Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Winter Walk (Encore)

Episode Date: January 4, 2024

Originally Aired: January 27th, 2019 (Season 3 Episode 1) Our story tonight is called Winter Walk, and it’s a story about stepping through crisp layers of deep snow on a sunny, cold day. It’s also about a well-made bed, a sleeping kitty, and the welcome way that nature can take your breath away. Purchase 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 Katherine 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. Thank you for your support. Now, I have a story to tell you.

It's a simple story, and not much happens in it. And that's kind of the idea. Follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple details of the tale, and you'll quickly ease your mind into deep sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and the second time through, I'll go a little slower. If you find that you're still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. Just think back through the details you can remember. This trains the brain over time to slow to a stop. And the more you do this training, the faster

you'll settle and sleep. So have a bit of patience if you are new to this. Now it's time to close everything up. Turn off your light. Snuggle your body down into your favorite sleeping position. Pull the blanket over your shoulder and tuck your pillow in just the way you like it. Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your nose. And out through your mouth. Good. One more, please. In. And out.

Our story tonight is called Winter Walk. And it's a story about stepping through crisp layers of deep snow on a sunny, cold day. It's also about a well-made bed, a sleeping kitty, and the welcome way that nature can take your breath away. Winter Walk Deep snow had fallen overnight, and the morning broke clear and cold.

I'd lingered at the kitchen table with an extra cup of coffee as I watched the light shift and the sun come up. Sunrise in deep winter, with its bright pinks and streaks of yellow, feels like an affirmation from Mother Nature herself. Yes, the days are short, and the landscape coated in shades of white and gray, but the skies are vibrant. There is bright life in the thickest days of winter. With the sun up, I'd opened all the curtains and let it slant into the rooms of my house.

We hadn't seen much sun in a while, and I found myself stopping to look out and taking a few deep breaths every few minutes as I worked through my morning chores. Someone told me years ago that you get a better night's sleep in a bed that's been made. Something about the feeling of tidiness and order helped you to drift off. So I'd made a habit of it and now I found it to be a kind of morning meditation

I did it the same way each time and took care with the process I had an armchair with a little ottoman in front of my bedroom window where I sometimes sat and read and I stacked the pillows on it and pulled back the duvet and sheet. I smoothed out the sheet under it and pulled the blankets back up, walking around the bed and refolding and tucking the edges. I shook out the pillows and plumped them back into place. I took a soft plaid throw that my kitty liked and swirled it into a nest and placed it at the foot of the bed

for her. With curtains open and the morning light coming in, the room looked neat and inviting. I had a day to enjoy, but I was already looking forward to going to bed tonight. With my chores done and the day becoming as warm and as bright as it would likely get, I decided to bundle up and take a long walk in the fresh snow. I layered on sweater and coat, thick socks and boots, hat and scarf and gloves, and closed the back door behind me and stood looking out at the unbroken drifts of snow. The cold air opened my eyes wide, and I looked up at the peaks of old evergreens

and the bare branches of maples stacked with a foot of snow. Winter walks are slow walks, and you make your way carefully and a bit ploddingly, but it gives you time for lots of looking and thinking and noticing. Past the edge of the yard, I stepped onto a well-worn path and into thickening woods. I had a few acres, and this portion of my land backed up to more woods that were public so I could walk for a long time and not run out of trees and wilderness. I remembered the winter walks I took with my family as a child.

There was an empty lot at the end of the street, and beyond it fields and clusters of trees. And while the whole thing was probably no bigger than a city block, it felt like a secret land, a place where there was no end of exploring to be done. Children have this power to look at something simple and everyday and imagine the wondrous. I felt a growing warmth in my belly and chest from the exercise and fresh air. I took deep breaths of it and let it fill my lungs.

The familiar paths looked new in the thick snow, and I took a few turns, intentionally leading myself away from my usual route, knowing I could follow my boot prints back if I got turned around. I followed a frozen creek with just a trickle of moving water past a thick grove of birch trees, their rippled white bark at home in the white winter, to an open meadow where I stood for a while with a sudden feeling that there was something here to see. She stepped out slowly from the trees across the field, a doe, tall and elegant. I guessed she'd seen me long before I was aware of her, but she trusted and let me see her anyway. I was caught by her beauty and stood still and maybe forgot to breathe for a moment. Then I called out, low and calm,

nice day for a walk. And she wagged her white tail and bent her head to nose through the snow for a bit of winter brows. I supposed she was as glad to see the sun as I had been this morning, and reminded myself that the earth is what we all have in common. I left her to her meal and followed my tracks back through the woods and eventually into my own garden. The long walk had made me hungry, and I was already thinking my way through the fridge and pantry and mentally setting the table.

I kicked the snow from my boots and stood in the back hall, reversing the process that had started this morning's adventure. I went to my room to change snowy layers for warm, fresh ones and found Kitty curled into her spot on the bed. She turned her chin up in an impossible angle, wriggled lazily on her spine, and let out a soft meow. I curled up around her and told her about the deer I'd seen in the open

field. I told her she was probably back in her den by now, nestled down with her friends, and Kitty purred. It was good to go out into the woods and walk and remember the fresh air. And then it was good to retrace your steps, tuck back into the warmth and comfort of home. The winter wasn't over yet, but the sun was out

and there was much to enjoy while we waited for spring. Winter Walk Deep snow had fallen overnight, and the morning broke clear and cold. I'd lingered at the kitchen table with an extra cup of coffee as I watched the light shift and the sun come up. Sunrise in deep winter, with its bright pinks and streaks of yellow, feels like an affirmation from Mother Nature herself. Yes, the days are short, and the landscape coated in shades of white and gray. But the skies are vibrant.

There is bright life in the thickest days of winter. With the sun up, I'd opened all the curtains and let it slant into the rooms of my house. We hadn't seen much sun in a while, and I found myself stopping to look out and taking a few deep breaths every few minutes as I worked through my morning chores. Someone told me years ago

that you get a better night's sleep in a bed that's been made. Something about the feeling of tidiness and order helped you to drift off. So I made a habit of it, and now I found it to be a kind of morning meditation. I did it the same way each time, and took care with the process. I had an armchair with a little ottoman in front of my bedroom window where I sometimes sat and read

and I stacked the pillows on it and pulled back the duvet and sheet. I smoothed out the sheet under it and pulled the blankets back up, walking around the bed and refolding and tucking the edges. I shook out the pillows and plumped them back into place.

I took a soft plaid throw that my kitty liked and swirled it into a nest and placed it at the foot of the bed for her. With curtains open and the morning light coming in, the room looked neat and inviting. I had a day to enjoy, but I was already looking forward to going to bed tonight. With my chores done and the day becoming as warm and bright as it would likely get, I decided to bundle up and take a long walk in the fresh snow. I layered on a sweater and a coat, thick socks and boots, hat and scarf and gloves, and closed the back door behind me and stood looking out at the unbroken drifts of snow.

The cold air opened my eyes wide, and I looked up at the peaks of old evergreens and the bare branches of maples stacked with a foot of snow. Winter walks are slow walks. You make your way carefully, and a bit ploddingly, but it gives you time for lots of looking,

and thinking, and noticing. Past the edge of the yard, I stepped onto a well-worn path and into thickening woods. I had a few acres, and this portion of my land backed up to more woods that were public, so I could walk for a long time and not run out of trees or wilderness.

I remembered the winter walks I took with my family as a child. There was an empty lot at the end of the street, and beyond it fields and clusters of trees. And while the whole thing was probably no bigger than a city block, it felt like a secret land, a place where there was no end of exploring to be done. Children have this power, to look at something simple and everyday and imagine the wondrous. I felt a growing warmth in my belly and chest from the exercise and fresh air. I took deep breaths of it and let it fill my lungs.

The familiar paths looked new in the thick snow, and I took a few turns, intentionally leading myself away from my usual route, knowing I could follow my boot prints back if I got turned around. I followed a frozen creek with just a trickle of moving water past a thick grove of birch trees. Their rippled white bark at home in the white winter to an open meadow where I stood for a while, a sudden feeling that there was something here to see.

She stepped out slowly from the trees across the field. A doe, tall and elegant. I guessed she'd seen me long before I was aware of her, but she'd trusted and let me see her anyway. I was caught by her beauty and stood still and maybe forgot to breathe for a moment. Then I called out, low and calm, nice day for a walk. And she wagged her white tail and bent her head to nose through the snow

for a bit of winter brows. I supposed she was as glad to see the sun as I had been this morning and reminded myself that the earth is what we all have in common. I left her to her meal and followed my tracks back through the woods and eventually into my own garden. The long walk had made me hungry, and I was already thinking my way through the fridge and pantry and mentally setting the table. I kicked the snow from my boots and stood in the back hall,

reversing the process that had started this morning adventure. I went to my room to change snowy layers for warm, fresh ones, and found Kitty curled into her spot on the bed. She turned her chin up in an impossible angle, wriggled lazily on her spine, and let out a soft meow. I curled up around her and told her about the deer I'd seen in the open field. I told her she was probably back in her den by now, nestled down

with her friends, and Kitty purred. It was good to go out into the woods and walk and remember the fresh air, and then it was good to retrace your steps, tuck back into the warmth and comfort of home. The winter wasn't over yet, but the sun was out, and there was much to enjoy while we waited for spring. Sweet dreams.