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

Episode Date: April 18, 2022

Our story tonight is called The Weathervane and it’s a story about a few acres out in the country. It’s also about the smell of fresh hay on a warm morning, mud boots for getting chores done and a pocketful of carrots for the donkeys in the last stall of the barn.So get cozy and ready to sleep. 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 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 with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We are about to celebrate four years of stories from the village of Nothing Much. You know, this all started just because I had a little idea that I might be able to help a few people sleep. And now, after 140 episodes, and a beautiful book published in so many places,

and hearing from so many of you who tell me, yes, you're sleeping after years of struggle, and that you use the stories to calm anxiety and develop mindfulness. Well, I'm really proud of what we do, and that we can be a source of comfort and help in the world. And I'd like to thank you for listening. So if you go to any of our socials, we're on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

Look for the post that says, Four years of nothing much. Leave a comment telling me which story you most want me to write a sequel to. And I will. I've also got autographed copies of my book and signed book plates to send out. So we'll do a drawing on April 23rd for them. As always, you can subscribe to our ad-free and bonus shows at nothingmuchappens.com.

Now, let me say a little about how to use this podcast. Your brain needs a job to do, and without one, it will wander off and get into trouble. But the job is easy and such a pleasure. I'll tell you a story, I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Your job is to listen and pull the details of it around you like a blanket. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again, or just walk yourself back through any part of it that you can remember. This trains the brain over time

to shift out of its wandering default mode and into the restful response that happens in task mode. Now, it's time to turn off the light. Put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Cozy your body down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can. You have done enough for the day. Truly, it is enough. And nothing remains but rest. Let's take a deep breath in through the nose.

And then a soft sigh from the mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. In. and out. Good. Our story tonight is called The Weather Vane. And it's a story about a few acres out in the country. It's also about the smell of fresh hay on a warm morning,

mud boots for getting chores done, and a pocketful of carrots for the donkeys in the last stall of the barn. The Weather vane. It was a windy morning. The last oak leaves that had hung on all through the autumn and winter were finally being pushed off their branches by the coming crop about to bud, and flying in soft, swirling paths around the yard.

All in our own time, I thought, as I watched from the porch. My mud boots on and a cardigan buttoned up against the breeze. The weather vane on top of the barn spun as the wind gusted, and its green copper tail turned in the slipstream. We'd found the weather vane in the barn when we bought this place. Well, we'd found a lot of things in the barn, and most of them were rusted beyond repair or just old clutter that needed to be carted away. and most of them were rusted beyond repair, or just old clutter that needed to be carted away. But the weather vane,

right away I felt like I'd found a treasure. It stood nearly as tall as I was, with two sets of crossed beams, one to mark the cardinal directions, and one that must have been purely decorative, crossed arrows with ornate tails and heads. Then a beautiful crane made from copper, its wings open in mid-flight, and its long, graceful legs

stretched out to catch the feel of the wind. As it blew, the crane would turn to show the direction of the gust. All that copper and skillful crafting just to point at the wind. But it seemed absolutely worth the work and wait as we hefted it up onto the peak of the barn and fastened it securely into place. That was years ago, and still my eyes found it every morning

while I was walking across the yard or sitting on the porch. It had become a sort of mascot for the farm. And when I was in town and mentioned it, I noticed people's eyes lighting up. Oh, the Weathervane Farm. Yes, I know where that is. I smiled as I stepped off the porch and started across the yard toward the barn. I was glad people could find us easily. It often proved to be important. We hadn't set out to become a sanctuary.

We'd just been people with a barn and some land, but it had happened all the same. There were some goats who needed a home. I don't remember now the specifics. It hadn't mattered to me then either. I just thought, well, nobody's living in the barn. Let's see what we can do. And then we'd heard about a pig that someone was trying to keep in a house without much of a yard. And we called and said she could come here. And then it was like a silent call had gone out to all the animals in the county

who needed a safe place to land, and we were reorganizing the barn and seeding the back pasture and setting up a coop for the birds. Thankfully, we'd had plenty of help along the way. Neighbors who lent a hand with the outbuildings and taught us how to care for creatures we'd never kept before. There was a reliable band of volunteers, too, who gave us breaks when we needed them,

and sometimes came out even when we didn't, just to spend time with the animals. We were grateful to them, because the whole operation wouldn't have worked without them. But I think they were grateful, too. They could come, spend an hour in the pasture, with the goats goats while they played or stretch out in the grass with the cow napping,

her sweet, spotted head resting in their lap. And I knew from experience how lovely and special that was. When the world didn't make sense, the animals did. They sought play and affection and snacks and a sunny place to lay, and were happy. Being around them reminded me to find joy in those things too. To be contented when my needs were met, rather than grasping constantly for more. Along with the farm animals we'd given a home to,

we had space to say yes to several dogs and cats, and some of them followed me around as I did my morning chores. We tipped out old water from tubs and troughs and filled them with fresh. We fed everyone their breakfast and opened the gates from the barn to the pasture. I had a pocket full of carrots and apples, and some of them went to the goats as I walked through their yard. But I saved the rest for the two donkeys at the end of the barn. You're not supposed to have favorites, but they were mine. I couldn't help it. We had two, both a bit older, but still full of silliness and personality. When we first started to have animals here at the farm, after we rescued the first goats

and pigs, I thought right away that I hoped we might, at some point, add a donkey or two to the family. I'd carried a memory with me since I was young of driving out on sunny days to visit some friends who had a farm a lot like ours. There was a long, sloping hill with a barn at the top where llamas and alpacas lived, and at the bottom a paddock with a couple sweet, silly donkeys. And as soon as the car was in park, I'd be out the door and running toward them. When they saw me,

they would bray in a chorus of excited honks, and I felt like they knew me and had missed me and were so glad I was back. I'd stand at the edge of their yard and rub their ears and chat to them. And they were so gentle and funny, and I never forgot how it felt to rub the soft fur on their broad noses. So when a neighbor came to us saying that her donkeys seemed lonely and could they stay here, saying that her donkeys seemed lonely.

And could they stay here where they could play with the others? I was so glad. Of course, I said. We'll get their room ready right away. She had visited them as long as she'd lived, but now that they didn't get those visits anymore, I made sure to carve out some special time for them, alone. I walked through the open door of the barn and smelled the sweet hay that was spread out over the floor.

A couple geese and a duck were having a committee meeting in the corner, and I left them to it and kept going. Past the pen where the goat slept, I noticed one of the barn cats dozing up high on a hay bale, one white paw hanging lazily over the edge. At the back of the barn, where the doors opened to the pasture, the donkeys were chewing their breakfast.

They could come and go during the day, between the yard and the shelter. And I found them with the sun on their faces and tails swinging slowly behind them. They heard me coming, and just like those sweet donkeys in my memory, let out a few croaky hee-haws. They really do say hee-haw, and it always made me laugh. They nosed into my pockets for the treats they knew I would have brought, and I fed them bit by bit and told them my plans for the rest of the day. I cradled

their heads in my arms, watching them blink their long lashes. The wind blew fast and fresh, smelling of spring. And I stepped out and shielded my eyes from the sun to watch the weather vane spin and stop on the roof. Chores to do, I caught up a pail and tromped on in my boots. The weather vane. It was a windy morning. The last oak leaves that had hung on all through the autumn and winter were finally being pushed off their branches by the coming crop about to bud.

And flying in soft, swirling paths around the yard. All in our own time, I thought, as I watched from the porch, my mud boots on and a cardigan buttoned up against the breeze. The weather vane on top of the barn spun as the wind gusted, and its green copper tail turned in the slipstream. We'd found the weather vane in the barn when we'd bought this place. Well, we'd found a lot of things in the barn, and most of them were rusted beyond repair, or just old clutter that needed to be carted away.

But the weather vane right away felt like I'd found a treasure it stood nearly as tall as I was with two sets of crossed beams one to mark the cardinal directions and one that must have been one to mark the cardinal directions, and one that must have been purely decorative,

crossed arrows with ornate tails and heads, then a beautiful crane made from copper, its wings open in mid-flight, and its long, graceful legs stretched out to catch the feel of the wind. As it blew, the crane would turn to show the direction of the gust. All that copper and skillful crafting just to point at the wind. But it seemed absolutely worth the work and wait

as we hefted it up onto the peak of the barn and fastened it securely into place. That was years ago. And still, my eyes found it every morning while I was walking across the yard or sitting on the porch. It had become a sort of mascot for the farm. And when I was in town and mentioned it, I noticed people's eyes lighting up. Oh, the Weathervane Farm.

Yes, I know where that is. I smiled as I stepped off the porch and started across the yard toward the barn. I was glad people could find us easily. It often proved to be important. We hadn't set out to become a sanctuary. We'd just been people with a barn and some land, but it had happened all the same. There were some goats who needed a home. I don't remember now the specifics.

It hadn't mattered to me then, either. I just thought, well, nobody's living in the barn. Let's see what we can do. And then we'd heard about a pig that someone was trying to keep in a house without much of a yard. And we called and said, she could come here. And then, it was like a silent call

had gone out to all the animals in the county who needed a safe place to land. And we were reorganizing the barn and seeding the back pasture and setting up a coop for the birds. Thankfully, we'd had plenty of help along the way. Neighbors who lent a hand with the outbuildings and taught us how to care for creatures we'd never kept before. There was a reliable band of volunteers, too, who gave us breaks when we

needed them, and sometimes came out even when we didn't, just to spend time with the animals. We were grateful to them, because the whole operation wouldn't have worked without them. But I think they were grateful too. They could come spend an hour in the pasture with the goats while they played, or stretch out in the grass with the cow napping, her sweet spotted head resting in their lap and I knew from experience how lovely and special that was when the world didn't make much sense the animals did.

They sought play and affection and snacks and a sunny place to lay, and were happy. Being around that reminded me to find the joy in those things too, to be contented when my needs were met, rather than grasping constantly for more. Along with the farm animals we'd given a home to, we had space to say yes to several dogs and cats. And some of them followed me around as I did my morning chores.

We tipped out old water from tubs and troughs and filled them with fresh. We fed everyone their breakfast and opened the gates from the barn to the pasture. I had a pocket full of carrots and apples, and some of them went to the goats as I walked through their yard. But I saved the rest for the two donkeys at the end of the barn. You're not supposed to have favorites, but they were mine. I couldn't help it. We had two, both a bit older, but

still full of silliness and personality. When we first started to have animals here at the farm, after we rescued the first goats and pigs, I thought right away that I hoped we might, at some point, add a donkey or two to the family. I'd carried a memory with me

since I was young of driving out on sunny days to visit some friends who had a farm a lot like ours. There was a long, sloping hill with a barn at the top, where llamas and alpacas lived, and at the bottom, a paddock with a couple sweet, silly donkeys. And as soon as the car was in park, I'd be out the door and running toward them. When they saw me, they were so glad I was back. I'd stand at the edge of their yard, and rub their ears,

and chat to them, and they were so gentle and funny, and I never forgot how it felt to rub the soft fur on their broad noses. So when a neighbor came to us, saying that our donkeys seemed lonely and could they stay here or they could play with the others. I was so glad. Of course, I said,

we'll get their room ready right away. She had visited them as long as she lived. And now that they didn't get those visits anymore, I made sure to carve out some special time for them alone. I walked through the open door of the barn and smelled the sweet hay that was spread out over the floor. A couple geese and a duck were having a committee meeting in the corner, and I left them to it,

kept going past the pen where the goats slept, and noticed one of the barn cats dozing up high on a hay bale, one white paw hanging lazily over the edge. At the back of the barn, where the doors opened to the pasture, the donkeys were chewing their breakfast. They could come and go during the day, between the yard and the shelter, and I found them with the sun on their faces and tails swinging slowly behind them.

They heard me coming, and just like those sweet donkeys in my memory, let out a few croaky hee-haws. They really do say hee-haw, and it always made me laugh. They nosed into my pockets for the treats they knew I would have brought. And I fed them bit by bit and told them my plans for the rest of the day. I cradled their heads in my arms, watching them blink The wind blew fast and fresh, smelling of spring, and I stepped out and shielded my eyes from the sun to watch the weather vane spin and stop on the roof. Chores to do. I caught up a pail and tromped on in my boots. Sweet dreams.