Kathryn Nicolai (0:01)

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family friendly and our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams. Let me say something about how to use this podcast. I'm about to tell you a bedtime story. It's a simple story without much action, but full of relaxing detail. Sometimes when you try to fall asleep, you might find that your mind races and it's tricky to slow it down or direct it well. The story is like an inviting, well organized garage that we steer your racing mind into. And as you follow along with the sound of my voice, your mind will slow to a stop until there is nothing left to do but sleep. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find yourself awake again later in the night, think your way back through the story or listen again to go right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called Breathe In, Breathe out, and it's a story about setting aside some time to just be in a special place. It's also about a cup of green tea, learning to hop away a little less, and the goodness of knowing you are welcome. Now it's time to turn off the light and put away anything that isn't your sleep mask or teddy bear. You have indeed done enough for today. Nothing else is required of you. You're done. I'll be here reading, even after you've fallen asleep. Watching over you with my voice. Now, let's take a deep breath in through your nose and a slow sigh out through your mouth. Nice. We need one more in and out. Good. Breathe in. Breathe out. Before I turned the open sign and unlocked the door, I always sat for a few minutes by myself in the quiet of the yoga room. Today I had a cup of tea with me and a little cushion I pulled down from the shelf. In the big open space, I gravitated to a corner where I felt tucked in and unobtrusive, which I supposed was strange since I was completely alone. It's a feeling you have, though, sometimes, isn't it, that you just rather not be observed. That Privacy recharges you. That's why I liked these minutes before opening the studio. I heard the word ambivert once, describing someone who moved back and forth between extroversion and introversion, who could be the center of attention, or in my case, the teacher in the room, and then retreat inward and with the same comfort and ease be alone. I had a feeling that was probably something most people could relate to. We are different people a hundred times a day. I shifted on my cushion so that I could sit up tall and roll my shoulders back. I set my cup down beside me and let my eyes close. I took a slow breath down into the bottoms of my lungs and let it bloom up into my chest and then sighed it out through my lips. I listened to the sounds in the room. Sometimes my whole meditation was just listening, and not only here on my cushion, but when I rode the bus or stood on the corner by the cafe. I listened to the sounds around me. The hiss of the bus door, the people walking past, or right now, the atmospheric hum in the room. The yoga room is warm. Not overly hot, but warm enough to not need a sweater to feel like you can stretch out on your mat in complete comfort even when a blizzard is blowing outside. I could hear the furnace and a slight tinny ring of the air register vibrating as the heat flowed through it. I could also pick out the sound of the humidifier. It made a soft staticky hiss as it softened the air. When my mind revved up and started off in another direction, I pivoted back to the present by listening again. I listened for the sound of my own breath. It was very quiet but perceptible, and I noticed the touch of it on my upper lip. I smiled as I sat thinking of a story we tell at yoga about a frog set down in the center of a plate and how he hops off in an instant when you set him back in the center of the plate. A second later he hops off in another direction and so is your mind and so is mine. With practice we can lose some of our froggier characteristics, re centering ourselves in the middle of each moment and learning to not hop away, even if it's just for a fraction of a second longer than last time. So I reset. I didn't hop. Minutes passed and I reset a few more times. Then I just felt ready and done. So I took another long breath in and out and let my eyes blink open. I reached for my tea and took a drink of it, holding it in my mouth for a moment. It was green Tea with lemon, and it tasted bright and citrusy. I stood and put my cushion away and got the room ready for my students. I was teaching a restorative yoga class this afternoon, and it had become one of my favorites on the schedule. It was a whole hour dedicated to resting and rebuilding. We used big cushions, sturdy bolsters, foam blocks, and even small weighted beanbags to settle our bodies into the most comfortable and comforting shapes we could find, and then just let time pass, breathed, and let our nervous systems find their own level. It was a popular class, and as a teacher I found that quite heartening. Sometimes students came in with one idea in mind of pushing, of always doing more, working harder, and it could take some convincing to help them see the benefits of softness and doing less. But maybe the world was doing that convincing for me these days, because each week I had a few more students willing to try this class. I adjusted the lights low enough to make the room feel snug and private and put on some quiet music that my students would only notice if it stopped. I set out the props we'd need and took one more big breath in the room. It was something I noticed students doing naturally when they came here. They might have rushed to get here and carried that haste right up onto their mats, but once they settle down for a moment, they breathe in and breathe out and they're back in the center of their plates. I stepped out of the room and into the lobby. I flipped the open sign hanging in the front window and unlocked the door. It was a clear, cold day, and I was grateful to be in this warm space. The old wood floors felt friendly under my bare feet. I stood behind the desk and laid a pencil on the sign in sheet and watched people walking past on the sidewalk across the street. The tea shop looked busy, and I wrapped my hands around my own mug, eking out its last bit of warmth. Students began to arrive, and I liked having a few moments with each one to chat and say hello, but also to gauge their mood and learn a bit about what they were coming in with. Some were cheery and excited to get in the yoga room. Some were quiet, just signing their name and giving me a small nod. One student stood back shyly, and when I waved her up to the desk, said she hadn't been to class in years, a note of embarrassment in her voice. I just said, you're here today, and smiled at her. She smiled back, and I walked her into the yoga room and got her set up with a bolster and the props she'd need for class. I looked up at the clock and saw it was time to begin. I stepped over to the front door and looked up and down the sidewalk. I always checked before we began, and sure enough I spotted one of my regulars rushing toward me. I held open the door for him and ushered him in. He pulled off his hat and hopped around trying to yank off his boots, saying, I'm late. I touched his arm and said in a quiet voice, you made it. You're here now. And he chuckled and took a breath in and let it out. Breathe in, breathe out. Before I turned the open sign and unlocked the door, I always sat for a few minutes by myself in the quiet of the yoga room. Today I had a cup of tea with me and a little cushion I pulled down from a shelf in the big open space. I gravitated to a corner where I felt tucked in and unobtrusive, which I supposed was strange since I was completely alone. It's a feeling you have, though, sometimes, isn't it? That you'd just rather not be observed. That privacy recharges you. That's why I liked these minutes before opening the studio. I heard the word ambivert once, describing someone who moved back and forth between extroversion and introversion, who could be the center of attention, or in my case, the teacher in the room, and then retreat inward and with the same comfort and ease, be alone. I had a feeling that was probably something most people could relate to. We are all different people a hundred times a day. I shifted on my cushion so that I could sit up tall and roll my shoulders back. I set my cup down beside me and let my eyes close. I took a slow breath down into the bottoms of my lungs, let it bloom up into my chest and sighed it out through my lips. I listened to the sounds in the room. Sometimes my whole meditation was just listening, and not only here on my cushion, but when I rode the bus or stood on the corner by the cafe, I listened to the sounds around me, the hiss of the bus door, the people walking past, or right now, the atmospheric hum in the room. The yoga room is warm. Not overly hot, but warm enough to not need a sweater to feel like you can stretch out on your mat in complete comfort even when a blizzard is blowing outside. I could hear the furnace and a slight tinny ring of the air register vibrating as the heat flowed through it. I could also pick out the sound of the humidifier. It made a quiet staticy hiss as it softened the air. When my mind revved up and started off in another direction. I pivoted back to the present by listening again. I listened for the sound of my own breath. It was very quiet but perceptible, and I noticed the touch of it on my upper lip. I smiled as I sat thinking of a story we tell at yoga about a frog set down in the center of a plate and how he hops off in an instant, and when you set him back in the center of the plate a second later, he hops off in another direction. And so is your mind and so is mine. With practice we can lose some of our froggier characteristics, re centering ourselves in the middle of each moment and learning to not hop away, even if it's just for a fraction of a second longer than last time. So I reset. I didn't hop. Minutes passed and I reset a few more times. Then I just felt ready and done. So I took another long breath in and out and let my eyes blink open. I reached for my tea and took a drink of it, holding it in my mouth for a moment. It was green tea with lemon and it tasted bright and citrusy. I stood and put my cushion away and got the room ready for my students. I was teaching a restorative yoga class this afternoon, and it had become one of my favorites on the schedule. It was a whole hour dedicated to resting and rebuilding. We used big cushions, sturdy bolsters, foam blocks, and even small weighted beanbags to settle our bodies into the most comfortable and comforting shapes we could find, and then just let time pass, breathe, and let our nervous systems find their own level. It was a popular class, and as a teacher I found that quite heartening. Sometimes students come in with one idea in mind of pushing, of always doing more, working harder, and it could take some convincing to help them see the benefits of softness and doing less. But maybe the world was doing that convincing for me these days, because each week I had a few more students willing to try this class. I adjusted the lights low enough to make the room feel snug and private and put on some quiet music that my students would only notice if it stopped. I set out the props we'd need and took one more big breath in the room. It was something I noticed students doing naturally when they came here. They may have rushed to get here and carried that haste right up onto their mats, but once they settle down for a moment, they breathe in and breathe out and they're back in the center of their plates. I stepped out of the room and into the lobby. I flipped the open sign hanging in the front window and unlocked the door. It was a clear, cold day and I was grateful to be in this warm space. The old wood floors felt friendly under my bare feet. I stood behind the desk and laid a pencil on the sign in sheet and watched people walking past on the sidewalk across the street. The tea shop looked busy and I wrapped my hands around my own mug, eking out its last bit of warmth. Students began to arrive and I liked having a few moments with each one to chat and say hello, but also to gauge their mood and learn a bit about what they were coming in with. Some were cheery and excited to get into the yoga room. Some were quiet, just signing their name and giving me a small nod. One student stood back shyly and when I waved her up to the desk, said she hadn't been to class in years, a note of embarrassment in her voice. I just said, you're here today, and smiled at her and she smiled back and I walked her into the yoga room and got her set up with a bolster and the props she'd need for class. I looked up at the clock and saw it was time to begin. I stepped over to the front door and looked up and down the sidewalk. I always checked before we began, and sure enough I spotted one of my regulars rushing toward me. I held open the door for him and ushered him in. He pulled his hat off and hopped around trying to yank on his boots, saying, I'm late. I touched his arm and said in a quiet voice, you made it. You're here now, and he chuckled and took a breath in and let it out, sweet dreams.