Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Window Weather

Episode Date: January 6, 2025

Our story tonight is called Window Weather, and it’s a story about the deep cold of mid-winter and calm cozy feeling of watching it from your window. It’s also about  oranges and lemons, bells on collars, a well stocked pantry and fridge, and the joy of getting into your pajamas at three in the afternoon. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Sesame Workshop. Mission Driven. Child Focused. Helping Children Grow Smarter, Stronger,and Kinder. https://sesameworkshop.org    Order your own NMH weighted pillow now! shop.nothingmuchhappens.com/    Subscribe for ad-free, bonus and extra long episodes now, as well as ad-free andearly episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for NMH Premiumchannel on Apple podcast or follow the link below  nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription  Listen to our new show Stories from the Village of Nothing Much on your favoritepodcast app. nothingmuchhappens.com/stories-from-the-village  Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation at nothingmuchhappens.com/first-this  Save over $100 on Kathryn’s hand-selected wind-down favorite's 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-OnPurchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Season 15 of Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. With audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week, we are giving to Sesame Workshop. Mission-driven, child-focused. Helping children grow smarter, stronger, and kinder. Learn more in our show notes. I appreciate you listening to this little bit of housekeeping. At the beginning of our Epps, if you sometimes find yourself saying along with me,

with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. Well, we made some merch for that. And our little shop has some really great things in it these days. You can color some scenes from the village, snuggle up with our weighted pillow, and of course sign up for ad-free and bonus episodes through our premium feeds. Learn more in our show notes or at NothingMuchHappens.com. Now, I have a story to tell you. It is a place to rest your mind. And as you listen, you'll find yourself relaxing more and more. The steady rhythm of my voice will guide you right to sleep. This is a form of brain training. So if you're new here, give us a month or so of regular use to achieve

best results. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, if you feel the wheels in your mind starting to turn, just push play again. You'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Window Weather, and it's a story about the deep cold of midwinter and the calm, cozy feeling of watching it from your window. It's also about oranges and lemons, bells on collars, a well-stocked pantry and fridge, and the joy of getting into your pajamas at three in the afternoon. Now lights out campers. Make yourself as snug and comfortable as you can.

Feel how good it is to be in bed, to be at the end of your day. Whatever today was is what today was. And now we are here. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. And out. Good. Window Weather This first week of January was just bitter cold. The snow lay thick on the ground, and long icicles hung from the eaves. I'd had to go out, a few errands that couldn't be put off any longer. And now, as I wound my way back home, I was

so glad to know I wouldn't have to leave again. The afternoon light was dim. We were still a few hours from sunset, but it looked like it might happen at any minute. A lot of houses were still strung with holiday lights, and the gleam of them in the overcast atmosphere felt like a beacon guiding me home. It was always an odd, in-between feeling at this time of year. Wanting a fresh start, but needing the comfort and coziness left over from the holidays to get through it. I found it best to take it in steps. One weekend I'd take down the tree. The next, I'd put away the Christmas village. The outdoor lights I'd leave up until a very nice weekend rolled around, say in March, when it was a joy to be outside for a few hours, and let myself appreciate the process of untangling the strands and boxing them up. I circled past the skating rink in downtown and saw that not a single

soul was out on it today. It was just brutally cold, and there was no amount of bundling that could make it fun to play outside. I turned past the park where kids weren't making snowmen and wound through the neighborhood to my house. All along my street, smoke rose from chimneys, and I was glad to see so many of us settled in for the day. As I turned into my driveway and waited for the garage door to lift, snow began to fall. Perfect timing. It felt like it had held off just for me. I drove into my garage and pushed the button, letting it close behind me. Does anyone else do this? Wait for the garage to close before you get out of the car.

It feels like being closed in a decompression chamber. A layer of safety between me and the whole world. It was silly, a metaphor more than anything else. But whenever I did it, I found I sighed deeply in my car. I began to unpack the groceries from the trunk, setting the bags at the top of the few steps from the mudroom into the kitchen. Then slowly pulled off my boots and coat, hung up my scarf, and stuffed my gloves into the sleeve of my coat. Another sigh. In the kitchen, I emptied the grocery sacks. I loved to fill my kitchen with citrus at this time of year.

And topped up a bowl on the counter with sumo oranges, ruby red grapefruits, and Meyer lemons. The sharp, sweet scents clung to my fingers, and I decided to start a simmer pot on the stove to add their peels to. Most days in the winter, I kept a pot simmering to soften the air. I'd add vanilla or cardamom pods to it, but one of my favorite additions was orange and lemon rinds. When they simmered, they released a soft, floral scent, sweet and homey. As I stood at the sink, filling the pot, I looked out into the yard and saw the snow was coming down thickly now. This was what my mother called window weather, as in excellent weather to enjoy from inside your cozy house, to be watched from the window. I set the pot on the stove and lit the burner and went back to sorting the groceries.

I had a big sack of potatoes for the shepherd's pie I meant to make later. Carrots and peas, onions and brown lentils. I'd also bought a big cabbage to roast in the oven. Boxes of crackers and containers of olives. Canned chickpeas and beans. Hardy, stick-to-your-rib stuff that would see me through these frigid days. There were oats for porridge, arborio and jasmine rice, ramen and pastina, and packages of broth. I'd bought coffee beans

and a few boxes of tea, cinnamon sticks, of which I added a few to the simmer pot, and a loaf of sandwich bread, a thick slice of focaccia, a half-dozen oatmeal cookies, and an almond croissant for breakfast tomorrow. I'd also stopped at the bookshop before it closed for their annual vacation and picked up the new book for my book club. It was a thriller that I'd heard from more than one friend was impossible to put down, and easy to read all in one day. I heard a tinkling bell, and then another, and saw two of my three cats wandering in the kitchen to check out the purchases. There was a stack of canned food for them, a bag of their kibble, and a fresh scratching post they could fight over. I set it on the floor in the corner of the dining room and let them dig in.

I love dogs, too, very much, but had to admit that in these frigid days I was glad that none of us needed to be walked or let outside. They were brothers, my cats, all three of them, and had showed up at a shelter when they were just kittens. All they'd had were each other, and though it was a big step to go from zero cats to three. I decided I could handle it. They hadn't even had names. And when they first came home, stepped out of their carrier and started to explore. I found them drawn to the bowl of stones on my entryway table. I was a hobbyist beachcomber in the summertime, and had found lots of pretty rocks, even had a tumbler to polish them up. The brothers had nosed through my collection, and so I had named them Dolomite, Feldspar, and Steve. Listen, it makes sense if you know them. Steve meowed from the post, clearly enjoying his new piece of furniture, and I smiled at them as I finished putting everything away.

Steam was rising from the pot on the stove, and I could on the light over the range and turned off the overhead. And sighed again. My home was in order. We were stocked up and ready to stay put for a bit. On the stairs as I headed up to change, out of my jeans and sweater and into my PJs, it nearly three o'clock after all. I passed Dolomite. He was my shy boy. And I stopped to give him a few pets. He had heard his brothers playing downstairs. And had finally decided to creep down and join the fun. He slunk past me when I kept climbing.

From my bedroom window, I looked up and down the street, seeing lit windows, the flicker of fires going. In another few weeks, this cold spell would move on. The sun would last a bit longer each day. But for now, we'd enjoy the world inside and watch the snow fall from our windows. Window Weather This first week of January was just bitter cold. The snow lay thick on the ground, and long icicles hung from the eaves. I'd had to go home, I was glad to know I wouldn't have to leave again. The afternoon light was dim.

We were still a few hours from sunset, and the gleam of them in the overcast atmosphere felt like a beacon guiding me home. It's always an odd, in-between feeling at this wanting a fresh start, but needing the comfort and coziness left over from the holidays to get through to it. I found it best to take it in steps. One weekend, I'd take down the tree. The next, put away the Christmas village. The lights I'd leave up until a very nice weekend rolled around, say in March, when it was a joy to be outside for a few hours. And I'd let myself appreciate the process of untangling the strands and boxing them up. in downtown and saw that not a single soul was out on it today. It was just brutally and there was no amount of bundling that could make it fun to play outside. I turned past the park where kids weren't making snowmen and wound through the neighborhood to my house. All along my street smoke rose from chimneys, and I was glad to see so many of us settled in for the day.

As I turned into my driveway and waited for the garage door to lift, snow began to fall. Perfect timing. It felt like it, letting it close behind me. Does anyone else do this? Wait for the garage to close before you get out of the car. It feels like being closed in a decompression chamber. A layer of safety between me and the whole world. It was silly, a metaphor more than anything else. But whenever I did it, I found I sighed deeply in the car. I began to unpack the groceries from the trunk, setting the bags at the top of the few steps from the mudroom into the kitchen.

Then slowly pulled off my boots and coat, hung up my scarf and stuffed my gloves into the sleeve of my coat. Another sigh. In the kitchen, I emptied the grocery sacks. I loved to fill my kitchen with citrus at this time counter with sumo oranges, ruby red grapefruits, and Meyer lemons to start a simmer pot on the stove to add their peels to. I kept a pot simmering to soften the air. My dad vanilla or cardamom pods to it, but one of my favorite additions was orange and lemon rinds. When they simmered, they released a soft floral scent, sweet and As I stood at the sink, filling the pot, I looked out into the yard and saw the snow was coming down thickly now. This was what my mother called window weather, as in excellent weather to enjoy from inside your cozy house, to be watched from the window. I set the pot on the stove and lit the burner and went back to sorting groceries. I had a big sack of potatoes for the shepherd's pie I meant to make later.

Carrots and peas. Onions and brown lentils. I'd also bought a big cabbage to roast in the oven. Boxes of crackers and containers of olives. Canned chickpeas and beans. Hardy stick-to- to your ribs stuff. That would see me through these frigid days. Arborio and Jasmine rice few to the simmer pot, and a packet of lemon drop candies. From the bakery, I had a loaf of sandwich bread,

a thick slice of focaccia, a half dozen oatmeal cookies, and an almond croissant for breakfast tomorrow. I'd also stopped at the bookshop before it closed for their annual vacation. And I'd picked up the new book for my book club. It was a thriller that I'd heard from more than one friend, was impossible to put down and easy to read all in one day. I heard a tinkling bell and then another and saw two of my three cats wandering into the kitchen to inspect the purchases. There was a stack of canned food for them, a bag of their kibble, and a fresh scratching post they could fight over. I set it on

the floor in the corner of the dining room and let them dig in. them dig in. I love dogs too, very much, but had to admit that in these frigid days, I was glad that None of us needed to be walked or let outside. They were brothers, my cats, all three of them, and had showed up at the shelter when they were just kittens. All they'd had were each other. And though it was a very big step to go from zero cats to three, I decided I could handle it. They hadn't even had names. And when they first came home, stepped out of their carrier, and started to explore, I found them drawn to the bowl of stones on my entryway table. I was a hobbyist beachcomber in the summertime and had found lots of pretty rocks, even had a tumbler to polish them up. The brothers had nosed through my collection, and so I had named them

Dolomite, Feldspar, and Steve. Listen, it makes sense if you know them. Steve meowed from the post, clearly enjoying his new piece of furniture, and I smiled at them as I finished putting everything away. Steam was rising from the pot on the stove, and I could smell the cinnamon I'd dropped in. I turned on the light over the range and turned off the overhead and sighed again. My home was in order. We were stocked up and ready to stay put for a bit. On the stairs, as I headed up to change, out of my jeans and sweater and into my PJs. It was nearly three o'clock, after all, my past Dolomite. He was my shy boy, and I stopped to give him a few pets. He had heard his brothers playing downstairs, and had finally decided to creep down and join the fun. He slunk past me, and I kept climbing. From my bedroom window, I looked up and down the street, seeing lit windows, the flicker of fires going. In another few weeks, this cold spell would move on.

The sun would last a bit longer each day. But for now, we'd enjoy the world inside and watch the snow fall from our windows. Sweet dreams.