Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - The Windows Were Open

Episode Date: May 19, 2018

Our story tonight is called “The Windows Were Open” and it’s a story about a sunny summer day by the lake, solitude, and strawberries. It’s also about the feeling of being free from a schedule and deadlines, and about doing some favorite things. So get cozy and ready to sleep. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.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 Katherine Nicolai. Let me say a little about how to use this podcast. Just like when you were a child, being tucked in for bed, I'm going to read you a story to send you off to dreamland. It's a simple story, without much action, but full of relaxing detail. The story is meant to be a soft landing place for your mind,

so that instead of circling through the same thoughts you've been stuck in all day, you can rest it in a sweet, peaceful place. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the first or second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of thumb in general, when you're trying to fall asleep. Don't worry. Relax. Take your mind back to the beginning of the story, and walk yourself back through the details that you remember, especially any bit that felt particularly cozy.

You're training your brain and body to wind down, and the more often you do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have a little bit of patience at the beginning. And if you find yourself awake again, later in the night, just use the story again, and you'll go right back to sleep. Now it's time to turn off the light, and put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Take some time to cozy your body down into your preferred sleeping position. Get the right pillow in the right spot and let everything relax.

In time, all of this becomes a signal for your brain. And the signal says, it's time for sleep. Now let's take a deep breath in through the nose. And a soft sigh out of the mouth. Good. Do that one more time. In,

and out. Our story tonight is called The Windows Were Open. And it's a story about a sunny summer day by the lake, solitude, and strawberries. And it's also about the feeling of being free from a schedule and deadlines. And about doing some favorite things. All the windows were open. Not that the little cottage had that many to begin with. I mean, there were plenty of windows for a house its size,

because its size was small and simple. It was old and cozy and mostly white inside and out. It couldn't have been built today. The land would have cost so much that the purchaser would have felt compelled to build a bulking giant of a house in the place that the cottage stood. But it had been built at a time when it seemed like there would never not be enough shoreline for the people who wanted it.

The drive up went through the woods, along curving rutted dirt roads, edged with tall pines and overhanging maples. You had to know where you were going to get there, and I had known since I was a child. We came in the summers and the autumns, but rarely in cold weather. The house had a huge fireplace that opened into the kitchen on one side and the living room on the other, and another in the master bedroom, but no other heating. That always seems fun as a child, to camp in front of the fire under piles of blankets, goofing off and drinking cups of cocoa.

All the rules are broken. And breaking rules makes children insanely happy. It's less fun as an adult. You mostly just get cold. So I, like mine before me, came in the summers and the autumns. Today, a bright summer day. All the windows were open.

And I stood in the neat little kitchen, with a cup of coffee in my hands, and looked out at the water. Our cottage, with its front door hidden in the woods, and lifted up on a bluff, looked out from every possible room to the water. It was about 200 steps down, an old wooden staircase to the beach. The staircase had, in three places along the descent,

benches on jutting platforms, so the climber could have a sit and just look out. Why is it that our attention is so drawn completely to water? A lake, large or small, a river, or trickling stream in the woods, and of course seas and oceans, are irresistible to our senses. We gape. We forget to think. Some ancient program in our brains begins to run, and happily we comply. Look at the water, it says.

Yes, good idea, we say. So I was looking, scraping the last of my oats from the bowl and taking deep breaths of the water smell rolling in through the window. I'd made a bowl of oats, so overloaded with bananas and berries, cacao nibs, cinnamon, walnuts,

cashew butter, dates, and jam that I'd barely been able to keep it from tumbling out each time I dipped my spoon back in. Now that it was gone, I felt a bit proud that I'd managed to eat it all and have another cup of coffee to boot. I wiped down the old wooden table and got to thinking about bread.

The day before, I'd picked strawberries for hours. I went by myself and picked basket after basket while listening to an old audiobook, one that I loved and had heard many times before. For me, there are few things more pleasant than combining the steady movement of my hands with a story to listen to. And so I had whiled away the afternoon,

and now I had a lot of strawberries, and that made me think of jam, and that made me think of bread. I started the bread first, as it would need to rise at least once, maybe twice, if I could wait that long. I began pulling my ingredients together and taking bowls and measuring cups from the open shelves.

I used to read a recipe and start mixing before I had all the ingredients and tools out. Soon I'd be digging through a drawer looking for something with hands covered with flour or dough, my spoon dripping on the floor. I've gotten older. I've learned. I took everything out and laid things in a logical order. I turned on my book. It was blessedly long. So much still had to happen before it would all come right in the end. And started to wake up my yeast. Yeast and water.

Then flour and salt. I kneaded and looked out at the water. I added a bit of olive oil to a bowl and turned the dough over in it, laid a clean towel on it, and set it in the sunny corner of the counter. Now, I said, strawberries. I'd washed them all the night before, so now I hulled them, cut them in half, and ate about one in every ten I prepared. I set a pot on the stove and added lemon juice, zest, and sugar, and turned on the heat. After a bit, I added my strawberries. I cooked them down and tested the hot jam on a cold plate from the fridge. When I could draw a line through it with my finger, and the line held, it was done. I don't have the patience for canning, so this jam would all have to be eaten within a week or so,

and I'd made almost a dozen jars, so I'd have to drive it around to neighbors later, leaving a jar or two on doorsteps or in mailboxes. My bread was doming over the edge of its bowl, and I scattered some flour on my work surface, punched it down, and tipped it out. More kneading, more rising. I cleaned up, looked at the water, paused my book, and went outside. When you step out onto a really lovely summer day, you think for a moment, well, that's it. I'm never going inside again. How is anyone ever inside? So I thought that, and looked at the water. I pottered around in my garden, pulled some things, talked to the tomato plants, and stuck some mint leaves in my pocket. I took the stairs down to the water and stepped out into the sand. You can walk a long way in either direction

on this beach, and only see more beach. The houses are all up high on the hill. And since everyone wants to walk the beach without having anyone fuss at them, we've all made a tacit agreement to simply not be jerks and let people walk as they will. It works out just fine. So I walked for a while. Let the water, still cold from the night, wash over my ankles and poked at shells with my toes. On the way back up the stairs, an hour or so later, I remembered that I was making bread. Oh, right, I said, bread. It was a bit of a beast, and I knocked the air out of it and rolled it into a big round loaf, set it on a baking tray, and pushed it into the oven. I would need some iced tea and my book next, so I boiled a kettle and stepped into my room to fetch my book from beside my bed.

It was a different book than the one I'd been listening to. There are different books for different times. The book in my hand was perfect for reading outside, and might, if done correctly, lead to napping. The master bedroom was mine now, with its whitewashed wooden walls and fireplace. It had a huge bed, spread with white linens and a very puffy comforter. It naturally faced the water and had a small deck you could sit on with your coffee in the morning. Back in the kitchen, I made tea and looked at my bread. Almost. Not quite yet.

I took an old wood tray from a cupboard and spread a tea towel over. I laid out a jam jar and a spoon, a napkin, my book, and a glass filled with ice. Remembering the mint leaves in my pocket, I tore them up and added them to the glass. At last the bread was ready to come out. It was huge and made me laugh just to look at it. I thumped the bottom and was satisfied to hear its hollow sound. I put it, along with a plate and a knife, on my tray, filled my tea glass, and was ready to go out. I headed to the stone patio. It had chaise lounges and tables, a fire pit, pots of jasmine and petunias, and was strung with fairy lights for the evening. I set my tray on a table beside a lounger, kicked off my sandals, and laid my book on the wide armrest.

I'd cut a slice of bread in a moment, lay jam thickly over it, and dig in. But for now, I just looked out at the water. I just listened to the waves and the birds and the insects. I just sat and felt my own breath in my chest. All the windows were open. Not that the little cottage had that many to begin with. I mean, there were plenty of windows for a house its size. But its size was small and simple.

It was old and cozy and mostly white inside and out. It couldn't have been built today. The land would have cost so much that the purchaser would have felt compelled to build a bulking giant of a house in the place where the cottage stood. But it had been built at a time when it seemed like there would never not be enough shoreline for the people who wanted it. The drive up went through woods, along curving rutted dirt roads, edged with tall pines and

overhanging maples. You had to know where you were going to get there, and I had known since I was a child. We came in the summers and the autumns, but rarely in cold weather. The house had a huge fireplace that opened into the kitchen on one side and the living room on the other, and another in the master bedroom, but no other heating.

That always seems fun as a child, to camp in front of the fire, under piles of blankets, goofing off and drinking cups of cocoa. All the rules are broken. And breaking rules makes children insanely happy. It's less fun as an adult. You mostly just get cold. So I, like mine before me, came in the summers and the autumns. Today, a bright summer day, all the windows were open,

and I stood in the neat little kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hands and looked out at the water. Our cottage, with its front door hidden in the woods and lifted up on a bluff, looked out from every possible staircase to the beach. The staircase had, in three places along the descent, benches on jutting platforms, so the climber could have a sit and just look out. Why is it that our attention is so drawn completely to water? A lake, large or small?

A river or trickling stream in the woods? And of course, seas and oceans are irresistible to our senses. We gape. We forget to think. Some ancient program in our brains begins to run, and happily we comply. Look at the water, it says. Yes, good idea, we say. So I was looking, scraping the last of my oats from the bowl and taking deep breaths of the water smell rolling in through the

window. I'd made a bowl of oats so overloaded with bananas and berries, cacao nibs, cinnamon, walnuts, cashew butter, dates, and jam, that I'd barely been able to keep it from tumbling out each time I dipped my spoon back in. Now that it was gone, I felt a bit proud that I'd managed to eat it all and have another cup of coffee to boot. I wiped down the old wooden table and got to thinking about bread. The day before, I'd picked strawberries for hours. I went by myself and picked basket after basket. The day before, I'd pick strawberries for hours. I went by myself and picked basket after basket, while listening to an old audiobook that I'd loved and heard many times before.

For me, there are few things more pleasant than combining the steady movement of my hands with a story to listen to. And so I had whiled away the afternoon, and now I had a lot of strawberries, and that made me think of jam, and that made me think of bread. I started the bread first, as it would need to rise at least once, maybe twice, if I could wait that long. I began pulling my ingredients together, taking bowls and measuring cups from the open shelves. I used to read a recipe and start mixing before I had all the ingredients and tools out. Soon I'd be digging through a drawer, looking for something with hands covered with flour or dough, my spoon dripping on the floor.

I've gotten older. I've learned. I took everything out. I'd learned. I took everything out. I'd laid things in a logical order. I turned on my book. It was blessedly long. So much still had to happen before it would all come right in the end. And started to wake up my yeast.

Yeast and water, then flour and salt. I kneaded and looked out at the water. I added a bit of olive oil to a bowl and turned the dough over in it, laid a clean towel on it, and set it in a sunny corner of the counter. Now, I said, strawberries. I'd washed them all the night before, so now I hulled them, cut them in half, and ate about one in every ten I prepared. I set a pot on the stove and added lemon juice, zest, sugar, turned down the heat. After a bit I added my strawberries. I cooked them down and tested the hot jam on a cold plate from the fridge. When I could draw a line through it with my finger, and the line held, it was done.

I don't have patience for canning, so this jam would all have to be eaten within a week or so. And I'd made almost a dozen jars, so I'd have to drive it around to neighbors later, leaving a jar or two on doorsteps or in mailboxes. My bread was doming over the edge of its bowl, and I scattered some flour on my work surface, punched it down, and tipped it out. More kneading, more rising.

I cleaned up, looked at the water, paused my book, and went outside. When you step out onto a really lovely summer day, you think for a moment, well, that's it. I'm never going inside again. How is anyone ever inside? So I thought that, and looked at the water. I pottered around in my garden, pulled some things, talked to the tomato plants, and stuck some mint leaves in my pocket.

I took the stairs down to the water and stepped out into the sand. You can walk a long way in either direction on this beach and only see more beach. The houses are all high up on the hill. And since everyone wants to walk the beach without having anyone fuss at them, we've all made a tacit agreement to simply not be jerks and let people walk as they will. It works out just fine. So I walked for a while,

let the water, still very cold from the night, wash over my ankles, and poked at shells with my toes. On the way back up the stairs, an hour or so later, I remembered that I was making bread. Oh, right, I said. Bread. It was a bit of a beast, and I knocked the air out of it. And rolled it into a big round loaf, set it on a baking tray, and pushed it into the oven. I would need some iced tea and my book next, so I

boiled a kettle and stepped into my room to fetch my book from beside my bed. It was a different book than the one I'd been listening to. There are different books for different times. The book in my hand was perfect for reading outside, and might, if done correctly lead to napping. The master bedroom was mine now with its whitewashed wooden walls and fireplace. It had a huge bed spread with white linens and a very puffy comforter.

It naturally faced the water and had a small deck you could sit on with your coffee in the morning. Back in the kitchen, I made tea and looked at my bread. Almost. Not quite yet. I took an old wood tray from a cupboard and spread a tea towel over it. I laid out a jam jar and a spoon, a napkin, my book, and a glass filled with ice. Remembering the mint leaves in my pocket, I tore them up and added them to the glass. At last the bread was ready to come out. It was huge and made me laugh just to look at it.

I thumped the bottom and was satisfied to hear its hollow sound. I put it, along with a plate and a knife, on my tray, filled my tea glass, and was ready to go back out. I headed to the stone patio. It had chaise lounges and tables, a fire pit, pots of jasmine and petunias, and was strung with fairy lights for the evening. I set my tray on a table beside a lounger, kicked off my sandals, and laid my book on the wide armrest. I'd cut a slice of bread in a moment, lay jam thickly over it, and dig in.

But for now, I just looked out at the water. I just listened to the waves and the birds and the insects. I just sat and felt my own breath in my chest. Sweet dreams.