Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Potter's Wheel

Episode Date: August 1, 2022

Our story tonight is called The Potter’s Wheel and it’s a story about the pleasures of making something with your own two hands. It’s also about laundry drying on the line, a little room that is just for you, and initials etched into the bottom of a vase. Order the book now! Get our ad-free and bonus episodes.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 Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If you'd like to hear our stories without any ads, and catch our bonus episodes, you can subscribe to our Premium Plus feed.

It costs about a dime a day, and really supports what we do. We actually have a bonus episode coming out today, and it's called A Midsummer Afternoon's Nap. And it's a story about a hammock in the shade, hydrangeas as they shift color from pink to blue, and the feeling of being right in the middle of a warm, lovely season. Learn more at nothingmuchappens.com. So the best way to fall asleep is to not try to fall asleep. Really.

So instead of trying, just listen to the story I have to tell you. Listen to my voice. It will engage your brain's task positive network, and that will allow you to fall asleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, don't hesitate to just listen again, or think through any part of the story that you can remember. Just shifting your thoughts in this way will help you drift back off. And if you're new to this, be patient.

This is brain training, and its effectiveness will build over time. Okay, lights out campers. Set aside anything you've been working on or looking at. It's time to settle down into your bed, to pull the blanket up over your shoulder, and relax into your bed to pull the blanket up over your shoulder and relax into your favorite sleeping position. Take a second to just mentally close the loop on your day. Anything that's left over, any stray niggling thoughtsledge them, and then let them go. If they are truly important, you can pick them up tomorrow morning.

But most likely, you'll just forget them. Now take a deep breath in through the nose, and sigh through the mouth. Yeah. Again. In and out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called The Potter's Wheel, and it's a story about the pleasures of making something with your own two hands. It's also about laundry drying on the line, a little room that is just for you, and initials etched onto the bottom of a vase. The Potter's Wheel. I'd been away from it for a few days. We'd taken a long weekend to go camping,

and it had felt so good to step out of our schedules and routines. We'd told the time by the angle of the sun and the grumbling of our stomachs. We hiked and swam and cooked and ate and told stories over the fire at night. The days full of sunshine and fresh air left us happily exhausted when we climbed into our sleeping bags each night. And though I thought I'd struggle to get comfortable in our tent, sleep would come thick and heavy, and I'd barely move, waking in the same position I'd drifted off in. The last day, the winds had picked up, and before we loaded up the car

to head home, we'd taken advantage of the cooler weather to climb a steep path to the top of an overlook and sit for an hour or so in the breeze, looking down into a valley of rippling leaves and tall grasses. It had left my skin smelling like summer. And even now that we were home, if I tucked my nose into the crook of my elbow, I could detect it. I'd spent the morning sorting laundry, washing and hanging our clothes out on the line in the backyard. The house had been stale and stuffy when we got home, but all the windows were open now,

and I'd picked a vase full of lilies for the kitchen table. The lilies were stargazers, pink and fuchsia, with deep rose freckles and a sweetness that must call to bumblebees from miles around. When I'd arranged them in the vase and filled it with water at the tap, I'd noticed how heavy it was. It was one of the first vases I'd thrown on my pottery wheel. And I kept it, not because it was a beautiful specimen of what I could make, but because it wasn't.

It was where I'd started. It was too heavy. Its walls, too thick. It was made without a definite shape in mind, and it hadn't ever found one. The glaze was patchy and smeared, but it had my initials scraped into the bottom, and I was still proud of it. I suddenly wanted to get back to my wheel, to throw something, a few somethings, and just feel the clay slipping through my fingers again. I poured a fresh cup of coffee and stepped into the small room where I made things. It was a little space that had probably once been a pantry. Our old farmhouse was one of those

sorts of places that got added onto again and again, and the layout was creative and and a bit roundabout. I liked that. I felt like I was tucked into a pocket when I was in here. It had one window that looked into the backyard, where I could see the clothes billowing in the wind. I rolled up my sleeves and unwrapped a chunk of clay. I used my wire cutter to separate a good-sized piece and wrapped the rest back up. I set up my tools by the wheel. A fresh bowl of water, sponges, a steel scraper, a potter's rib, and a large sturdy paper clip that worked as

well as anything else I'd found to sculpt with. I started by wedging the clay, a process that was a bit like kneading bread dough and helped to remove air bubbles. I pummeled and pushed and compressed it until it felt ready in my hands. Then I sat at the wheel and with a big, satisfying slap, anchored it onto its center. Well, it seemed like the center, but the next step, as I began to set the wheel to spinning, was to actually center it.

This took a bit of muscle and concentration as I leaned my weight into the clay and wrestled it into alignment. Honestly, I liked this part of potting. Some might find it tedious and would want to get right onto the more delicate steps, but I found it cathartic and primal. The clay and I might start off in opposition, but after a minute or so of work, we would slip into an easier accord and begin to create together. I imagine all artists and craftspeople have probably felt a moment like that, when the

work begins to guide you to talk back or clear a new path. it happened often when I began to pull the clay up lengthening my pot and then pushing it back down and pulling it up again to begin to define its shape it happened now as what I thought would be a vase started to become something else. What was this?

A beaker? A pot? Ah, it was going to be a pitcher. A ewer with a tall, ridged body I shaped with my tools and sponge. Every part of what I was doing took practice. And even with a couple years of it under my belt, I regularly got bits of it wrong. Sometimes I didn't wedge enough, and the air trapped in the clay would expand in the kiln and blow the whole thing apart.

Sometimes I made my pieces too heavy or thinned them too much, pushed them off-center till they spun out on the wheel. One of my teachers, who'd noticed me being too fearful of all of the above, spent a day with me, making and smashing down the same shape over and over. We'd pull it up, refine the rim, and give it a neat base, and then she'd stop the wheel and tell me to wreck it. Oof, it was bitter medicine to swallow. But she was teaching me that my skill wouldn't disappear after a misfire. I didn't have to be so careful or afraid of just trying something or to make a mess. I could begin again, over and over. And I should. I stopped the wheel and carefully shaped the pouring lip of the pitcher,

looking for the right angle so that water wouldn't drip when it was used, and then wired it off the wheel and reached for more clay to pull the handle. I dipped my fingers into the water and began to stretch and pull the shape. I got it wrong twice before I found the right length and structure, then scored the picture and painted on thin slip to attach it. Sometimes the trickiest part was knowing when to stop, and I thought I'd found the moment. It would need to dry on the rack till it was leather hard, and then I could smooth and finish the surface and put it through its first firing, then glaze and another trip into the kiln. I stepped out to the kitchen sink

to wash the dry clay from my hands and saw that the breeze had picked up and one of my shirts was hanging on by a single clothespin. I'd go out to take down the laundry and then get right back behind my wheel.

The potter's wheel. I'd been away from it for a few days. We'd taken a long weekend to go camping, and it had felt so good to step out of our schedules and routines. We told the time by the angle of the sun and the grumbling of our stomachs. We hiked and swam and cooked and ate and told stories over the fire at night. The days full of sunshine and fresh air left us happily exhausted when we climbed into our sleeping bags each night. And though I'd thought I'd struggle to get comfortable in our tent. Sleep would come, thick and heavy, and I'd barely move, waking in the same position I drifted off in. The last day, the winds had picked up, and before we loaded up the car to head home we'd taken advantage

of the cooler weather to climb a steep path to the top of an overlook and sit for an hour or so in the breeze, looking down into a valley of rippling leaves and tall grasses. It had left my skin smelling like summer, and even now that we were home,

if I tucked my nose into the crook of my elbow, I could detect it. I'd spent the morning sorting laundry, washing and hanging our clothes out on the line in the backyard. The house had been stale and stuffy when we got home, But all the windows were open now, and I'd picked a vase full of lilies for the kitchen table. The lilies were stargazers, pink and fuchsia, with deep rose freckles and with a sweetness that must call to bumblebees from miles around. When I'd arranged them in the vase and filled it with water at the tap,

I'd noticed how heavy it was. It was one of the first vases I'd thrown on my pottery wheel. And I kept it, not because it was a beautiful specimen of what I could make, but because it wasn't. It was where I'd started. It was too heavy. Its walls too thick. It was made without a definite shape in mind, and it hadn't ever found one.

The glaze was patchy and smeared, but it had my initials scraped into the bottom, and I was still proud of it. I suddenly wanted to get back to my wheel, to throw something, a few somethings, and just feel the clay slipping through my fingers again. I poured a fresh cup of coffee and stepped into the small room where I made things. It was a little space that had probably once been a pantry. Our old farmhouse was one of those sorts of places that got added on to again and again. And the layout was creative and a bit roundabout. I liked it. I felt like I was tucked into a pocket when I was in here.

It had one window that looked into the backyard, where I could see the clothes billowing in the wind. I rolled up my sleeves and unwrapped a chunk of clay. I used my wire cutter to separate a good-sized piece and wrapped the rest back up. I set up my tools by the wheel a fresh bowl of water sponges a steel scraper

a potter's rib and a large sturdy paper clip that worked as well as anything else I'd found to sculpt with. I started by wedging the clay, a process that was a bit like kneading bread dough, and helped to remove air bubbles. I pummelled and pushed and compressed it until it felt ready in my hands. Then I sat at the wheel

and with a big, satisfying slap anchored it onto its center. Well, it seemed like the center, but the next step, as it began to set the wheel to spinning, was to actually center it. And this took a bit of muscle and concentration as I leaned my weight into the clay

and wrestled it into alignment. Honestly, I liked this part of potting. Some might find it tedious and would want to get right onto the more delicate steps, but I found it cathartic and primal. The clay and I might start off in opposition, but after a minute or so of work, we would slip into an easier accord and began to create together. I imagined all artists and craftspeople have probably felt a moment like this,

when the work begins to guide you to talk back or clear a new path. It happened often when I began to pull the clay up, lengthening my pot, and then pushing it back down and pulling it up again to begin to define its shape. It happened now as what I thought would be a vase started to become something else. What was this? A beaker? A pot? Oh, it was going to be a pitcher. A ewer with a tall, ridged every part of what I was doing took practice.

And even with a couple years of it under my belt, I regularly got bits of it wrong. Sometimes I didn't wedge enough, and the air trapped in the clay would expand in the kiln and blow the whole thing apart. Sometimes I made my pieces too heavy, or thinned them too much, pushed them off center till they spun out on the wheel. One of my teachers, who'd noticed me being too fearful of all of the above, spent a day with me, making and smashing down the same shape over and over. We'd pull it up, refine the rim and give it a neat base, and then she'd stop the wheel and tell me to wreck it.

Oof. It was bitter medicine to swallow, but she was teaching me that my skill wouldn't disappear after a misfire. I didn't have to be so careful or afraid of just trying something, afraid of making a mess. I could begin again, over and over, when I should. I stopped the wheel and carefully shaped the pouring lip of the pitcher, looking for the right angle so that water wouldn't drip when it was used,

then wired it off the wheel and reached for more clay to pull the handle. I dipped my fingers into the water and began to stretch and pull the shape. I got it wrong twice before I found the right length and structure, then scored the picture and painted on thin slip to attach it. Sometimes the trickiest part was knowing when to stop, and I thought I'd found the moment.

It would need to dry on the rack till it was leather hard, and then I would smooth and finish the surface and put it through its first firing, then glaze and another trip through the kiln. I stepped out to the kitchen sink to wash the dry clay from my hands and saw that the breeze had picked up and one of my shirts was hanging on by a single clothespin.

I'd go out to take down the laundry and get right back behind my wheel. Sweet dreams.