorn shells heaped in a corner of the platform. I wondered what this view would look like in midwinter when all the branches were bare

and the land coated in snow. It would be another adventure. The lookout. It wasn't exactly a secret. I'm sure lots of people had found this spot over the years. But it was a little off the path, and there were no signs or guideposts to point it out. The first time I'd found it,

I'd been chasing after June berries. It was early summer, and I knew they must be growing wild somewhere in the woods where I like to hike. I'd been keeping an eye out for fallen white petals in the undergrowth and when I spotted some, I diverged from my usual route. Juneberry trees

bloomed full of whitish flowers in April and May. And as the petals fell, the berries ripened. I'd had a good look in my foraging guide before I'd left the house to be sure that I could recognize the shrub and the berry and had been tickled by all the names for this fruit. It was a Juneberry, but also a Serviceberry, or a Sarvisberry, a Saskatoon, a chuckley pear, a sugar pea, or a may cherry. They all sounded tasty, and they were. I'd found a thicket full of ripe berries

and stood for a few minutes just eating right off the vine. They had a good sweet flavor that did remind me a bit of cherries or even raisins. And as I picked more and circled around the tree, something caught my eye in the distance. I walked, still popping berries into my mouth, deeper into the woods, drawn by a shaft of sunlight cutting through the branches. I saw stone steps,

half covered in pine needles, that rose up and wrapped around a platform, sitting high in the branches. I gingerly tested out the steps, finding them solid and firmly cemented into place. And chewing the last of my Saskatoons, carefully climbed all the way up.

It was just an open, flat space, the size of a couple parking spots though I suspected there had once been a little wooden structure sat upon it. For the most part all I could see were branches and the bright green spring leaves that had just fully unfurled. in a slow circle and saw that on one side

the land sloped away and the trees with it and I could see clear across the horizon over the dip of a valley and the hills on either side. It was a lookout and maybe once had served to keep watch for fires or track migrations.

Thus the small shelter or track migrations, thus the small shelter whose marks were still visible in the concrete floor. I thought it had been built when the surrounding trees were less mature and likely had a 360-degree view once, but now it was sheltered, and I liked that even better. That day I'd gone back to fill a handkerchief with may cherries and sat with my legs dangling over the tens of thousands of trees and all the green and listening to birds calling. I'd been careful to notice on the way back any small landmarks that would help me find it again. And now I knew it well.

I'd been there a few times over the summer, but was especially looking forward to the view in autumn. I'd been keeping watch on the trees in my neighborhood, and while I was out on drives, waiting for the peak color moment, and it had finally come. On my way to the trailhead, I'd stopped to let a couple dozen cyclists

cross the dirt road in front of me. And I thought about how fresh that must feel. The cool air and the thrill of the small hills. And all the sights they would see before winding up their ride. When my car was parked and I'd snugly tied my hiking boots, I stepped out onto the trail. It was a funny thing. I did this all the time. Here trails or the path in the park downtown. Most days I walked for my exercise, my meditation, my own pleasure. But still, every time I set off, I was excited. Every time felt like an adventure.

There was already a thin layer of fallen, dried leaves on the path, and they crunched under my boots. I dressed for a cool day, but just with a long-sleeve flannel and jeans, a thin beanie pulled over my ears. My rule of thumb was that if I was fully warm and comfortable when I started to hike, I'd be overheated before the end. So I took it as a good sign that the air nipped at me a little as I walked. I followed the trail until I spotted a giant rock

that had somehow been split in two. It was a boulder, in fact, as boulder is somewhat surprisingly a scientific designation. And a rock must be at least 16 inches in diameter to earn it. And even split in two, this was. From there, I turned into the woods and made my own path. We'd had rain the week before, and the ground was springy and covered in moss. A little further on, there was a tree with a branch about five feet overhead that grew straight out to the side on a 90-degree angle. What fun that must have been to climb when it was smaller. I turned again and, after a few paces, found the Juneberry tree that had fed me this spring. Beyond it was the lookout,

the steps still half-covered in pine needles and still sturdy as I cautiously climbed. At the top step, I found a bright red maple leaf pinned down with a pretty green stone, and I thought that it was likely a sort of hello from whoever else climbed here. While I was glad the spot was gently enjoyed, I was twice as glad to have it to myself today I thought of that box that had been checked sometimes on my quarterly report cards in elementary school

plays well with others and I did. But they should have also had a box for plays well alone. Because that is important too. I turned to the view and smiled wide, taking it in. Miles of trees in a rainbow of autumn colors spread out in every direction.

The air was cold and incredibly fresh, and as I sat, I pulled breaths of it in, as if I could keep some for later. Squirrels were running through the branches around me, and I noticed a pile of acorn shells heaped in a corner of the platform. I wondered at what this view would look like in midwinter, when all the branches were bare and the land coated in snow.

It would be another adventure. Sweet dreams.