← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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- [00:01]
Bioptimizers Representative
I care about your sleep. It is always my first thought and priority in making this show and sometimes you need extra help. Sometimes, even when your sleep hygiene is top tier, sleep doesn't come. Some nights you might struggle to fall asleep or wake after a few hours and toss and turn. I get it when Perimenopause hit me like a wrecking ball. It threw my sleep cycles so far off course that I felt like a different person and Sleep Breakthrough Drink from Bioptimizers has really helped.
- [00:49]
Kathryn Nicolai
I fall asleep when I want to.
- [00:52]
Bioptimizers Representative
And I sleep through the night without that 3am panic wake up that had been haunting me. When I wake in the morning, I feel good, not groggy. I'm rested. My days are better. Bioptimizers has flexible dosing which I really like. My wife needs just a little bit and I take a little more. And for folks looking for an option without melatonin, this is it. Ready to transform your sleep and wake up feeling refreshed? Visit bioptimizers.com nothingmuch and use code nothingmuch for 10% off any order. Don't settle for another restless night, my friends.
- [01:41]
Kathryn Nicolai
Try Sleep Breakthrough Drink risk free with.
- [01:44]
Bioptimizers Representative
Bioptimizer's 365 day money back guarantee.
- [01:49]
Kathryn Nicolai
And this is all in our Show Notes.
- [01:51]
Bioptimizers Representative
If you forget, visit buyoptimizers.com nothingmuch and use code nothingmuch for 10% off any order.
- [02:03]
Kathryn Nicolai
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'll hear on Nothing Much Happens. With audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. This week we are giving to White Rock Bear Sanctuary, whose simple but noble purpose is to rescue and rehabilitate bears. You can learn more about them in our Show Notes. To subscribe to our Premium feed, buy some cozy merch or be reminded of promo codes for our lovely sponsors, head to our Show Notes. We've just released our April bonus episode Open over on the Premium feed. It's a sweet story called Family Meal and it takes place in a favorite village bistro before the doors open. We're also about to release our spring favorites episode of Much More Happens. That's over eight hours of sleepy storytelling to see you through the night. All of this plus the complete catalog 7 years of nothing Much Happens ad free for just about a dime a day. Now I'm going to tell you a bedtime story. It's a soft, simple place to rest your mind, a way to keep you from wandering, and just by listening will train your brain to respond in kind more quickly and easily. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, turn an episode right back on. You'll be back to sleep before you know it. Our story tonight is called Color Walk, and it's a story about a soft way to move through the world on a spring day. It's also about a box of crayons in the desk drawer, a thin jacket, a cool breeze, storefronts and shop windows, and elevating the everyday with calm attention. Lights out, friends. Get snuggled down into your sheets and get your favorite pillow in just the right spot. Let's do a quick muscle release tonight and we'll pair it with your deep breaths. We're going to do three tonight. I know we're getting wild over here. I want you to breathe in and squeeze all the muscles in your lower body. Squeeze your legs, your glutes, even your toes. Hold it and then sigh it out. Breathe in. Squeeze everything in your upper body, arms and fists. Hold it and let it go. Okay, one more. Breathe in and just squeeze everything, temples to toes. Squeeze and hold One more second and feel the release of the tension in your body. Good color walk. From the kitchen table, I could see the treetops moving in the breeze. It didn't look too strong, not even a wind, just a zephyr that stirred the new buds as they grew. My mug was nearly empty, but it still felt warm and comforting in my hands, and I savored the last sips. My gaze fell onto my plat, empty but for a few crumbs and a smear of raspberry jam from the English muffin I'd just enjoyed. I traced my finger along the plate's edge. It was plain white porcelain but with a rim of deep blue, and it reminded me of the thin stemmed grape hyacinths that were popping up in the flower bed beside my front door. I smiled into the dregs of my tea as an idea occurred to me. A way to spend the rest of the morning sparked by the blues of the plate and the matching flowers. I hadn't gone on one in an age, but spring was the perfect time to revisit a favorite pastime. Yes, today was made for a color walk. The idea was simple. Choose a color and then go for a walk, noticing all the places that color showed up. Each instance would become like a mooring post for a wandering mind. A color walk could be a solemn, moving meditation or a jolly game of I Spy moment to moment. It could be both. And in the spring, as the world leapt into color, opportunities to notice, to pay calm attention, would abound. I set my plate and cup in the sink and went to a drawer in my desk with an idea. I wanted a way to pick a color for today without getting caught in an internal debate about which would be best. Sometimes, even when a decision didn't really matter, I could slip into a loop of comparing and rethinking. This walk was meant to be a way to rest that part of myself, so I needed to do something like flip a coin or roll a color die from my drawer. I took out a familiar yellow and green box, the big one with a sharpener on the back that I'd treated myself to on my last trip to the stationery store. I closed my eyes and flipped the top open, letting my fingers trail over the waxy tips of the crayons. They'd come organized, of course, but I was in the habit of pulling them out by the handful and as I used them and sticking them back in willy nilly, so I truly had no idea even what family of color I might pull. My finger stopped on one, and I slid it from the pack. I paused to feel where the wax met the paper, how it was peeled back a bit from when I'd sharpened it last. I wondered if it would be a yellow, which I would spot in every daffodil and yield sign, or a shade of blue like the sky today. But when I finally blinked my eyes open, I saw I'd drawn good old burnt sienna. Huh? I said aloud. Didn't see that coming. This was a color that had helped me draw many tree trunks and brick house fronts since my first pack of crayons big enough to include it in grade school. It was a utilitarian stronghold of a color, not one I'd have picked myself for a whimsical stroll in the spring, and that made it perfect for today. I tucked the crayon into my pocket, for some reason wanting to bring it along, and went to the door to step into my shoes and take a thin jacket from the hook outside. I paused to zip up my jacket and feel the air on my skin. It was one of those spring days when the sky was full of puffy clouds, so minute to minute you might be dazzled by sunlight or shrouded in shade, and with each shift you'd likely be pushing back the sleeves of your jacket or tugging them back down. Still, just now the sun shone on my face and the air smelled of fresh grass. Last night's rain was just about to start off when I looked down and spotted a penny on the sidewalk. I smiled. We were off to a good start. I squatted down to pick it up and turned it over in my palm. The ruddy copper color was tarnished and dark and was my first color spotting. As I stood, I saw that it was minted the year I was born. I tucked it into my pocket beside the crayon and began to walk. Now, with lots of practices like this designed to help us be a bit more present, there's a chance to take it so far that you drive yourself crazy, that you try too hard and somehow feel you failed even though you actually can't. I reminded myself that my job wasn't to find absolutely everything that was dark brown or a deep clay red. I didn't really have a job at all. I was just walking and letting things be gently highlighted by my attention. I noticed last year's leaves caught around the post of a fence, the old maples faded to paler versions of themselves. A child on a bike whizzed past me when I saw their sweater was the same mahogany as my crayon. A neighbor was spreading mulch in their garden beds and each handful was a rich reddish brown. In a backyard, an old potting shed was shingled in sun baked stained wood slats, and on porch steps terra cotta pots held blooming daffodils and Johnny Jump Up. The rust on an old mailbox caught my eye and the ruddy chest of a robin flying past. As I turned down Main street and made my way into downtown, I spotted two people chatting outside the bakery, each with a dog on a leash. One was a puppy much less than a year old, her fur a deep russet red, and the other dog was full grown but half her size, his fur many shades of brown sticking out all over like he'd been hit with a dose of static electricity. As they chased around each other play, bowing and jumping, their fur blended together and made exactly the shade of red brown I was looking for today. In the window of the bookshop, I took a moment to look at each cover on display. One featured the face of a man with deep brown eyes, another a mysterious looking brick house shrouded in fog. There was an aged bronze plaque in the alley marking the oldest building in town, a ring in the window of the jewelry shop with a big tawny brown stone set in it, a flyer for piano lessons with a drawing of an upright made of shiny chestnut wood. On my way back home, as the clouds shifted and the sun warmed my back, I felt the crayon and the coin in my pocket. Textures and colors, sun and shadows, steps and slow breaths. I was grateful for this soft start to my day. Color Walk from the kitchen table, I could see the treetops moving in the breeze. It didn't look too strong, not even a wind, just as ever, that stirred the new buds as they grew. My mug was nearly empty, but it still felt warm and comforting in my hands. I savored the last sips. My gaze fell onto my plate, empty but for a few crumbs and a smear of raspberry jam from the English muffin I just enjoyed. I traced my finger along the plate's edge. It was plain white porcelain but rimmed in a deep blue, and it reminded me of the thin stemmed grape hyacinths that were popping up in the flower bed beside my front door. I smiled into the dregs of my tea as an idea occurred to me. A way to spend the rest of the morning sparked by the blue of the plate and the matching flowers. I hadn't gone on one in an age, but spring was the perfect time to revisit a favorite pastime. Yes, today was made for a color walk. The idea was simple. Choose a color and then go for a walk, noticing all the places that color showed up. Each instance would become like a mooring post for a wandering mind. A color walk would could be a solemn, moving meditation or a jolly game of I Spy, moment to moment. It could be both. And in the spring, as the world leapt into color, opportunities to notice, to pay calm attention, would abound. I set my plate and cup in the sink and went to a drawer in my desk with an idea. I wanted a way to pick a color for today without getting caught in an internal debate about which would be best. Sometimes, even when a decision didn't really matter, I could slip into a loop of comparing and rethinking. This walk was meant to be a way to rest that part of myself. So I needed to do something like flip a coin or roll a color die from my drawer. I took out a familiar yellow and green box, the big one with the sharpener on the back that I'd treated myself to on my last trip to the stationery store. I closed my eyes and flipped the top open, letting my fingers trail over the waxy tips of the crayons. They'd come organized, of course, but I was in the habit of pulling them out by the handful as I used them and sticking them back in willy nilly. So I truly had no idea even what family of color I might pull. My finger stopped on one, and I slid it from the pack. I paused to feel where the wax met the paper, how it was peeled back a bit from when I'd sharpened it last. I wondered if it would be a yellow, which I would spot in every daffodil and yield sign, or a shade of blue, like the sky today. But when I finally blinked my eyes open, I saw I'd drawn good old burnt sienna. Huh? I said aloud. Didn't see that coming. This was a color that had helped me draw many tree trunks and brick house fronts since my first pack of crayons big enough to include it in grade school. It was a utilitarian stronghold of a color, not one I'd have picked myself for a whimsical stroll in the spring, and that made it perfect for today. I tucked the crayon into my pocket, for some reason wanting to bring it along, and went to the door to step into my shoes and take a thin jacket from the hook. Outside, I paused to zip up my jacket and feel the air on my skin. It was one of those spring days when the sky is full of puffy clouds, so minute to minute you might be dazzled by sunlight or shrouded in shade, and with each shift you'd likely be pushing back the sleeves of your jacket or tugging them back down. Still, just now the sun shone on my face and the air smelled of fresh grass and last night's rain. I was just about to start off when I looked down and spotted a penny on the sidewalk. I smiled. We were off to a good start already. I squatted down to pick it up and turned it over in my palm. The ruddy copper color was tarnished and dark, and it was my first color spotting. As I stood, I saw that it was minted in the year I was born. I tucked it into my pocket beside the crayon and began to walk. Now, with lots of practices like this designed to help us be a bit more present, there's a chance to take it so far that you drive yourself crazy, that you try too hard and somehow feel you failed even though you actually can't, I reminded myself that my job wasn't to find absolutely everything that was dark brown or deep clay red. I didn't really have a job at all. I was just walking and letting things be gently highlighted by my attention. I noticed last year's leaves caught around the post of a fence, the old maples faded to paler versions of themselves. A child on a bike whizzed past me when I saw their sweater was the same mahogany as my crayon. A neighbor was spreading mulch in their garden beds, and each handful was a rich reddish brown. In a backyard, an old potting shed was shingled and sun baked stained wood slats, and on porch steps terra cotta pots held blooming daffodils and Johnny Jump Ups. The rust on an old mailbox caught my eye and the ruddy chest of a robin flying past. As I turned down Main street and made my way into downtown, I spotted two people chatting outside the bakery, each with a dog on a leash. One was a puppy much less than a year old, her fur deep russet red, and the other dog was full grown but half her size, his fur many shades of brown and sticking out all over like he'd been hit with a dose of static electricity. As they chased around each other play, bowing and jumping, their fur blended together and made exactly the shade of red brown I was looking for today. In the window of the bookshop, I took a moment to look at each cover on display. One featured the face of a man with deep brown eyes, another a mysterious looking brick house shrouded in fog. There was an aged bronze plaque in the alley marking the oldest building in town. A ring in the window of the jewelry shop with a big tawny brown stone set in it, a flyer for piano lessons with a drawing of an upright made of shiny chestnut wood. On my way back home, as the clouds shifted and the sun warmed my back, I felt the crayon and the coin in my pocket. Textures and color, sun and shadows, steps and slow breaths. I was grateful for this soft start to my day. Sweet dreams.