← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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- [00:01]
Host
Get more Nothing much happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe Now. If you've been listening to me for a while, you know how much I value rest. Sleep is really the foundation for everything else we do. Our creativity, our relationships, our our mood. And like you, I've had stretches where.
- [00:30]
Katherine Nikolai
Sleep just didn't come easily.
- [00:32]
Host
And that's why I want to share something that's made a difference for me. CBN Nightcaps from Cured Nutrition these capsules are formulated with 30mg of CBD and 5mg of CBN two cannabinoids that work together to support deep repair Restorative Rest what I've noticed is that I fall asleep really quickly and I stay asleep longer. And maybe most importantly, I wake up without feeling heavy or groggy. Instead, I just feel rested and clear. There's no psychoactive effect, just a gentle calm that helps my body and mind unwind. For me, taking one an hour before bed has become part of my wind down ritual, right alongside tea and a buck. It feels natural, not forced. And that's why it works. Cured Nutrition is offering my listeners an exclusive 20% discount so you can try nightcaps for yourself. Just visit curednutrition.com nothingmuch and use code nothingmuch at checkout. That's C U R E- slash nothing much coupon code Nothing Much Transform your nights and your days with CBN nightcaps because when you sleep well, you show up better in every area of your life.
- [02:05]
Katherine Nikolai
You know those days when your brain just won't cooperate?
- [02:09]
Host
When you're staring at your to do list, hopping from call to call and the mental fog just just gets thicker?
- [02:16]
Katherine Nikolai
I've been there and I used to.
- [02:18]
Host
Reach for another coffee only to end up jittery and then crashing later. That's why I've been trying Nature Sunshine Brain Edge. It's a clean plant powered drink mix that blends wild harvested yerba mate with nootropic botanicals to help with focus, memory and mental clarity without the crash. I've used it before, recording, before writing, and I noticed I could think more clearly, I could stay present and I could actually finish what I set out to do. I like that it fits right into my wellness routine. Warm and cozy in a mug or poured over ice. And it feels good to know that the yerba mate is sourced responsibly from indigenous communities in the rainforest. Plus, Nature Sunshine has over 50 years of experience sourcing pure potent ingredients, so I trust what I'm drinking. Don't fight through feeling foggy and lethargic. Ignite your mental performance with Brain Edge. Nature Sunshine is offering 20% off your first order plus free shipping. Go to naturesunshine.com and use code Nothing Much at checkout. That's code nothingmuch@naturesunshine.com.
- [03:39]
Katherine Nikolai
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which nothing Much happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear when Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Wild for Life, a place for wildlife to heal and humans to learn. You can find out more about them in our show Notes Subscribers make Nothing much Happens happen. The world of podcasting is an ever changing one, and staying alive in it, even when millions listen, is frankly trickier.
- [04:46]
Host
Than you might think. Certainly trickier than I expected.
- [04:52]
Katherine Nikolai
So please consider a premium subscription. It's just a dime a day. You'll get our whole catalog ad free.
- [05:01]
Host
So many bonus episodes and extra long episodes, as well as the satisfaction of.
- [05:09]
Katherine Nikolai
Knowing that you are making the world just a bit softer and sweeter. Click subscribe in Spotify or Apple or.
- [05:19]
Host
Go to nothingmuchhappens.com.
- [05:23]
Katherine Nikolai
Here'S how this works. We're going to play a little trick on your brain. We'll ask it to do a simple job, and while it's doing that job, you'll be able to quickly and peacefully fall asleep. That small amount of engagement slows the spinning, and the job is even a pleasant one. Just listen to the sound of my voice, the gentle shape of the story. I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to start the story over again. You'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Autumn World, and it's a story about a morning with the windows open and fresh air blowing through the house. It's also about crows cawing in a field, coffee and brown sugar, yesterday's raindrops falling from the trees, a record playing on the turntable, and the feeling of renewal that comes as summer ends. Lights out, campers. That is enough for today. You have probably seen and heard and thought a lot, and now nothing else is needed but to soften and relax. I'll keep watch. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh. Nice. Do that one more time. Inhale and let it Go. Good Autumn World I woke to a new world this morning. It started in the night, with a low rumbling thunder in the distance and the arrival a few minutes later of a steady rain drumming on the roof. I'd been tucked into bed, flipping my pillow to the cool side between dreams when I heard it. Smiling, I sighed and went right back to sleep. Then today, when I drew back the curtain and lifted the sash, the breeze blew in fresh, crisp air smelling of wood smoke and leaves. The humidity of the last few months was completely gone. Even the light looked different, like it was shining through a filter up high in the atmosphere. I chuckled to myself, thinking, they call those clouds, I believe. Indeed, rather than blinking against the summer glare, holding my hand above my brow and squinting to see, I could open my eyes wide and savor everything in sight. The silvery leaves of the paper birch on the hillside, pots of white chrysanthemums on the neighbor's back step, a busy chestnut brown squirrel scurrying along the roof ridge. A hearty gust of wind blew, carrying leftover raindrops from the leaves in through the screen. They fell on my face and neck, and it reminded me of the tradition of washing your face with morning dew on the first day of May. This was the flip side of that, showering with stormwater as the autumn begins. I think the dew in May is meant to bring beauty. What would these drops bring? Rainwater is rich in nutrients for the soil, minerals and vapors from its journey through the water cycle, and I thought maybe a bit of electricity from the lightning. I pressed closer to the screen, letting a few more droplets land on my cheeks. Yes, it did feel like it had a thimbleful of electric charge, enough to inspire me to wash my face and make my bed and consider embarking on an autumnal adventure. In the kitchen, I pushed more windows open until the room was full of fresh air. The crayon drawings on the fridge fluttered wildly in it, but instead of closing things back up, I just added more magnets. The wind was charging my battery. I hadn't known how badly I needed it until I felt it. Now I couldn't do without it. At my espresso machine, I stuck the portafilter under the grinder and watched as the fresh ground sprinkled down into it. I took a jar from the cupboard, thinking of a treat I hadn't had in a while. A brown sugar espresso. This was just the day for it. I spooned a layer of the sticky molasses sweet sugar on top of the grounds, pressing it flat, then with a bit of effort, screwed it into place. I put my mug under the spout and pressed the button, watching closely, counting in my head. A barista friend of mine had told me once that the time from starting the flow of water to when the espresso emerged, which was called first drop, should be right around eight seconds. I wasn't that fussy about my coffee. In fact, most days I made it with one eye open. But today I was curious. How would the sugar affect it? Just as I was rounding the tail end of seven, a dark chocolate brown drop landed in the bottom of my cup. I took it for an omelet. Today would be a good day. While my cup filled, I wandered into the living room. The floorboards were cool under my feet and it registered somewhere inside me that that was a sensation I hadn't felt in quite a few months. I lifted the lid of the turntable and flicked through the records beside it. Summer music has a very specific flavor, the energy of it. It's bright and yellow and bubbly. It wants to be played from the car stereo with the windows rolled down. But today it felt right to play some autumn music, the kind that was a bit more atmospheric, pensive, moody. If summer music made you dance, autumn tunes had you looking pensively out at the falling leaves. I pulled out an album I'd first heard nearly 20 years before, a man's voice, a pared down band behind him, songs warm and melancholy and steady and blue dust from the vinyl, and laid it on the player, looked close to set the needle in the groove without scratching it and sighed as the familiar notes began to play. Back in the kitchen, I wrapped my hands around my cup and breathed in the sweet, treacly perfume. Oh, it was delicious. And I remembered I'd bought a few muffins at the bakery the day before and went to sort through the white paper bag on the kitchen table. I couldn't quite tell what the flavor was just from the scent, something fruity and something spicy, but when I broke one open and tasted it, I recognized ginger and pear. The muffins were soft and tender as cake inside, chewy on the edges, just like I liked them. As I rinsed my cup in the sink, washed the crumbs from my fingers, I heard crows cawing in the distance. I pictured them laying claim to their territory in the empty cornfield down the road, and as their cries died out, I noticed how quiet the world was. The sound of crickets and June bugs had been so constant for so many weeks that I'd stopped hearing it. The absence of their song felt like a relief, like when a squealing car alarm is suddenly quelled. Then the wind blew again, and I listened to that one of my favorite sounds, the rustling sulation of leaves and branches shifting from the clothesline. A faint ringing came, the end of a dangling cord striking the metal post. It reminded me of an afternoon I'd spent on a sailboat, the way the wind rang through the rigging and sailcloth. What would I do with my day in this new autumn world? Well, I'd certainly open every window in the house that was still closed. I'd hang sheets on the line and let them crisp in the breeze. I wanted to sweep the porch and stack firewood in the shed, fill the bird feeders and make a pot of soup. I could take a long walk, listen to more records, or just sit on my front steps and watch the wind blow. Oh, what a gift this season was. Autumn World I woke to a new world this morning. It started in the night, with a low rumbling thunder in the distance and the arrival a few minutes later of a steady rain drumming on the roof. I'd been tucked into bed, flipping my pillow to the cool side between dreams when I heard it. Smiling, I sighed and went right back to sleep. Then today, when I drew back the curtain and lifted the sash, the breeze blew in fresh, crisp air smelling of wood smoke and leaves. The humidity of the last few months was completely gone. Even the light looked different, like it was shining through a filter up high in the atmosphere. I chuckled to myself, thinking, those are called clouds, I believe. Indeed, rather than blinking against the summer glare, holding my hand above my brow and squinting to see, I could open my eyes wide and savor everything in sight. The silvery leaves of the paper birch on the hillside, pots of white chrysanthemums on the neighbor's back step, a busy chestnut brown squirrel scurrying along the roof ridge. A hearty gust of wind blew, carrying leftover raindrops from the leaves in through the screen. They fell on my face a neck, and it reminded me of the tradition of washing your face with morning dew on the first day of May. This was the flip side of that, showering with storm water as the autumn begins. I think the dew in May is meant to bring beauty. What would these drops bring? Rainwater is rich in nutrients for the soil, minerals and vapors from its journey through the water cycle, and I thought maybe a bit of electricity from the lightning. I pressed closer to the screen, letting a few more droplets land on my cheeks. Yes, it did feel like it had a thimbleful of electric charge, enough to inspire me to wash my face and make my bed and consider embarking on an autumnal adventure. In the kitchen, I pushed more windows open until the room was full of fresh air. The crayon drawings on the fridge fluttered wildly in it, but instead of closing things back up, I just added more magnets. The wind was charging my battery. I hadn't known how badly I needed it until now, and now I couldn't do without it. At my espresso machine, I stuck the portafilter under the grinder and watched as the fresh grounds sprinkled down into it. I took a jar from the cupboard, thinking of a treat I hadn't had in a while, a brown sugar espresso. This was just the day for it. I spooned a layer of the sticky molasses sweet sugar on top of the grounds, pressing it flat, then with a bit of effort screwed it into place. I put my mug under the spout and pressed the button, watching closely, counting in my head. A barista friend of mine had told me once that the time from starting the flow of water to when the espresso emerged, which was called first drop, should be right around eight seconds. I wasn't that fussy about my coffee. In fact, most days I made it with one eye open. But today I was curious. How would the sugar affect it? Just as I was rounding the tail end of seven, a dark chocolate brown drop landed in the bottom of my cup. I took it for an omen. Today would be a good day. While my cup filled, I wandered into the living room. The floorboards were cool under my feet and it registered somewhere inside me that that was a sensation I hadn't felt in quite a few months. I lifted the lid of the turntable and flicked through the records beside it. Summer music has a very specific flavor, the energy of it. It's bright and yellow and bubbly. It wants to be played from the car stereo with the windows rolled down. But today it felt right to play some autumn music. The kind that was a bit more atmospheric, pensive, moody. If summer music made you dance, autumn tunes had you looking pensively out at the falling leaves. I pulled out an album I'd first heard nearly 20 years before, a man's voice, a pared down band behind him. The song's warm and melancholy and steady. I blew dust from the vinyl and laid it on the player, looked close to set the needle in the groove without scratching it, and sighed as the familiar notes began to play. Back in the kitchen, I wrapped my hands around my cup and breathed in the sweet, trickly perfume. Oh, it was delicious. And I remembered I'd bought a few muffins at the bakery the day before and went to sort through the white paper bag on the kitchen table. I couldn't quite tell what the flavor was just from the scent. Something fruity, something spicy. But when I broke one open and tasted it, I recognized ginger and pear. The muffins were soft and tender as cake inside and chewy on the edges, just like I liked them. As I rinsed my cup in the sink and washed the crumbs from my fingers, I heard crows cawing in the distance. I pictured them claiming their territory in the empty cornfield down the road, and as their cries died out, I noticed how quiet the world was. The sound of crickets and June bugs had been so constant for so many weeks that I'd stopped hearing it. The absence of their song felt like a relief, like when a squealing car alarm is suddenly quelled. Then the wind blew again, and I listened to that one of my favorite sounds, the rustling sulation of leaves and branches shifting from the clothesline. A faint ringing came, the end of a dangling cord striking the metal post. It reminded me of an afternoon I'd spent on a sailboat, the way the wind rang through the rigging and sailcloth. What would I do with my day in this new autumn world? Well, I'd certainly open every window in the house that was still closed. I'd hang sheets on the line and let them crisp in the breeze. I wanted to sweep the porch and stack firewood in the shed, fill the bird feeders and make a pot of soup. I could take a long walk and listen to more records or just sit on my front steps and watch the wind blow. Oh, what a gift this season was. Sweet dreams.