Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Thunder and Lightning (Encore)

Episode Date: September 18, 2025

Originally presented as Episode 31 of Season 14, September 16, 2024 Our story tonight is called Thunder and Lightning, and it’s a story about slowing down and getting comfortable as the rain comes down. It’s also about cinnamon and clove, a candle’s flame reflected in a window pane, a sofa turned into a nest for afternoon napping, and the calm and quiet that comes when mother nature takes over.  Visit ⁠curednutrition.com/NOTHINGMUCH⁠ and use code NOTHINGMUCH at checkout to receive 20% off your order. For a limited time, our listeners are getting a huge 35% OFF their entire order at ⁠LolaBlankets.com⁠ by using code NOTHINGMUCH at checkout. Subscribe to our ⁠Premium channel.⁠ The first month is on us. 💙 ⁠NMH merch, autographed books and more!⁠ ⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠  Listen to our daytime show ⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠.  ⁠First This, Kathryn’s guided mediation podcast. ⁠ Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read and read. all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight,

meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different, but the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Now, here's how this works. I'll tell you a soft, soothing story,

and just by listening, you'll shift your breath, activity, from the wandering tornado of thought that is default mode, to the systematic and sleep-appropriate task-positive mode. It might sound fancy or complicated, but it just means paying attention to something can help you fall asleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on. Our story tonight is called thunder and lightning. And it's a story about slowing down and getting comfortable as the rain comes down. It's also about cinnamon and clove, a candle's flame

reflected in a window pane a sofa turned into a nest for afternoon napping and the calm and quiet that comes when Mother Nature takes over now snuggle down friends

make your own comfort a priority maybe it's the first time today that you've really had the space and the time to notice how your body feels and respond to its needs. So get the right pillow in the right spot. Let your muscles soften and relax and draw a deep breath in through your nose. and sigh from your mouth

nice again in and out good thunder and lightning I don't like to step on a season's toes. I try to wait for a snowy day to bake Christmas cookies. I don't visit the pumpkin patch when it's still 80 degrees out.

And I don't plant pansies until we are fairly sure that the hard frosts are over. I'm not always patient enough to wait, especially when the pull of a new season is strong. But when I do, what a feeling of harmony. When my need for a day at home lines up with a street-closing snowstorm. Or my desire for full. body vitamin D replenishment, lands on a bright, cloudless day to spend sprawled at the beach. So today, when I found myself overstretched from a week full of work and small talk and showing up, when I felt a deep need to be quiet and inside myself

and I began to hear the rain falling outside my window I sighed with deep automatic relief I might have even whispered aloud Thank you. I'd been at my desk. My planner open on the blotter in front of me, struggling to switch between a pencil and a pen, both clumsily held in my writing hand.

It was something I did at the end of each workweek. to look over the week coming up and lay out needful chores and goals to pencil in some things and ink in others. I was just smoothing the page and jotting down a plan for the following Wednesday to spend the morning at the library,

and the afternoon clearing out the shed at the back of the garden when the rain began. The window beside me was pushed as wide as it would go, and as the drops fell, I noticed the zing in the air of ozone, the scent rising up from the air of ozone, the scent rising up from the, the dry grass and dying perennials in the yard.

I'd read that that lovely smell of Petricor comes from the oils and minerals released from plants which settle in dry times over stones and soil and pavements and then are dispersed into the air when struck by raindrops. The compounds changed a bit with the seasons. So this early autumn rain smelled differently from its sister in the spring.

This one was spicy and darker, like amber and ashes and pine. and I let it rain in on my sill for a few moments. I slid a ribbon into my journal and closed it for the week and set my pen and pencil down on the desk. I stepped over to feel the breeze and mist coming through.

The sky is all around, the house were dark gray. My curtains pulled across a wide window. I felt my shoulders softening away from my ears and my jaw relaxing. I took a few deep breaths of the fresh, cool air, before easing the window shut. and walking through the house to close the others.

From the hall upstairs, where I climbed into the window seat, to nudge one shot, I looked down and spotted my next-door neighbor, shaking his umbrella out on his front step. He stopped before going through, through the door to take his own deep breaths. And I wondered if the whole neighborhood, the whole village, was glad for this rain.

By the look of the clouds, there would be lightning and thunder soon. Games would be cancelled at the fields by the high school. and the pond in the park at the edge of downtown might swell and run into the walking path when I guessed that no one minded. Downstairs I closed the last window and opened a cabinet to take down a big round mug. a kind for afternoon tea or hot chocolate that held enough to savor for a good long time. In the fridge, I had a beautiful glass bottle bought at the farmer's market. It was chai concentrate.

and when I'd sampled it my arms had been full of bags of tomatoes and red onions with an awkward stem of brussels poking out I'd been on my way out sure that my shopping was complete but when I'd passed

the tea stand and smelled the cinnamon and clove. I'd shifted my shopping in my arms and found a way to sip a sample. The man who made it told me it was a family recipe, one that had been handed down to him, It was rich, less sweet than the kind in a coffee shop with black pepper and cardamom, and it warmed me through. I'd had to have a bottle to take home, and now I warmed it on the stove with the same amount of oat milk. letting it steam in the quiet kitchen.

When my cup was full, I went into the living room. I needed maximum comfort today. I needed the rest of this afternoon and well into the evening to be full of my favorite sensations. I already had the sound of the rain, the smell of the chai. Now I needed the sofa to be laid out just right. I pushed the ottoman up against the edge of the sofa so that it almost made a bed

then went to my bed because I wanted my favorite pillows and my comforter I plumped them into place tossing the comforter out over the sofa found the remote and set it beside my cup of chide and was just about to climb into my nest

when I saw a flash of lightning in the backyard. I stepped over to the windows and watched the rain, barreling down now, bringing acorns and loose leaves down from the trees to carpet the lawn. I counted slowly, waiting for the rumble. When it came,

a slow crescendo of sound rising from somewhere out there, I was at 17. I remembered to divide by five. and estimated that that put the strike between three and four miles away. I was glad to be safe in my house while the storm rolled through. I only had a few lights on. The dark was so soothing to me right now.

I didn't want to spoil it, but on my way back to the sofa, I saw the reading lamp beside the bookcase flicker. I paused mid-step, watching the light over the stove likewise guttering. After a moment, Everything went out. And then, a few moments later, came back on. And I decided that, well, I really didn't mind losing power today. It might be wise to light a few candles.

I took the box of green-tipped strike-anywheres. from the drawer beside the stove and fished a match-out. I liked the feeling of the grit on the striking surface, the smell of the antimony as it came to life. I lit the candle on the kitchen windowsill and watched the reflection of its flame flickering, in the glass. Beside the sofa was another.

It smelled of fallen leaves, raked into piles. And finally, I lit the one by my bed, which was lavender, mixed with rosemary. Once the matches were back in the drawer, I climbed into the soft airy that was my sofa.

I arranged my pillows, stretched out long with my legs on the ottoman, and pulled the blanket up to my chin. My cup of chai was now the perfect temperature for sipping. More lightning, more thunder. More time curled up in this safe, soft space. I had everything I wanted.

Thunder and lightning. I don't like to step on the season's toes. I try to wait for a snowy day to bake Christmas cookies. I don't visit the pumpkin patch when it's still 80 degrees out. And I don't plant pansies. until we're fairly sure that the hard frosts are over. I'm not always patient enough to wait, especially when the pull of a new season is strong.

But when I do, what a feeling of hard. when my need for a day at home lines up with a street-closing snowstorm. Or my desire for full-body vitamin D replenishment lands on a bright cloudless day to spend to spend sprawled out at the beach. So today, when I found myself overstretched from a week full of work and small talk and showing up, when I felt a deep need to be quiet and inside myself and I began to hear the rain falling outside my window I sighed with deep automatic relief

I might have even whispered aloud, Oh, thank you. I'd been at my desk. My planner open on the blotter in front of me, struggling to switch between a pencil and a pen. both clumsily held in my writing hand. It was something I did at the end of each work week, to look over the week coming up and lay out needful chores and goals,

to pencil in some things, and ink in others. I was smoothing the page and jotting down a plan for the following Wednesday to spend the morning at the library and the afternoon clearing out the shed at the back of the garden

when the rain began. The window beside me was pushed as wide as it would go and as the drops fell I noticed the zing in the air of ozone. the scent rising up from the dry grass and dying perennials in the yard. I'd read that that lovely smell of Petricor came from the oils and minerals, released from plants.

which settle in dry times over stones and soil and pavements and then are dispersed into the air when struck by raindrops. The compounds changed a bit with the seasons. So this early autumn rain smelled differently from its sister in the spring. This one was spicy and darker, like amber and ashes and pine. And I let it rain in on my sill. for a few moments. I slid a ribbon into my journal and closed it for the week

and set my pen and pencil down on the desk. I stepped over to feel the breeze and mist coming through. The skies all around the house were dark gray, like curtains pulled across a wide window. I felt my shoulders softening away from my ears, and my jaw relaxing. I took a few deep. breaths of the fresh, cool air before easing the window shut and walking through the house to close the others. From the hall upstairs where I climbed into the window seat to

to nudge one closed. I looked down and spotted my next-door neighbor, shaking his umbrella out on his front step. He stopped before going through the door to take his own deep breaths. And I wondered if the whole neighborhood, the whole village, was glad for this rain. By the look of the clouds, there would be lightning and thunder soon. Games would be cancelled at the fields by the high school. school, and the pond in the park at the edge of downtown might swell into the walking

path. And I guessed that no-one minded. Downstairs, I closed the last window. and open the cabinet to take down a big round mug. The kind for afternoon tea or hot chocolate that held enough to savor for a good long time. In the fridge, I had a beautiful glass bottle bought at the farmer's market.

It was chai concentrate, and when I'd sampled it, my arms had been full of bags of tomatoes and red onions, with an awkward stem of brussel sprouts, poking out. I'd been on my way out, sure that my shopping was complete. But when I'd passed the tea stand and smelled the cinnamon and clove,

I'd shifted the shopping in my arms, and found a way to sip a sample. The man who made it told me it was a family recipe, one that had been handed down to him. It was rich, less sweet than the kind in a coffee shop. up with black pepper and cardamom, and it warmed me through. I'd had to have a bottle to take home.

But now it warmed on the stove with the same amount of oat milk, steamed in the quiet kitchen when my cup was full I went into the living room I needed maximum comfort today I needed the rest of this afternoon and well into the evening to be full of my favorite sensations.

I already had the sound of the rain and the smell of the chai. Now I needed the sofa to be laid out just right. I pushed the ottoman up against the edge of the sofa so that it almost made a bed. Then went to my bed because I wanted my favorite pillows and I wanted my comforter. I plumped them into place. tossing the comforter out over the sofa,

found the remote, and set it beside my cup of chai, and was just about to climb into my nest when I saw a flash of lightning in the backyard. I stepped over to the windows and watched the rain. It was barreling down now, bringing acorns and loose leaves down from the trees to carpet the lawn. I counted slowly. waiting for the rumble. When it came, the slow crescendo of sound rising from somewhere out there,

I was at 17. I remembered to divide by five and estimated that that put the strike between three and four miles away. I was glad to be safe in my house. while the storm rolled through. I only had a few lights on. The dark was so soothing to me right now.

I didn't want to spoil it. But on my way back to the sofa, I saw the reading lamp beside the bookcase, flicker. I paused mid-step, watching the light over the stove, likewise guttering. After a moment, everything went out, and then a few. moments later, came back on. And I decided that, while I really didn't mind losing power today, it might be wise to light a few

candles. I took the box of green-tipped, strike-anywheres from the drawer beside the stove, and fished a match-out. I liked the feeling of the grit on the striking surface. the smell of the antimony as it came to life. I lit the candle on the kitchen window sill and watched the reflection of its flame flickering in the glass. Beside the sofa was another. I smelled of fallen leaves, raked into piles.

Finally, I lit the one by my bed, which was lavender mixed with rosemary. Once the matches were back in the drawer, I climbed into the soft airy that was my sofa. I arranged my pillows, stretched out long with my legs on the ottoman and pulled the blanket up to my chin. my cup of chai was now the perfect temperature for sipping

more lightning more thunder more time curled up in this safe soft space I had everything I wanted Sweet dreams