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

Episode Date: March 9, 2020

Our story tonight is called The Tea Shop and it’s a story about a carefully prepared cup of tea drunk on a cool morning. It’s also about a cat with a crooked tail, a memory of belonging, and the days on the edge of a new season. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book!Purchase 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 write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We're proud members of the CuriousCast podcast network. You can follow us on Twitter or Instagram or Facebook for extra coziness. Now let me explain a little

about how to use this podcast. When left to its own devices, your mind could wander endlessly, rehashing and what-if-ing into the wee hours. We need to give it a soft place to land, and that's what the story is. Once the mind settles, your nervous system can switch over into its rest and digest mode, and you'll

sleep. All you need to do is follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the story. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, you could listen again, or just think your way back through any part of the story that you can remember, especially any detail that felt particularly cozy to you.

It'll reroute your mind back to the landing spot, and before you know, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and rested. It's time to turn off the light. Set aside anything you've been working on or looking at. Snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. You are about to fall asleep and you'll sleep deeply all night. Take a slow breath in through your nose and sigh it out of your mouth. Again, breathe in and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Tea Shop, and it's a story about a carefully prepared cup of tea drunk on a cool morning.

It's also about a cat with a crooked tail, a memory of belonging, and the days on the edge of a new season. The tea shop. I heard it as I was walking past the high school. I was on my way to the tea shop. I'd been rushing down the sidewalk, with my hands jammed into my pockets and my shoulders hunched against the end of the winter chill.

It was muffled, but instantly recognizable. The morning bell calling students to their classrooms for the start of the day. I actually stopped in my tracks for a moment and turned to look at the school. An old red brick building with wide stone steps

and a few stragglers rushing up them. From the front door hung a hand-printed sign for the spring musical. I smiled at it. It was the same one I'd been in in my freshman year. I thought suddenly of the dark of the auditorium, the tinny sound of the rehearsal piano, of painting flats after school, and the giddy excitement of opening night. Beyond all of that, I remembered the feeling of being a part of something I was proud of.

I'd stepped into auditions a bit awkward and unsure, and taken my bow on closing night with a pack of new friends and a confidence in myself that helped move me through the next four years. That moment in adolescence when you find the people you can be yourself with. It's a moment you never forget. I thought I might make time to see the musical when it opened in a few weeks, and see if I still knew all the words. The act of remembering had woken me up. My shoulders dropped down from my ears, and I stopped rushing.

There was still a chill in the air, but it wasn't winter's end. It was spring's beginning. I made my way down the block and around the corner and into the tea shop. It was a tiny place with a few round tables and a window seat full of cushions. There were plants in macrame slings and prisms hanging from invisible thread, throwing rainbows against the wall. Along the windowsills were stacks of paperback books and a row of candles in different colors. I'd noticed every time I was in that a different candle was lit.

Yesterday it was the pink one, and today it was violet. I suspected that there was a bit of magic mixed into the tea they brewed, and that was just fine by me. Behind the small bar where they measured and steeped were shelves of canisters with handwritten labels and a dozen teapots.

They had all sorts of tea, herbal blends that smelled like a field of flowers, or powerful medicine, or both. Black tea grown in Sri Lanka and rooibos from the western Cape of South Africa. They had flowering teas, tight bundles of leaves wrapped around a chrysanthemum or amaranth blossom that were brewed in clear glass pots so you could watch them coming back to life. This morning, I asked for matcha, and the woman behind the bar seemed to consider it for a moment, before agreeing it was the right choice. She took down a ceramic tea bowl with blue speckled glaze and a wooden whisk from a shelf. She poured a bit of steaming water into the bowl and let the whisk rest in it while she reached

for a canister of green tea powder. It was the bright green of spring grass. And as she unscrewed the top, I caught a whiff of that same scent. And I thought of the first time you smell freshly cut grass in the spring. It's something you know so well, but have gone so long without. And then you're suddenly reunited with it, like finding a favorite t-shirt you thought you'd lost, but had just been put away in the wrong drawer. I hoped we might be only a few weeks away

from the first sighting of spring grass. I turned back to watch the tea making. The water was tipped from the tea bowl, its job of warming now done, and matcha was carefully sifted in. My tea maker measured out hot water into the green powder and began to whisk, first in a slow zigzag, and then with faster strokes, which formed an emerald foam on top of the tea. When she finished, she set aside her whisk

and passed the bowl right into my hands. I felt the warmth through the ceramic and thought how basic this act was to being human. How many people over millennia had recognized the goodness of a hot drink on a chill morning? Of preparing it with a bit of care and handing it over to help lift someone up.

These small, elevating acts that are done all over the world for generations. When we partake in them, well, at least to me, it feels like a kind of communion. Like I was aligning myself with a strand of the greater universe. I smiled down into my bowl, thinking that it was no wonder I had been a theater kid. Even drinking tea was, in my eyes, a cosmic undertaking. I drank.

The first sip was rich and pushed all other thought from my head. I just tasted the green, earthy flavor of the tea and felt the warmth moving through me as I swallowed. With the second sip, I could taste more complex flavors. It was savory, like a toasted seed, and just a little bitter,

though I noticed that it left a lingering sweetness in my mouth that made me immediately tip the bowl to my lips for another drink. The last sip came with a feeling of energy, a readiness for the rest of my day. I set the bowl down with a sigh and got a nod from the tea witch who could see that the matcha magic had clearly worked.

I paid my few dollars and zipped my coat back up to my nose and pushed the door open to the street. An orange and white spotted cat with a slightly crooked tail slipped through my ankles and into the warmth of the shop. I heard him being welcomed back as I closed the door behind me. My bowl of tea had turned me around. The cool air felt fresh on my face,

and I put the spring in my step to good use. I had a new day laid out in front of me. I began to walk. The tea shop. I heard it as I was walking past the high school. I was on my way to the tea shop. I'd been rushing down the sidewalk with my hands jammed into my pockets, and my shoulders hunched against the end of the winter chill.

It was muffled, but instantly recognizable. The morning bell calling students to their classrooms for the start of day. I actually stopped in my tracks for a moment and turned to look at the school, an old red brick building with wide stone steps and a few stragglers rushing up them. From the front door hung a hand-printed sign for the spring musical. I smiled at it. It was the same one I'd been in, in my freshman year. I thought suddenly of the dark of the auditorium, the tinny sound of the rehearsal piano, of painting flats after school, and the giddy excitement of opening night. Beyond all of that,

I remembered the feeling of being a part of something I was proud of. I'd stepped into auditions a bit awkward and unsure, and taken my bow on closing night with a pack of new friends and a confidence in myself that helped move me through the next four years. That moment in adolescence when you find the people you can be yourself with, it's a moment you never forget. I thought I might make time to see the musical when it opened in a few weeks and see if I still knew all the words. The act of remembering had woken me up. My shoulders dropped down from my ears,

and I stopped rushing. There was still a chill in the air, but it wasn't winter's end. It was spring's beginning. I made my way down the block and around the corner and into the tea shop. It was a tiny place, with a few round tables and a window seat full of cushions. There were plants in macrame slings and prisms hanging from invisible thread, throwing rainbows against the wall. Along the windowsills were stacks of paperback books and a row of candles in different colors. I'd noticed every time I was in that a different candle was lit. Yesterday it was the pink one, and today it was violet. I suspected that there was a bit of magic mixed into the tea they brewed,

and that was just fine by me. Behind the bar, where they measured and steeped, were shelves of canisters with handwritten labels and a dozen teapots. They had all sorts of tea, herbal blends that smelled like a field of flowers, or powerful medicine, or both. Black tea, grown in Sri Lanka, and rooibos from the western Cape of South Africa. They had flowering teas, tight bundles of leaves wrapped around a chrysanthemum or amaranth blossom. They were brewed in clear glass pots so you could watch them coming

back to life. This morning, I asked for matcha, and the woman behind the bar seemed to consider it for a moment, before agreeing it was the right choice. She took down a ceramic tea bowl with blue speckled glaze and a wooden whisk from a shelf. She poured a bit of steaming water into the bowl and let the whisk rest in it

while she reached for the canister of green tea powder. It was the bright green of spring grass, and as she unscrewed the top, I caught a whiff of that same scent. And I thought of the first time you smell freshly cut grass in the spring. It's something you know so well, but have gone so long without. And then you're suddenly reunited with it. Like finding a favorite t-shirt you thought you'd lost, but had just been put away in the wrong drawer. I hoped we might only be a few weeks away from the first sighting of spring grass.

I turned back to watch the tea-making. The water was tipped from the tea bowl, its job of warming now done, and matcha was carefully sifted in. My tea maker measured out hot water into the green powder and began to whisk, first in a slow zigzag and then with faster strokes, which formed an emerald foam on top of the tea. When she finished, she set aside her whisk and passed the bowl right into my hands. I felt the warmth through the ceramic and thought how basic this act was to being human. How many people over millennia had recognized the goodness of a hot drink

on a chill morning? Of preparing it with a bit of care and handing it over to help lift someone up. These small, elevating acts that are done all over the world for generations, when we partake in them, well, at least to me, it feels like a kind of communion, like I was aligning myself with a strand of the greater universe. smiled down into my bowl, thinking that it was no wonder that I'd been a theater kid. Even drinking tea was, in my eyes, a cosmic undertaking. I drank the first sip was rich and pushed all other thought from my head I just tasted the green, earthy flavor of the tea and felt the warmth moving through me as I swallowed.

With the second sip, I could taste more complex flavors. It was savory like a toasted, and just a little bitter, though I noticed that it left a lingering sweetness in my mouth that made me immediately tip the bowl to my lips for another drink. The last sip came with a feeling of energy, a readiness for the rest of my day. I set the bowl down with a sigh and got a nod from the tea witch, who, and pushed the door open to the street. An orange and white spotted cat, with a slightly crooked tail, slipped through my ankles and into the warmth of the shop. I heard him being welcomed back as I closed the door behind me.

My bowl of tea had turned me around. The cool air felt fresh on my face, and I put the spring in my step to good use. I had a new day laid out in front of me. I began to walk. Sweet dreams.