Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Touchstone

Episode Date: March 8, 2021

Our story tonight is called Touchstone and it’s a story about finding something unexpected along one’s path. It’s also about the way we think as children, thunder and lighting and the things we find when we keep our eyes open. So get cozy and ready to sleep. Buy the book Get beautiful NMH merch Get autographed copies Get our ad-free and bonus episodesPurchase 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. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is available wherever books are sold. For extra coziness, follow us on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook. And you can always learn more or get yourself a cozy

Nothing Much Happens hoodie at nothingmuchappens.com. Let me say a bit about how to use this podcast. I have a simple story to tell you to help you relax and drift off to sleep. Not much happens in it, and that's kind of the idea. It's just a cozy place to rest your mind. I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little bit slower the second time. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. That is sometimes how it goes. Relax. Walk yourself back through whatever bits of the story you can remember.

Lean into them, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and calm. This is a kind of brain training. We're training your brain to follow along with the shape of the story, like an upturned leaf floats along on the surface of a river. Each time you use a story to settle your mind, it will happen more quickly and with more ease. So have some patience if you're new to this. Now it's time to tuck in. Turn off your light. Put down all of your devices stretch deep into your sheets and settle yourself into your favorite sleeping position

whatever you have done today it is enough there's nothing you need to keep track of you can let go. Take a slow breath in through your nose. And sigh it out of your mouth. Nice. Let's do that again.

Breathe in. And out. Good. Our story tonight is called Touchstone, and it's a story about finding something unexpected in one's path. It's also about the way we think as children, thunder and lightning, and what we find when we keep our eyes open. Touchstone. Touchstone. There are certain objects which seem to land in my hands over and over. I have a friend who finds feathers wherever they go,

stuck between the pages of a library book, under the windshield wiper of their car. In their mailbox, among the bills and letters. Different kinds from different birds. Some big and old as if they'd come off a lady's hat from the twenties. And others tiny and light, freshly fallen from a fledgling, but always feathers. Maybe this has happened to you. You might find keys in the pockets of thrifted jackets, or foreign coins from countries you've never visited in the back of your dresser drawers.

Maybe it's fountain pens, and they show up in the pencil cup on your desk, even though you're sure you didn't put them there. Or perhaps when you open your glove box and rummage around for a napkin, you come away with a handful of tokens from an arcade that closed when you were too young to see into the game cabinets. For me, it's stones. Ever since I was a child, they have shown up. And not just in the garden, where you'd expect to see them. I found them in the toes of shoes I'd worn just the week before,

on window ledges in the back corridors of libraries. And once, when I'd reached up into the lampshade of a reading light, on the screened-in porch of a little rented cabin by the lake. A smooth, flat circle of stone fell from where it was balanced somewhere near the bulb, right into my hand. When I was young, I'd heard the word touchstone and taken it quite literally. I'd interpreted it through the lens of kid logic

and felt sure it must mean a stone that when you touched it gave you some sudden burst of knowledge or power or transported you in an instant to a faraway place. So whenever I'd find another stone popping up in my path, I'd wrap my hands around it and close my eyes and wait to see what happened. And I must say that even though I was never swiftly gifted with a superpower, or opened my eyes to find I'd traveled at light speed to a market in Marrakesh or an empty moor in Scotland.

I did always feel I'd learned something. I've never been much of a collector, preferring the feeling of letting go to that of holding on. So most of the time when I found a stone, I'd carry it for a while. I'd hold it like I had as a child and wait for it to tell me its message. And then I'd leave it in some out-of-the-way spot, where I thought it might catch the eye of someone who had an eye open for it. I feel like it was meant for them to find,

which, of course, it was. Often it spent just a few hours in my pocket, as it went from the library window to the top of the letterbox by the park. But some journeys were longer. Once, on a beach on another continent, at the base of a cliff that held a tiny town a thousand feet above the sea, I'd found a piece of smooth ceramic painted in the bright yellows and blues traditional to that place. I'd carried it till a year later on a hike in a dry canyon that had been cut from the mountains in the Paleozoic era,

where I found a small cave in the chasm wall that was just a few feet deep. I left it, with its painted side turned down to the red dust, wondering what someone would think when at some point it was picked up and turned over. Is there a better gift to give someone than a moment of wonder. It cuts through the blurry static of background thoughts and gives you a genuine experience of surprise. And that's a rare and lovely thing. A dozen years ago, in the middle of the summer and late at night, it had begun to storm. Rain poured down and thunder drummed through the woods in my dark bedroom as a jagged leg of lightning reached down

and pointed its toes into the forest. The next day, under dripping branches but now a clear blue sky, I tromped out in my hiking boots, and after a long walk, found a tree split and fallen on a ridge. The ground around it was singed and cracked open, and I squatted down to look into the earth. There was a craggy, uneven stone, as big as my palm and heavy. I lifted it out, and stuck to one side was an old steel nail.

Lodestones are magnetized clumps of mineral, and while they sometimes occur naturally, they can also happen when a piece of magnetite is struck by lightning, as it had here in the broken dirt in the woods. I had heard the word before, lodestone, and had thought that the meaning had something to do with direction, with being shown the way. I'd tucked the stone into my bag and carried it home where I sat with it,

my Oxford English dictionary open in front of me, having decided not to trust what might again be mixed-up kid logic. I learned that a lodestone was so named because their magnetic properties had helped to make early compasses. They'd led sailors out onto the sea and into adventure. The word load, it had meant at the time, way or course or journey. I wondered if all the stones I'd found in my life were trying to point me somewhere or if they were just encouraging me

to keep stepping out onto the path, to have those moments of marveling at the find. I thought it was probably more the latter than the former. After all, they were just stones, and I was the sailor. When I was younger, and I found a stone, I looked around, trying to see where it had come from, and who had left it. Now, when I find one, I look for where I can leave it, and who can be the next person to be surprised by the world. There are certain objects which seem to land in my hands over and over.

I have a friend who finds feathers wherever they go, stuck between the pages of a library book, under the windshield wiper of their car, in the mailbox among the bills and letters. Different kinds from different birds, some big and old, as if they'd come off a lady's hat from the twenties, and others tiny and light, freshly fallen from a fledgling, but always feathers. Maybe this has happened to you. You might find keys in the pockets of thrifted jackets, or foreign coins from countries you've never visited in the back of your dresser drawers. Maybe it's fountain pens, and they show up in the pencil cup on your desk,

even though you're sure you didn't put them there. Or perhaps when you open your glove box and rummage around for a napkin, you come away with a handful of tokens from an arcade that closed when you were too young to see into the game cabinets. For me, it's stones. Ever since I was a child, they have shown up.

But not just in the garden where you'd expect to see them. I've found them in the toes of shoes I'd worn just the week before, on window ledges in the back corridors of libraries. And once, when I'd reached up into the lampshade of a reading light on the screened-in porch of a little rented cabin by the lake. A smooth, flat circle of stone fell from where it was balanced somewhere near the bulb, right into my hand. When I was young, I'd heard the word touchstone and taken it quite literally. I'd interpreted it through the lens of kid logic and felt sure it must mean a stone that when you touched it

gave you some sudden burst of knowledge. It must mean a stone that when you touched it, gave you some sudden burst of knowledge or power, or transported you in an instant to a far away place. So whenever I'd find another stone cropping up in my path, I'd wrap my hands around it and close my eyes and wait to see what happened. And I must say that even though I was never swiftly gifted with a superpower, or opened my eyes to find I'd traveled at light speed to a market in Marrakesh or an empty moor in Scotland. I did always feel I'd learned something. I've never been much of a collector, preferring the feeling of letting go

to that of holding on. So most of the time, when I found a stone, I'd carry it for a while. I'd hold it like I had as a child and wait for it to tell me its message. And then I'd leave it in some out-of-the-way spot where I thought it might catch the eye of someone who had an eye open for it and feel like it was meant for them to find, which, of course, it was.

Often it spent just a few hours in my pocket, It was. Often it spent just a few hours in my pocket, and it went from the library window to the top of the letterbox by the park. But some journeys were longer. Once, on a beach on another continent, at the base of a cliff that held a tiny town a thousand feet above the sea. I'd found a piece of smooth ceramic, painted in the bright yellows and blues traditional to that place. I'd carried it

till a year later on a hike in a dry canyon that had been cut from the mountains in the Paleozoic era where I found a small cave in the chasm wall that was just a few feet deep.

I left it with its painted side turned down to the red dust. Wondering what someone would think when, at some point, it was picked up and turned over. Is there a better gift to give someone than a moment of wonder? It cuts through the blurry static of background thoughts and gives you a genuine experience of surprise.

And that's a rare and lovely thing. A dozen years ago, in the middle of the summer and late at night, it had begun to storm. Rain poured down, and thunder drummed through the woods in my dark bedroom as a jagged leg of lightning reached down and pointed its toes into the forest. The next day, under dripping branches, but a now clear blue sky, I tromped out in my hiking boots, and after a long walk, found a tree split and fallen on a ridge. The ground around it was singed and cracked open, and earth. There was a craggy, uneven stone, as big as my palm and heavy. I lifted it out, Stuck to one side was an old steel nail.

Lodestones are magnetized clumps by lightning, as it had been here in the broken dirt shown the way. I tucked the stone into my bag and carried it home where I sat with it, my Oxford English having decided not to trust what might again be mixed-up kid logic. I learned that a lodestone was so named because their magnetic properties had helped to make them early compasses. They'd led sailors out onto the sea and into adventure. That word, load, it had meant at the time, way, or course, or journey. I wondered if all the stones I'd found in my life were trying to point me somewhere or if they were just encouraging me

to keep stepping out onto the path to have those moments of marveling at the find I thought it was probably the latter marveling at the find. I thought it was probably the latter more than the former. After all, they were just stones, and I was the sailor. When I was younger, and I found a stone, I looked around, trying to see where I can leave it, and who can be the next person to

be surprised by the world. Sweet dreams.