Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Winter Evening Yoga

Episode Date: November 27, 2023

Our story tonight is called Winter Evening Yoga, and it’s a story about stepping into a safe, soothing space after a long day. It’s also about bolsters and blankets, love notes sent to yourself, low lights and soft music, and feeling completely at ease. At NMH, we give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Pups Without Borders working to rescue pups of all ages.pupswithoutborders.org Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now! → nothingmuchhappens.com/premium-subscription 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 everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. And Bob and I send our thanks to Susan, Joan, James, and Nakia, who are recent subscribers to our Premium Plus feed. That kind of direct support helps us so much.

And we have another extra- long, slightly more happens episode coming to the feed on December 1st, featuring the combined stories of Sycamore and the gravestones. If you'd like to subscribe, we have a link in our show notes. And remember, if you can't, or you aren't interested in subscribing, you are still supporting us just by listening, by sharing what we do with others, or by leaving a review. And we are grateful to all of you. At Nothing Much Happens, we give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to Pups Without Borders, who work to rescue pups of all ages.

You'll find a link to them in our show notes as well. Now, I have a story to tell you, and it is a soft place to rest your busy mind. Just by listening, you'll be training your brain and nervous system for a reliable and swift shift into sleep. The more you do it, the stronger that response will become. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again later in the night, turn the story right back on. You'll be asleep again within moments. Now, it's time. Set things down. Close up shop. Feel how good it is to be in your bed right now.

I know that I am just a stranger on the internet, but I hope you can feel how genuinely I am wishing for your rest and relaxation. Most of us could stand a bit more tenderness in our world, and I want to offer you mine. So as you settle in, feel that you are cared for, that you have a friend in me

and in the village of nothing much. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose. And sigh through your mouth. Nice. Let's do one more. Breathe in. Let's do one more. Breathe in. Let it go. Good.

Our story tonight is called Winter Evening Yoga. And it's a story about stepping into a safe, soothing space after a long day. It's also about bolsters and blankets, love notes sent to yourself, low lights and soft music, and feeling completely at ease. Winter Evening Yoga Ever since the time change a few weeks back, I'd found it more challenging to get out of the house, especially once the sun had set and the darkness had sunk in.

And I didn't force myself. There were plenty of evenings when I got into my pajamas as soon as I got home and into bed as soon as the dinner dishes were drying in the rack. But there were a couple of things that could get me back out into the world, and one was the restorative yoga class at the studio in downtown. Half of the lure was just knowing that the room would be warm and quiet. And as I sometimes felt like I'd heard too much for one day, seen too many headlines. Talked to too many people or just thought too many thoughts.

The promise of that space where nothing was required of me, where there would be few words and a lot of comfort and relaxation, well, it sounded like exactly what I needed on every level. So tonight, I'd reminded myself how good I would feel afterward as I got my yoga clothes on. In fact, I'd left myself a note on the bathroom mirror that I'd written after last week's class. It just said,

I'm so glad I went. Don't hesitate. These little missives sent from past me to present me helped. It was easy to lose track of how good things were when you were out of the moment, out of step with that experience. And these little handwritten reminders slipped me back into the groove.

I remembered how relaxed my neck and shoulders had felt as I'd written this. How the worry lines around my brow had smoothed out, and how grateful I had been to have made class happen. I carried the sticky note with me as I gathered my keys, my mat, and water bottle, and put on my coat and boots. When I got in the car, I stuck it to the center of the steering wheel, and it cheered me on all the way into downtown. This class was still one of the village's best-kept secrets,

so I easily found a parking spot right in front of the studio. I think yoga makes my senses sharper, and I found that every part of entering the studio struck a chord. Whether it was the faint maple scent of the old wood floors, or the very quiet ambient music playing from the speakers. The air felt warm and soothing on my skin as I shed my coat and hung it up. I signed in at the desk,

just exchanging a smile with the teacher, and went to set up. This class was a restorative yoga practice, and I'd been skeptical at first, thinking that it wasn't really something I'd benefit from, probably not something that I needed. But from the very first time I attended, I realized I'd been missing out. My nervous system needed the deep reset that came with such intentional rest and relaxation. And my body moved more smoothly afterwards.

In my regular practice, I often used a block or two, maybe an extra cushion under my knees. But for this practice, I got all the props. I had a sturdy cylindrical bolster, a couple of cushions, blocks, blankets, a strap, and even a couple of weighted bean bags. Once my props were lined up by my mat, I stretched out in the dim room and just listened to my own breathing. Students were setting up around me, but this studio had a strict no-talking-in-the-yoga-room rule,

and everyone followed it because it felt so good to have that quiet before class. Eventually, I heard my teacher moving around. She was just quietly adjusting the music and lights, making sure everyone had all the props they needed and that the heat would stay consistent for us while we practiced.

Then she talked us into our first posture. We laid on our backs with the bolster under our knees. She suggested that if we felt a bit restless, we try holding on to those weighted beanbags, letting them pin our cupped palms to the floor. We rustled around for a few moments, everyone getting into position.

And then there was a collective sigh as we began to let the shape work on us. I'd learned that using these postures, my breath, and just being in the environment, were ways to speak to my nervous system, to communicate that everything was okay. All danger had passed.

And energy could be spent on restoration. Sometimes I found myself stuck in red alert after a stressful day, unable to shake a feeling of urgency that just wasn't needed or helpful. I hadn't been able to think my way out of that, but practices like this moved me out of it. In the quiet, time passed, and every few minutes we'd shift slightly. We laid with the bolsters under our spines to open our chests, and folded forward over cushions to release tight necks and shoulders.

We were encouraged to make adjustments, to find comfortable expressions of each posture, so that ease was constant. After constructing a little pillow fort of blocks and cushions and propping one leg up on it, letting the other bend at the knee and tip to the side, I felt so comfortable my mind was so quiet that I started to doze my teacher often said that

if we fell asleep during practice it simply meant we needed sleep and that we'd succeeded in making ourselves feel safe enough that it just happened. for a few minutes at a time. And it was a different kind of sleep than I experience at home in bed. I didn't dream. I didn't notice anything. I simply had the awareness every few minutes that

I had been somewhere, but with no idea of where. Finally, the teacher encouraged us to set up for Shavasana, the final posture of the hour. And even though we'd been resting throughout, this deep resting shape was meant to seal in all that we had done, so that it stayed even after we ventured back out into the world. Most of us laid flat, though a few turned to the wall and swung their legs up. The lights went even dimmer. There was just a faint orange glow in the room

and the sound of my teacher's footsteps as she went from one student to the next, covering each with a blanket. I remember the first time she had done this for me. It felt like being a child, tenderly covered as I slept on the sofa. It had brought tears to my eyes. Now, as I felt her presence beside me,

the quick gust of cooler air as she tossed the blanket across me, and then the soft fabric floating down and settling on my limbs. I let out one more sigh. I imagined the sticky note I would write for future me tonight Dear me We feel so much better after yoga Just go

Winter evening yoga Just go. Winter Evening Yoga Ever since the time change a few weeks back, I'd found it more challenging to get out of the house, especially once the sun had set and the darkness had sunk in. And I didn't force myself. there were plenty of evenings when I got into my pajamas as soon as I got home and into bed as soon as the dinner dishes

were drying in the rack but there were a couple of things that could get me back out into the world. And one was the restorative yoga class at the studio in downtown. Half of the lure was just knowing that

the room would be warm and quiet. And as I sometimes felt like I'd heard too much for one day, seen too many headlines, talked to too many people, or just thought too many thoughts. The promise of that space where nothing was required of me, where there would be few words and a lot of comfort and relaxation.

Well, it sounded like exactly what I needed on every level. So tonight, I'd reminded myself how good I would feel afterward, as I got my yoga clothes on. In fact, I'd left myself a note on my bathroom mirror that I'd written after last week's class. It just said, I'm so glad I went. don't hesitate. These little missives sent from past me to present me helped. It was easy to lose track of how good things were when you were out of the moment, out of step with the experience. And these little handwritten reminders slipped me back into the groove. I remembered how relaxed my neck and shoulders had felt as I'd written this, how the worry lines around my brow had smoothed out, and how grateful I had been to have made class happen. I carried the sticky note with me

as I gathered my keys, my mat, and water bottle, and put on my coat and boots. When I got in the car, I stuck it to the center of the steering wheel and it cheered me on all the way into downtown. This class was still one of the village's best-kept secrets. So I easily found a parking spot right in front of the studio. I think yoga made my senses sharper, and I found that every part of entering the studio struck a chord. Whether it was the faint maple scent of the old wood floors or the very quiet

ambient music playing from the speakers. The air felt warm and soothing on my skin as I shed my coat and hung it up. I signed in at the desk, just exchanging a smile with the teacher,

and went to set up. This class was a restorative yoga practice, and I had been skeptical at first, thinking that it wasn't really something I'd benefit from, probably not something that I needed. But from the very first time I attended, I realized I'd been missing out. My nervous system needed the deep reset that came with such intentional rest and relaxation. And my body moved more smoothly afterward.

In my regular practice, I often used a block or two, maybe an extra cushion under my knees. But for this practice, I got all the props. I had a sturdy cylindrical bolster, a couple of cushions, blocks, blankets, a strap, and even a couple of weighted beanbags. Once my props were lined up by my mat, I stretched out in the dim room and just listened to my own breathing. Students were setting up around me, but this studio had a strict no-talking-in-the-yoga-room rule, and everyone followed it because it felt so good

to have that quiet before class. Eventually I heard my teacher moving around. She was just quietly adjusting the music and lights, making sure everyone had all the props they needed and that the heat would stay consistent for us while we practiced. Then she talked us into our first posture. We laid on our backs with the bolster under our knees. She suggested that if we felt a bit restless, we try holding on to those weighted beanbags, letting them pin our cupped palms to the floor. We rustled around for a few moments,

everyone getting into position. And then there was a collective sigh as we began to let the shape work on us. I'd learned that using these postures, my breath, and just being in the environment were ways to speak to my nervous system, to communicate that everything was okay, all danger had passed, and energy could be spent on restoration.

Sometimes I found myself stuck in red alert after a successful day, unable to shake a feeling of urgency that just wasn't needed or helpful. I hadn't been able to think my way out of that, but practices like this moved me out of it. In the quiet, time passed, and every few minutes we'd shift slightly. We laid with the bolsters under our spines to open our chests, and folded forward over cushions to release tight necks and shoulders.

We were encouraged to make adjustments to find comfortable expressions of each posture so that ease was constant. After constructing a little pillow fort of blocks and cushions and propping one leg up on it, letting the other bend at the knee and tip to the side. I felt so comfortable. My mind was so quiet that I started to doze. My teacher often said that if we fell asleep during practice,

it simply meant we needed sleep and that we'd succeeded in making ourselves feel safe enough that it just happened. From there on out, I dipped into sleep for a few minutes at a time. And it was a different kind of sleep than I experience at home in bed. I didn't dream.

I didn't notice anything. I simply had the awareness every few minutes that I had been somewhere, but with no idea of where. Finally, the teacher encouraged us to set up for shavasana, the final posture of the hour. And even though we had been resting throughout, this deep resting shape was meant to seal in all that we had done, so that it stayed, even after we ventured back out into the world. Most of us laid flat, though a few turned to the wall and swung their legs up. The lights went even dimmer. There was just a faint orange glow in the room

and the sound of my teacher's footsteps as she went from one student to the next, covering each with a blanket. I remember the first time she had done this for me. It felt like being a child, tenderly covered as I slept on the sofa. It had brought tears to my eyes. as I felt her presence beside me, the quick gust of cooler air as she tossed the blanket across me, and then the soft fabric floating down and settling on my limbs. I let out one more sigh.

I imagined the sticky note I would write for future me tonight. Dear me, we feel so much better after yoga. Just go. Sweet dreams.