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- [00:01]
A
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.
- [01:07]
B
Now, since every episode is someone's first, I like to say a bit about how this works. I have a story to tell you, and just like the name implies, nothing much happens in it. I write the opposite of thrillers. I write soothers. And if you just follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the story will capture enough of your brain's attention to ease it into task positive mode and out of default mode, which just means you'll fall asleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn us right back on or to just think through any of the details from the story that you can remember. We're creating a conditioned response in your brain, and it will get stronger and more reliable with time. But be patient if you're new to this. Our story tonight is called Comfort and Joy, and it's a story about adding light to the darkest evenings of winter. It's also about bringing back a sweet neighborhood tradition. A rowan tree laced with lights and a paper chain to count down the days. Now it's time to turn off the light and to put away anything you've been playing with or looking at. Make your body as comfortable as possible and let everything relax. You have done enough for today. Truly, it is enough. Take a deep breath in through the nose and a soft sigh from your mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in. Let it out. Good comfort and joy. I'd made a paper chain right after Thanksgiving, just like the kind we'd made in elementary school to help us count down to the first day of vacation. Thick strips of red and green construction paper curled over and daubed with a bit of Elmer's glue. It was actually quite a nice, calm project, as there was no way to do it quickly. I'd thread a new piece through the previous ring, making sure to alternate the colors, and then glue and hold it pressed between my fingers for a few moments till it stuck and then start again. I strung it above my kitchen sink, up and around the picture window that looks out through my side yard and down the sloping street into town. Each night before bed, after I'd wiped down the counters and set up my coffee pot for the next morning, I turn off the lights and look out through the window. My neighbor's house was strung with colored twinkle lights, and across the street I could see trees glowing in windows, street lights reflected off of wet pavement and snow, and in town cafes and shops were lit up as well. I read once that it does something to us to watch moving water. There is something primordial about it, and when we witness the tide come in, or a river rushing through the towers of a bridge, or even just a tiny stream rolling over rocks, we soften, we relax and focus, And I have always thought that it must be the same ancient parts of our brains and hearts that tell us to look for light in the winter. Twinkle lights, fireplaces, the candles on the menorah, the atmospheric glow of a bustling city street. It isn't the same effect as tides and lakes. This fills a different need. And each evening, as I looked out my window and drank up the light around me, I'd feel warmed, inspired, comforted. Then I'd reach up and tear away one link in my paper chain. I liked anticipation. Sometimes it was even better than whatever I was waiting for. And now my chain was just a few links long. They wouldn't stretch across the window anymore. I'd had to take them down and set them out along the sill beside the potted sprig of jade that, just like me, had been reaching for the light lately. Looking at the last few remaining links, feeling that building anticipation, I felt the urge to do something with these last precious days of the year. It was something a friend had said to me a long time ago, a simple fact that had left a deep impression, that time passes either way. It passes whether you use it or not. Time doesn't wait for you, and when I was younger I'd sometimes interpreted that incorrectly in a way that had something to do with how much I could get done in a day, how productive I was. I'd moved on from that. Now I realized it had to do with how many days of my life I enjoyed, how many friends I made, the quality of the time I spent, even when or especially when I was alone, doing simple things. So I thought about how I might spend this time, about warmth and light. I laughed to Myself thinking of the old Carol. What I wanted was to bring tidings of comfort and joy. I stepped out into my garage in my slippers and began shifting boxes and looking through shelves and cubbies. Right away I found a few boxes of twinkle lights, and without hesitation I got dressed in my boots and coat and started wrapping them around the tree in the center of my front yard. It was a rowan tree, fully mature, but naturally a bit smaller than the oaks and maples in the neighborhood. I wrapped the lights and tight coils up the trunk and stretch them patiently out and around a few branches. Rowan trees are sometimes called traveler's trees and are meant to help prevent those on a journey from getting lost. Well, I thought, we can all use that, can't we? Once the lights were plugged in and the tree was glowing in the yard, I went back to the garage to see what else I could find. Years ago there had been a tradition in our neighborhood to light luminaries and long rows on the sidewalks on Christmas Eve, and for whatever reason, it had been forgotten for a while. Now I remembered my first holiday here, stepping out that night and seeing hundreds of white paper bags lit from within. It had felt like a miracle. In a dusty box between my bike pump and a stack of seasoned logs for the fireplace, I found what I'd been looking for. There'd been a fundraiser at the library over the summer. They sold luminary kits with the paper bags, sand to keep them in place, and small candles set down deep in tall holders. I had forgotten about them, and I was so happy to find them now. I looked through the supplies, counting what was there, and had an idea. I waited till sunset, then loaded my kit into the back of my car and started to drive slowly through the neighborhood. I didn't have enough luminaries to line all the sidewalks, but why should not being able to do everything stop me from doing something? I parked my car at the corner and opened the hatch. I put a scoop of sand in each bag and took as many candles as I could carry and started to walk from house to house. Where the front walk met the sidewalk, I'd settle the luminary, shaking the sand into an even layer across the bottom of the bag, nestle the candle down into it, and with a long lighter, light the wick. Just like Santa. I went from house to house, and also, like Santa, I was a bit stealthy and managed not to be seen. I left one also beside a vacant lot in front of the corner store and at the little library where I often hunted for a new book. The candles didn't have much wax in them. They were meant to be burned for an evening only, and I'd have to go back around tomorrow to pick them all up. But driving along the streets and seeing everyone represented in a glowing, flickering light made it all feel well worth it. People would look out, as I did so often in the winter, and see light and, at least for a moment, I hoped, feel comfort and joy. Comfort and joy. I'd made a paper chain right after Thanksgiving, just like the kind we'd made in elementary school to help us count down to the first day of vacation. Thick strips of red and green construction paper curled over and daubed with a bit of Elmer's glue. It was actually quite a nice, calm project, as there was no way to do it quickly. I'd thread a new piece through the previous ring, making sure to alternate the colors, and then glue and hold it pressed between my fingers for a few moments till it stuck and start again. I strung it above my kitchen sink, up and around the picture window that looks out through my side yard and down the sloping street into town. Each night before bed, after I'd wiped down the counters and set up my coffee pot for the next morning, I turn off the lights and look out through the window. My neighbor's house was strung with colored twinkle lights, and across the street I could see trees glowing in windows, street lights reflected off of wet pavement and snow, and in town cafes and shops were lit up as well. I read once that it does something to us to watch moving water. There is something primordial about it, and when we witness the tide come in, or a river rushing through the towers of a bridge, or even just a tiny stream rolling over rocks, we soften, we relax and focus, and I have always thought that it must be the same ancient parts, our brains and hearts, that tell us to look for light in the winter. Twinkle lights, fireplaces, the candles on the menorah, the atmospheric glow of a bustling city street. It isn't the same effect as tides and lakes. This fills a different need. And each evening, as I looked out my window and drank up the light around me, I'd feel warmed, inspired, comforted. Then I'd reach up and tear away a link in my paper chain. I liked anticipation. Sometimes it was even better than whatever I was waiting for. And now my chain was just a few links long. They wouldn't stretch across the window anymore. I'd had to take them down and set them out along the sill beside the potted sprig of jade that, just like me, had been reaching for the light lately. Looking at the last few remaining links, feeling the building anticipation, I felt the urge to do something with these last precious days of the year. It was something a friend had said to me a long time ago, a simple fact that had left a deep impression that time passes either way. It passes whether you use it or not. Time doesn't wait for you, and when I was younger I'd sometimes interpreted that incorrectly in a way that had everything to do with how much I could get done in a day, how productive I was. I'd moved on from that now. Now I realized it had to do with how many days of my life I enjoyed, how many friends I made and the quality of the time I spent, even when or especially when I was alone, doing simple things. So I thought about how I might spend this time, about warmth and light, and I laughed to myself, thinking of the old Carol. What I wanted was to bring tidings, comfort, and joy. I stepped out into my garage in my slippers and began shifting boxes and looking through shelves and cubbies. Right away I found a few boxes of twinkle lights, and without hesitation I got dressed in my boots and coat and started wrapping them around the tree in the center of my front yard. It was a rowan tree, fully mature but naturally a bit smaller than the oaks and maples in the neighborhood. I wrapped the lights in tight coils up the trunk and stretched them patiently out and around a few branches. Rowan trees are sometimes called travelers trees and are meant to help prevent those on a journey from getting lost. Well, I thought, we can all use that, can't we? Once the lights were plugged in and the tree was glowing in the yard, I went back to the garage to see what else I could find. Years ago there had been a tradition in our neighborhood to light luminaries in long rows on the sidewalks on Christmas Eve, and for whatever reason, it had been forgotten for a while. Now I remembered my first holiday here, stepping out that night and seeing hundreds of white paper bags lit from within. It had felt like a miracle. In a dusty box between my bike pump and a stack of seasoned logs for the fireplace, I found what I had been looking for. There'd been a fundraiser at the library over the summer. They sold luminary kits with the paper bags, sand to keep them in place, and tiny candles set down deep in tall holders. I'd forgotten all about them and was so happy to find them Now. I looked through the supplies, counting what was there, and had an idea. I waited till the sun set, then loaded my kit into the back of my car and started to drive slowly through the neighborhood. I didn't have enough luminaries to line all the sidewalks, but why should not being able to do everything stop me from doing something? I parked my car at a corner and opened the hatch. I put a scoop of sand in each bag and took as many candles as I could carry and started to walk from house to house. Where each front walk met the sidewalk, I'd settle a luminary, shaking the sand into an even layer across the bottom of the bag, nestle the candle down into it, and with a long lighter, light the W. Just like Santa, I went from one house to the next, and also like Santa, I was a bit stealthy and managed not to be seen. I left one beside a vacant lot in front of the corner store and at the little library where I often hunted for a new book. The candles didn't have much wax in them. They were meant to be burned for an evening only, and I'd have to go back around tomorrow to pick them all up. But driving along the streets and seeing everyone represented in a glowing, flickering light made it all feel well worth it. People would look out, as I did so often in the winter, and see light and, at least for a moment, I hoped, feel comfort and joy. Sweet dreams.