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

Episode Date: November 6, 2023

Our story tonight is called The Middle Path, and it’s a story about a trek down an unknown trail at the park. It’s also about red berries on a vine, the fog of your breath in the late autumn air, geese crossing the sky, and making space for the beauty that lives all around you. Our Premium Plus Feed has over 30 exclusive bonus episodes. I’ve just written a really nice story called Afternoon Tea that lives on that feed. It also has extra long episodes, which we call Slightly More Happens. I know, I crack me up, and we just added our longest ever. It is over three and half hours long and compiles all the stories from the recent wedding at the Inn, including a bonus At the Reception episode. Subscribe now! https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Amnesty International USA. https://www.amnestyusa.org/contact-us/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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Amnesty International. They work to campaign for internationally recognized human rights for all. We have a link to them in our show notes. Our Premium Plus feed has over 30 exclusive bonus episodes. I've just written a really nice story called Afternoon Tea that lives on that feed. It also has extra long episodes, which we call Slightly More Happens. I know, I crack me up. And we just added

our longest ever. It is over three and a half hours long and compiles all the stories from the recent wedding at the inn, including a bonus at the reception episode. You can subscribe through nothingmuchappens.com. Now, especially if you are new to this, I think it helps to understand how this works. Without something to focus on, your brain wanders into a pattern of activity called the default mode network. And suffice it to say, it is very hard to fall asleep in that mode. But if we give your brain even a very simple job to do, like listening to my voice, it will switch into the task positive mode, and that is a place where sleep comes easily. So just by listening, you are training your brain

to respond to bedtime by moving into this mode. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night and feel your brain revving back up, just start the story over again, or think your way through the parts of it that you can remember. Now, lights out, campers. Get yourself as comfortable as possible, and let your whole body relax into the bed.

You have done enough for the day. Truly, it is enough. As you drift off, I'll be right here, guarding over you with my voice. Now draw a slow, deep breath in through the nose and sigh from the mouth. Nice. Do it one more time. In and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Middle Path.

And it's a story about a trek down an unknown trail at the park. It's also about red berries on a vine. The fog of your breath in the late autumn air, geese crossing the sky, and making space to see the beauty that lives all around you. The Middle Path There was a thin sheen of frost on the ground this morning. The pumpkins that were still perched on doorsteps, unclustered around lampposts, shimmered like they'd been dipped in pearly paint. And a puddle at the entrance to the park

was edged in a paper-thin layer of ice. I squatted down to peer closely at it and saw the ice was cracking in a spiderweb of lines, and when I stood back up and let out a sigh, it came out in a cloud of fog. Here on the back end of autumn, the leaves were dun brown and faded

rather than bright and prismatic. And sunset had crept earlier, but there was still a wild world to explore. Last winter, I'd started finding a way to get outside every day to get some fresh air and light on my face even if I had to bundle up as if I were preparing for a spacewalk and move other commitments to the back burner. Once I'd found a rhythm for this new habit, it hadn't actually been difficult to keep up.

In fact, I found, even on quite cold days, I craved it. To feel my legs pumping, to taste the cold air on my tongue, to feel warmth work through my limbs as I moved. One of the ways I kept my daily excursions fun and enjoyable was to go to different places as much as I could. It turned out that our county was chock full of little parks and preserves

and trails that I never even knew existed. And heading out to explore a new spot, seeing what grew there and how the paths meandered, was something I was genuinely delighted by. Today I was in a park I'd been in before, but taking a new route that I'd just happened to spot the last time I was here. I'd been strolling past some picnic tables on my way back to my car when I saw

a person and their dog, or a dog and their person, slipping through a small break in the treeline. My curiosity peaked. I'd stepped over to where they'd vanished and found a trail through the woods, marked with split rails. I hadn't gone any farther that day. Instead, noting it down in my memory for some future moment when I needed an adventure. Today seemed like the perfect day for it.

Though I could see my breath, and the frost had left her mark overnight, the sun was beginning to emerge, and I had a feeling once I got moving, I'd forget about the chill and just enjoy the fresh air. I found my way again, around the picnic tables,

and down along the tree line, until I spotted the entry to this new-to-me trail. The path itself was a mix of wood chips, which smelled so sweet under my feet, and mulched leaves and packed earth. I picked up my pace and took deeper breaths, feeling myself come alive. I reminded myself that that was the purpose behind these trips out of doors. I was out here to feel good, to have my eyes opened to the beauty of the natural world, and to be energized by the light and joyful movement of my body.

When I'd first committed to getting outside every day, I sometimes lost track of those intentions. I made it a rule to live and die by. And quickly it became something I felt compelled to check off my list. A chore, one more thing to get done every day. You can probably guess that that didn't end well. After feeling like I had to get outside, I started to not want to. And you can only make yourself do things you don't want to do for so long.

I'd zigged so doggedly that now I zagged and abandoned my walks completely for a while. Recounting all of this to a friend and feeling discouraged, he'd smiled and nodded his head, saying he'd been where I was before. He told me to seek out the middle path. You're trying too hard, he said. It had proved to be excellent advice. I took away the pressure to get outside, put no expectation on myself to make it happen, and very soon I found I was craving a walk just because it sounded good. So I asked myself where it might be nice to, and found a ready answer in my heart. And my trips to local parks recommenced. While I walked, I listened to my legs. When they felt tired, I walked more slowly.

I stopped at benches and sat and watched the birds in the trees. I slowly rebuilt this habit around what felt good to my body. And suddenly it became something I got to do rather than had to do. When I caught a cold in the winter, I made my trip outside a nap by the window. When the weather had truly been too snowy and icy to walk, I'd gone to the conservatory and visited the orchids.

Now that I was on the middle path, I had room to adjust, and it made all the difference. I was thinking of this as I followed the trail through the trees. The light was changing, and I found myself stepping out into a meadow. In front of me, the earth sloped down in a soft descent, and in the distance I could see farmland, cleared for the season and bordered by a stone wall. I turned in a slow circle, taking in the line of the forest, the fields,

the open sky with a wedge of geese flying above me. I was so glad I made time for this kind of enjoyment. I looked down at the trail and chuckled to myself at what I saw. The path diverged. It ran to the left, back into the forest. To the right, up higher into the hills,

and of course, right down the middle, through the meadow and along the fields. Well played, I said to, I wasn't sure who, maybe just myself. So I took the middle path and followed it down through the native grasses, which had grown high over the summer and were now drying in place, making homes of themselves for pollinators and other creatures. Red berries were growing on a vine that crept over the stone wall, and birds swept down to eat them.

In a distant field, scarecrows stood watching over the now-moaned-down crops, and beyond that, I squinted to see it. The sails of a windmill turned slowly. This was the beauty of the middle path, of not pushing or forcing. Instead, I had just made space for beauty to become visible. And now I found it most anywhere I went. The Middle Path There was a thin sheen of frost on the ground this morning. The pumpkins that were still perched on doorsteps and clustered around lampposts shimmered like they had been dipped in pearly paint, and a puddle at the entrance to the park was edged in a paper-thin layer of ice.

I squatted down to peer closely at it and saw the ice was cracking in a spider web of lines. And when I stood back up and let out a sigh, it came out in a cloud of fog. Here, on the back end of autumn, the leaves were done brown and faded rather than and sunset had crept earlier, but there was still a wild world to explore. Last winter, I'd started finding a way to get outside every day to get some fresh air and light on my face even if I had to bundle up as if I were preparing for a spacewalk

and move other commitments to the back burner. Once I'd found a rhythm for this new habit, it hadn't actually been difficult to keep up. In fact, I found even on quite cold days, I craved it, to feel my legs pumping, to taste the cold air on my tongue, to feel warmth work through my limbs as I moved.

One of the ways I kept my daily excursions fun and enjoyable was to go to different places as much as I could. It turned out that our county was chock full of little parks and preserves and trails that I never even knew existed. And heading out to explore a new spot, seeing what grew there, and how the paths meandered, was something I was genuinely delighted by. Today I was in a park I'd been in before, but taking a new route that I'd just happened to spot the last time I was here. I'd been strolling past some picnic tables on my way back to my car

when I saw a person and their dog, or a dog and their person, slipping through a small break in the tree line. My curiosity peaked. I'd stepped over to where they'd vanished and found a trail through the woods, marked with split rails. I hadn't gone any farther that day, instead noting it down in my memory

for some future moment when I needed an adventure. Today seemed like the perfect day for it. Though I could see my breath and the frost had left her mark overnight. The sun was beginning to emerge, and I had a feeling once I got moving, I'd forget about the chill and just enjoy the fresh air. I found my way again around the picnic tables and down along the tree line

until I spotted the entry to this new-to-me trail. The path itself was a mix of wood chips, which smelled so sweet under my feet, and mulched leaves and packed earth. I picked up my pace and took deeper breaths, feeling myself come alive.

I reminded myself that that was the purpose behind these trips out of doors. I was here to feel good. To have my eyes opened to the beauty of the natural world and to be energized by the light and joyful movement of my body. When I'd first committed to getting outside every day, I sometimes lost track of those intentions. and quickly it became something I felt compelled to check off my list. A chore. One more thing to get done every day. You can probably guess that that didn't end well.

After feeling like I had to get outside, I started to not want to. When you can only make yourself do things you don't want to do for so long. I'd zigged so doggedly that now I zagged and abandoned my walks completely for a while. Recounting all of this to a friend and feeling discouraged, he'd smiled and nodded his head, saying he'd been where I was before. He told me to seek out the middle path. You're trying too hard, he said. It had proved to be excellent advice. I took away the pressure to get outside,

put no expectation on myself to make it happen. And very soon, I found I was craving a walk. Just because it sounded good. So I asked myself where it might be nice to trek, and found a ready answer in my heart. My trips to local parks recommenced. While I walked, I listened to my legs. And when they felt tired, I walked more slowly. I stopped at benches and sat and watched the birds in the trees.

I slowly rebuilt this habit around what felt good to my body, and suddenly it became something I got to do, rather than had to do. When I'd caught a cold in the winter, I made my trip outside a nap by the window. When the weather had truly been too snowy and icy to walk, I'd gone to the conservatory and visited the orchids. Now that I was on the middle path, I had room to adjust, and it made all the difference. I was thinking of this as I followed the trail through the trees. The light was changing, and I found myself stepping out into a meadow. In front of me, the earth sloped down in a soft descent, and in the distance I could see farmland, cleared for the season and bordered by a stone wall.

I turned in a slow circle, taking in the line of the forest, the fields, the open sky with a wedge of geese flying above me. I was so glad I made time for this kind of at the trail, and chuckled to myself at what I saw. The path diverged. It ran to the left, back into the forest, to the right, up higher into the hills, and of course, right down the middle, through the meadow and along the fields. Well played, I said to... I wasn't sure who, maybe just myself. So I took the middle path and followed it down through the native grasses, which had grown high over the summer and were now drying in place, making homes of themselves

for pollinators and other creatures. Red berries were growing on a vine that crept over the stone wall and birds swept down to eat them. In a distant field, scarecrows stood watching over the now mown-down crops. And beyond that, I squinted to see it.

The sails of a windmill turned slowly. This was the beauty of the middle path. Not pushing This was the beauty of the middle path, not pushing or forcing. Instead, I had just made space for beauty to become visible. And now I found it. Most anywhere I went. Sweet dreams.