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

Episode Date: January 30, 2023

Our story tonight is called Winter Views and it’s a story about some different things to enjoy or look forward to in the winter. It’s also about a cardinal singing from the branches, a jar of huckleberry jam, and the extra minutes of light that come with each day after the solstice.Thanks to your support, we give to a different charity each week. This week we are giving to International Justice Mission. (https://ijm.org) Their mission is “to protect people in poverty from violence and injustice.”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 read and write all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Thanks to your support, we give to a different charity each week. This week we are giving to International Justice Mission at IJM.org. Their mission is to protect people in poverty

from violence and injustice. Look for more information about them in our show notes. Just by listening to my voice and following along with the general shape of the story, you'll be able to create a reliable response in your brain and nervous system, so that when you lie in bed at night, when it's time to sleep, you just will. The more you practice it, the stronger the response will become. I'll tell the story twice,

and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn this or another story right back on, or just think through any detail that you can remember. Okay, lights out campers. It's time. Set everything down and prioritize your own comfort. How do you need to arrange yourself to feel the most relaxed?

Whatever you did today, it was enough. Enough has been done. So take those last lingering thoughts, let them go. They only have the power you give them. Now, slow breath in. And sigh. Again, in through the nose. Out through the mouth. Good. Our story tonight is called Winter Views, and it's a story about some different things to enjoy or look forward to in the winter. It's also about a cardinal singing from the branches, a jar of huckleberry jam, and the extra minutes of light that come with each day after the solstice. Winter Views Winter isn't just one thing, one feeling, one temperature, one scent.

And that was something I always forgot from the distance of July. If I thought of it then, all I could come up with was bitter cold, a memory of icy air stinging my nostrils, one shade of white coating everything. And so when I was actually there moving through midwinter it was always a sweet surprise when the morning air didn't sting

but instead made me feel awake and alive and I gulped it down in deep, greedy breaths, just as I had the scent of lilacs in the spring or summer tomato vines. Yes, the light was sometimes gray, the days shorter, but there's something special that happens at sunset in the winter

that is uplifting and affirming right when you need it most. As the sun drops in the sky right before it sets fully. It dips below the cloudy haze that blocked it for much of the day, and the sky actually gets brighter for a wonderful half hour or the orange light cuts through the windows it will find you where you sit with your cheek propped in your hand listless from the winter monotony and it will dazzle you make you sit up straight

and come to the window and look out. You might even put on your coat and boots and step outside and let it shine on your face for a minute or so. And as long as you're out there, why not take a brisk walk around the block? Flush your lungs out and fill yourself up with fresh air.

These are the bits of winter I forgot about through the rest of the year that made me glad to be in this season as it progressed. The snow had melted for a few days, and the sidewalks had run with water. The hard ground, not able to keep up with how fast things had changed. That first day out, my boots had gotten muddy and sodden, though I barely noticed.

I was looking up, spotting nests and abandoned hives in the treetops. A cardinal sat, chirping in the branches, and I laughed, wondering if he ever looked down at us and sang out, ooh, a human. Fair enough. Few of us could sing like he did. In another day or so, the pavement had dried up, and everyone was out, taking advantage of the break in the weather.

Dogs in sweaters, children on bikes they'd gotten for Christmas or Hanukkah. And I felt that this, too, was something I forgot about when I thought of winter. It breeds a sort of fellowship. We were all feeling the same things as we waved from different sides of the street. We all tipped our faces up to the sun and sighed with the relief of it. We'd gained about 30 minutes of daylight since the solstice, and it felt like such a gift at the end of the day. It gave me a bit of a lift

just to be able to see out to the pines at the back of my yard for a little longer each day. I often felt that as soon as the sun went down, well, so was I. It made me rush through dinner, and often had me yawning and blinking by seven. Now, just to have a little extra time. It inspired me. I slowed down.

I thumbed through a cookbook or watered my plants or brewed a cup of tea and sipped it from the sofa. Our bodies have clockwork, tuned up to the seasons and sun, don't they? Those early nights to bed had been needed. The weeks of doing less were restorative.

And now things were turning, subtly and slowly, but surely. And I thought about what I might do with the bit of winter that remained. I wasn't done snowing, that was for sure. These breaks in the weather came and went, and we still had plenty of snow days left. There was a skating rink downtown, and I thought it must be absolutely beautiful to skate in the warmth of the late afternoon,

to stay on the ice as the twinkle lights came on, and to go somewhere for a hot cocoa after your legs were tired out. And there was a film festival at the movie theater. I'd seen it advertised in the paper. On one screen they were showing the full filmography of some director whose work had been mostly ignored at the time, but seemed prescient and current and now was appreciated. On another screen, there were short films, some comic and some serious.

And in this category, there were even a few local entries. It was a way I'd never spent a Saturday, all day at the theater, voting on films, seeing things I knew nothing about beforehand. Well, maybe that was what made it an excellent idea. There were also seeds to start. Packs of them had come in the mail the week before, and a garden club, of which I'd become a member last spring, had sent out a newsletter with instructions for making starting pots from recycled newspaper.

I could see myself clearing off the counters and rolling up my sleeves. I'd make a bit of a mess, and it would, no doubt, take longer than I'd anticipated. But eventually, all my little seeds would be tucked into their soil beds and waiting to sprout under the lamps. This year I was growing dahlias, and nothing else. Just dahlias. But I would crack their code, and grow the biggest double blooms the neighborhood had ever seen.

What else? What else could I look forward to this winter? I'd been gifted a membership in the Jam of the Month Club and thought I could make some thumbprint cookies with the first jar that had come. It was deep purple, huckleberry, and I bet they would go perfectly with a cup of coffee in the morning. Puzzles and old movies,

a hike up the crow's nest path in the snow, watching the sun come up a little earlier each morning, paper whites budding on the sill. Winter came with so many gifts, a hundred different views over the horizon. It wasn't one thing. It was many. Winter views. Winter isn't just one thing.

One feeling. One temperature. one scent. And that was something I always forgot from the distance of July. if I thought of it then, all I could come up with was the bitter cold, a memory of icy air stinging my nostrils, one shade of white coating everything. And so, when I was actually there, moving through midwinter, it was always a sweet surprise when the morning air didn't sting, but instead made me feel awake and alive. I gulped it down in deep, greedy breaths, just as I had the scent of lilacs in the spring, or summer tomato vines.

Yes, the light was sometimes gray, the days shorter. But there is something special that happens at sunset in the winter, that is uplifting and affirming right when you need it most. As the sun drops in the sky, right before it fully sets. It dips below the cloudy haze that blocked it for much of the day. And the sky actually gets brighter for a wonderful half hour or so. The orange light cuts through the windows.

It will find you where you sit, with your cheek propped in your hand, listless from the winter monotony, and dazzle you, make you sit up straight and come to the window and look out. You might even put on your coat and boots and step outside and let it shine on your face for a minute or so. And as long as you're out there, well, why not take a brisk walk around the block? Flush your lungs out and fill yourself up with fresh air.

These are the bits of winter I forget about through the rest of the year that made me so glad to be in this season as it progressed. The snow had melted for a few days, and the sidewalks muddy and sodden, though I barely noticed. I was looking up, spotting nests and abandoned hives in the treetops. A cardinal sat chirping in the branches, and I laughed, wondering if he ever looked down at us and sang out, ooh, a human.

Fair enough. Few of us could sing like he did. In another day or so, the pavement had dried up and everyone was out taking advantage of the break in the weather dogs in sweaters children on the bikes they'd gotten for Christmas or Hanukkah. And I felt that this, too, was something I forgot about

when I thought of winter. It breeds a sort of fellowship. We were all feeling the same things as we waved from different sides of the street. We all tipped our faces up to the sun and sighed with the relief of it. We'd gained about 30 minutes of daylight since the solstice, and it felt like such a gift at the end of the day. It gave me a bit of a lift just to be able to see out to the pines at the back of my yard for a little longer each day. I often felt that

as soon as the sun was down well, so was I it made me rush through dinner and often had me yawning and blinking by seven. Now, just to have a little extra time. It inspired me. I slowed down.

I thumbed through a cookbook. I watered my plants. I brewed a cup of tea and sipped it from the sofa. Our bodies have clockwork, tuned up to the seasons and the sun, don't they? Those early nights to bed, they'd been needed. The weeks of doing less were restorative.

And now, things were turning, subtly and slowly, but surely. And I thought about what I might do with the bit of winter that remained. It wasn't done snowing, that was for sure. These breaks in the weather came and went, and we still had plenty of snow days left. There was a skating rink downtown. And I thought, it must be absolutely beautiful. To skate in the warmth of the late afternoon.

To stay on the ice as the twinkle lights came on. And then to go somewhere for a hot cocoa after your legs were tired out. And there was a film festival at the movie theater. I'd seen it advertised in the paper. On one screen, they were showing the full filmography of some director whose work at the time had been mostly ignored, but seemed prescient and current, and now was appreciated. On another screen, there were short films, some comic, and some serious.

And in this category, there were even a few local entries. It was a way I'd never spent a Saturday. All day at the theater, voting on films, seeing things I knew nothing about beforehand. Well, maybe that was what made it an excellent idea. There were also seeds to start. Packs of them had come in the mail the week before. And the garden club, of which I'd become a member last spring,

had sent out a newsletter with instructions for making starting pots from recycled newspaper. I could see myself clearing off the counters and rolling up my sleeves. I'd make a bit of a mess, and it would no doubt take longer than I anticipated. But eventually, all my little seeds would be tucked into their soil beds and waiting to sprout under the lamps. This year, I was growing dahlias, but nothing else. Just dahlias. But I would crack their code and grow the biggest double blooms the neighborhood had ever seen. What else?

What else could I look forward to this winter? Oh, I'd been gifted a membership in the jam of the month club and thought I could make some thumbprint cookies with the first jar that had come. The jam was deep purple, huckleberry, and I bet would go perfectly with a cup of coffee in the morning.

Puzzles and old movies, a hike up the crow's nest path in the snow. Watching the sun come up a little earlier each morning. Paper whites budding on the sill. Winter came with so many gifts. A hundred different views over the horizon. It wasn't one thing. It was many. Sweet dreams.