Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Waves at Night

Episode Date: June 12, 2023

Our story tonight is called The Waves at Night and it’s a continuation of last week’s story, still set at the cottage on a warm day. It’s also about poppies blooming by the roadside, a journal waiting beside the glider on the porch, and sleeping with the windows open as the waves roll in on the beach.  We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Outright International. Working together to promote LGBTQIA+ rights and equality through advocacy campaigns and legal support. https://outrightinternational.org/ Subscribe to our Premium or Premium Plus feeds for ad-free and bonus episodes https://nothingmuchhappens.supportingcast.fm. Get more coziness at https://www.nothingmuchhappens.com/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. Thank you for listening and for sharing our show with others. We give to a new charity each week, and this week we are giving to Outright International, working together to promote LGBTQIA plus rights and equality

through advocacy campaigns and legal support. You can find a link to them in our show notes. If you are looking for an ad-free version of this show, bonus episodes, or links to our beautifully illustrated book. Find it all at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, sometimes I hear people say that boring things will put you to sleep, but I must respectfully disagree. Plus, you just deserve better.

I think we can do better than boring. I think we can have soothing, comforting, peaceful ways to build reliable sleep habits. So that's what I have for you. A simple story that I'll tell twice, going a little slower the second time through. Just by listening, by resting your mind on my voice, you will settle your nervous system and sleep. If you wake in the middle of the night, please don't lie awake wondering when you'll fall back to sleep. Just start the story over again. You'll be back to sleep in moments. Now, turn off your light and set down anything

you've been looking at or playing with. It's time. Soften even the hidden bits of tension you usually hold on to. I'll be here, watching over as you rest. You are safe, and you have done enough for today. Take a slow, deep breath in, and sigh. Take a slow, deep breath in. And sigh. Nice. Again, in through the nose.

And out through the mouth. Good. Our story tonight is called The Waves at Night, and it's a continuation of last week's story, still set at the cottage on a warm day. It's also about poppies blooming by the roadside, a journal waiting beside the glider on the porch, and sleeping with the windows open as the waves roll in on the beach. The waves at night. The afternoon had been slow and lazy.

When I woke from my nap under the umbrella, I'd lain for a bit, just watching the water, smelling the good, clean scent of it on the breeze. I thought of how some languages describe the fresh water of lakes as sweet. And it smelled sweet, light, not the briny, salty smell of the ocean, which is good in its own way, but the clean, clear scent of rainfall or melting snow. Eventually, I pushed up out of my chair

and had a good long stretch in the sun. The day was warm, and a swim sounded perfect. A way to wake me up and cool me off. To refresh me for the rest of the afternoon. I stood in the sand in my swimsuit. And smilingly reminded myself. That all I needed to have a beach body was to bring my body to the beach.

Well done, I whispered to myself. Now enjoy it. And I did. The water was lapping in slow waves at the sand, and I stepped in, letting it wash over my ankles. It was cool, not frigid, but far from bathwater warm.

And that is, of course, what made it so refreshing. It was shallow for a long way out, and very clear. I could see straight to the bottom, to the ripples in the sand made by the moving water. I took slow steps, noticing how it felt as it crept up my body. It reminded me of a meditation I had done in yoga class a few weeks before. We'd lain, stretched out on our mats, and scanned through our bodies, from our toes up to the top of our heads, letting the sensations we noticed be our point of focus. I hadn't known that meditation could be like that,

that it could just be noticing how something felt. And since then, I'd realized there were a dozen chances a day to meditate for a few moments at a time, stepping into the shower, taking a bite of something delicious, smelling the coffee as it brewed in the morning, listening to the cricket song, watching the waves now as they rolled in around me.

I tipped myself back into the water, letting buoyancy take over and floating with a little help from the slow swirl of my moving arms and legs. I belong to the water now, I thought, and laughed at myself a bit. That is always how this felt to me, though, as if I'd given myself to the water, and the water had claimed me as her own, in the same way that a long walk in deep woods made me feel, at least a little,

like I was tree folk now. It was the fancy of a little girl that stayed with me, but I suspected I wasn't alone in feeling this way. When I'd eventually climbed out of the water, I sat, wrapped in a towel for a while, letting my skin dry in the warm air. Then I started to think about dinner. It wasn't far away, and the sunshine and exercise had made me hungry. I collected my empty tea glass and the stack of magazines I'd meant to peruse before my nap

and headed back to the cottage. We had a clothesline strung up in the backyard, and I flung my damp towel over it before climbing up the back steps and into the house. First things first, I wanted a shower. I wanted to wash off the sunscreen and comb my hair

and put on some clean, loungy clothes. So that's what I did. And when I stepped out of the bathroom with my damp hair in a clip and the good moisturizer on my face, fresh clothes and refreshed all over, I was ready to get into the kitchen. Now, I am a believer in having cooking snacks,

that is, appetizers to munch on while you make dinner. It just makes the whole process that much more pleasant and was essential as my stomach was beginning to grumble. So I started there. a tall, cold glass of fizzy water with a wedge of lime squeezed in and opened the fridge. I took out cucumbers and orange and red peppers, a bowl of homemade hummus I'd made earlier, bundles of dill and parsley, and some salsa I'd bought at the farmer's market.

From the cupboard I brought down crackers and tortilla chips and made a little platter with all of it to pick at while I cooked. As I snacked, I paced around, looking at our options for a meal. There was plenty to eat, but this little buffet I'd created was so tasty. I thought maybe I could just expand on it a bit. I took olives and heated them in a pan on the stove with a bit of rosemary and orange peel. I seasoned broad beans with za'atar and roasted them till they were crispy.

I warmed slices of baguette in the oven and poured good olive oil into a dish with herbs. I made a chopped salad of cucumbers and shallots and tomatoes with vinaigrette and crushed pistachios on top. We ate on the screened-in porch, looking out at the water, talking some,

but also just enjoying the quiet, sun-tired feeling we both had. For dessert, we had slices of watermelon and shared the last lemon bar we'd brought from the bakery we lingered at the table pointing things out to each other in the way of long together couples the purple martins in the way of long-together couples.

The purple Martins were back in their house, high on the pole next door. The pretty boat with the blue hull was headed toward the canal. The poppies by the road were blooming. As I had cooked, and in some cases compiled, dinner, I was free from dish duty and pushed back from the table to settle on the glider

at the end of the porch. I propped my feet up and reached for the journal that sat always beside it. I wrote a few words about how we had spent the day, about what we'd had for dinner, about the poppies, which I'd feared might not have come back for another season. The wind was picking up,

and the pages flipped through my fingers. As the boats docked for the night and neighbors tucked in around us, I could hear the waves lapping at the shore. On nights like these, we'd sleep with the windows open, and I knew that I would hear the waves all night. We'd sleep with the windows open. And I knew that I would hear the waves all night.

I had that good, tired feeling that comes after a day in the fresh air. And I knew I would sleep deep all night, and that if I did wake, I'd hear the waves, and they'd rock me right back to sleep. The waves at night. The afternoon had been slow and lazy. When I woke from my nap under the umbrella, I'd lain for a bit,

just watching the water, smelling the good, clean scent of it on the breeze. I thought of how some languages describe the fresh water of lakes as sweet. It smelled sweet, light. Not the briny, salty smell of the ocean, which is good in its own way. But the clean, clear scent of rainfall or melting snow. Eventually, I pushed up out of my chair and had a good, long stretch in the sun. The day was warm, and a swim sounded perfect.

A way to wake me up and cool me off. To refresh me for the rest of the afternoon. I stood in the sand in my swimsuit and smilingly reminded myself that all I needed to have a beach body was to bring my body to the beach. Well done, I whispered to myself.

Now enjoy it. And I did. The water was lapping in slow waves at the sand. And I stepped in, letting it wash over my ankles. It was cool, not frigid, but far from bathwater warm. That is, of course, what made it so refreshing. It was shallow for a long way out and very clear. I could see straight to the bottom, to the ripples in the sand made by the moving water. I took slow steps, noticing how it felt as it crept up my body. It reminded me I had done in yoga class a few weeks before. We'd lain,

stretched out on our mats, and scanned through our bodies, from our toes up to the top of our heads, letting the sensations we noticed be our point of focus. I hadn't known meditation could be like that. That it could just be noticing how something felt. And since then, I realized there were a dozen chances a day to meditate for a few moments at a time.

Stepping into the shower, taking a bite of something delicious, smelling the coffee as it perked in the morning, listening to the cricket song, watching the waves now as they rolled in around me. I tipped myself back into the water, letting buoy thought and laughed at myself a bit. always how it has felt to me, as if I'd given myself to the water when I was floating, and that the water had claimed me as her own, in the same way that a long walk in deep woods made me feel, at least a little, like I was tree folk now. It was the fancy of a little girl that stayed with me, but I suspected I wasn't alone in feeling this way.

When I'd eventually climbed out of the water, I'd sat wrapped in a towel for a while, letting my skin dry in the warm air. Then I started to think about dinner. I wasn't far away, and the sunshine and exercise had made me hungry.

I collected my empty tea glass and the stack of magazines I'd meant to peruse before my nap and headed back to the cottage. We had a clothesline strung up in the backyard and I flung my damp towel over it before climbing up the back steps and into the house. First things first, climbing up the back steps and into the house. First things first, I wanted a shower.

I wanted to wash off the sunscreen, comb my hair, and put on some clean, loungy clothes. So that's what I did. And when I stepped out of the bathroom with my damp hair in a clip and the good moisturizer on my face, fresh clothes and refreshed all over. I was ready to get into the kitchen. Now, I am a believer in having cooking snacks, that is, appetizers to munch on while you prepare dinner.

It just makes the whole process that much more pleasant and was essential as my stomach was beginning to grumble. So I started there. I poured myself a tall, cold glass of fizzy water with a wedge of lime squeezed in and opened the fridge. I took out cucumbers and orange and red peppers, a bowl of homemade hummus I'd made earlier bundles of dill and parsley

and some salsa I'd bought at the farmer's market from the cupboard I brought down crackers and tortilla chips and made a little platter with all of it to pick at while I cooked as I snacked I paced around

looking at our options for a meal there was plenty to eat but this little buffet I'd created was so tasty I thought maybe I could just expand on it a bit I took some olives heated them in a pan I could just expand on it a bit. I took some olives,

heated them in a pan on the stove with a bit of rosemary and orange peel. I seasoned broad beans with za'atar and roasted them till they were crispy. I warmed slices of baguette in the oven and poured good olive oil into a dish with herbs. I made a chopped salad of cucumbers and shallots and tomatoes with vinaigrette and crushed pistachios on top. looking out at the water, talking some, but also just enjoying the quiet, sun-tired feeling we both had. For dessert, we had slices of watermelon and shared the last lemon bar

we'd brought from the bakery. We lingered at the table pointing things out to each other in the way of long together couples. The Purple Martins were back at their house high on the pole next door. The pretty boat with the blue hull was headed toward the canal.

The poppies by the road were blooming. As I had cooked, and in some cases compiled dinner, I was free from dish duty, and I pushed back from the table to settle on the glider at the end of the porch. I propped my feet up and reached for the journal that sat always beside it. I wrote a few words about how we had spent the day, about what we'd had for dinner,

about the poppies, which I'd feared might not have come back for another season. The wind was picking up, and the pages flipped through my fingers. As the boat stalked for the night, and neighbors tucked in around us. I could hear the waves lapping on the shore. On nights like these, we'd sleep with the windows open, and I knew that I would hear the waves all night. I had that good, tired feeling

that comes after a day in the fresh air, and I knew I would sleep deep all night, and that if I did wake, I'd hear the waves, and they'd rock me right back to sleep. Sweet dreams.