Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Thunder & Lightning

Episode Date: 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. We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to SEE Turtles. They help the sea turtle community connect, grow, and thrive by supporting community-based conservation efforts.   Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for the NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts or follow the link: nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription. Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorites with the Nothing Much Happens Wind-Down Box. A collection of products from our amazing partners: Eversio Wellness: Chill Now Vellabox: Lavender Silk Candle Alice Mushrooms: Nightcap NutraChamps: Tart Cherry Gummies A Brighter Year: Mini Coloring Book NuStrips: Sleep Strips Woolzies: Lavender Roll-On Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app. Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this. 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 write and read all the stories you hear, and nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week, we are giving to sea turtles. They help the sea turtle community connect, grow, and thrive by supporting community-based

conservation efforts. Learn more about them in our show notes. I'd like to thank some recent subscribers to our Premium Plus channel. Thank you, Kevin. Thank you, Bettina. Thanks, Alex. And thank you, Caitlin. And if you are a subscriber, and I have never said your name, please know that I thank you. I just can't fit everyone's name into our intro. We really would not be able to continue to do this show without our subscribers. A lot of work goes into making each episode. It's not AI, it's people. And we are grateful that you support people making art and helpful content. If you'd like to join our supporters, go to nothingmuchappens.com

or click on the link in our show notes. Now, here's how this works. I'll tell you a soft, soothing story, and just by listening, you'll shift your brain 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 windowpane, 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 work week, to look over the week coming up and lay out needful chores and goals, to pencil in some things 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 dry grass and dying perennials in the yard. I'd read that that lovely smell of petrichor 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 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 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 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 canceled 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, and 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 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 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, but 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 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 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 seventeen. 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, it 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 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 a season's toes. I try to wait for a snowy day to bake Christmas cookies. I don't visit the pumpkin patch 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 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 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, 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 petrichor 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. the hall upstairs, where I climbed into the window seat 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, 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 into the walking path and I guessed that no one minded. Downstairs, I closed the last window and opened 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 Brussels 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, 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. 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 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 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 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. Finally, I lit the 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.