← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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Transcript5 lines
- [00:01]
A
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Empower. They provide children, teens and young adults relief from grief and guide them through life following the loss of a parent. Learn more in our show Notes I.
- [00:49]
B
Spend a lot of time thinking about how to help you not just sleep, but wind down and relax. And I want you to have as many tools in your toolbox as you need for that one that I use a lot and I'm actually using right now as I record.
- [01:15]
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This is a weighted pillow.
- [01:19]
B
I'm holding it on my lap as I tell your bedtime stories. For me, it's easier to use than a weighted blanket. I can take it with me when I go to yoga, lay it on my chest during Shavasana or at home I might hug it while I'm watching a movie. The weight grounds and relaxes me. I just want to give you ways to feel good. So if you want to learn more about this, you can go to nothingmuchappens.com We've also got a link in our notes.
- [02:01]
A
Now there is a sweet spot in which your brain will just naturally fall asleep and bedtime stories can take us there. This isn't new information. It works by giving your thoughts a rhythm to follow and all you need to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode back on or let them play all night long. Our story tonight is called Holiday Window at the Bookshop and it's a story about clearing out the pumpkins and setting up the twinkle lights on a rainy December afternoon. It's also about old buildings with tall ceilings and heavy front doors, a dog asleep in a chair, paper stars and puddles among the cobblestones, and the promise of a new book to whisk you away somewhere magical. Okay, it's time. Switch off your light. Get the right pillow in the right spot and feel your whole body softening into the bed. All is well now. I'll take the next watch so no part of you needs to be active or on alert. I'm watching out. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Again. Draw in deep and release Good Holiday Window at the Bookshop Most of the autumn leaves had fallen, but the wind was blowing them around today, floating them along the curbs and dashing them against the windows of the shops. Here on Main Street. I was building out my holiday window at the bookshop and enjoying the show from the cozy, warm interior. I always love window days and changed them at least once a month. It gave me an excuse to buy more craft supplies, to stop in at the stationery shop and peruse their collection of rubber stamps and stickers, to flip through the pages of construction paper in the bottom drawer of my desk, and to think about all the possibilities. It reminded me of a teacher in grade school who decorated the bulletin boards on the last day of each month. I loved walking in on the 1st of October to pumpkin cutouts and orange and black letters spelling out the month or the first day of April, to see a row of raindrops hanging from the top of the board, paper umbrellas and rubber boots stapled in the corners. Thinking on it now. That must have been when this seed was planted, and I smiled, thanking that particular teacher in my head for the lesson of adornment, creative enjoyment of one's environment. Maybe it was as simple as just caring to do a bit more than what was required to make the world sparkle. I'm thinking of those April raindrops. I noticed some of their December cousins beginning to strike the window panes. The wind was blowing the rain sideways. It cut under the awning and skittered over the glass. A car rolled past on the street and splashed through the puddles, gathering in the cobblestones. It was part of being in the oldest section of downtown that the road was narrower, the doorways a bit wonky, and the cobblestones slick and uneven. But it also came with bonuses you just couldn't find in the newer sections, the heavy oak front doors with their brass fittings, the names and dates etched into the cornerstones, and the wide windows for display were just a few of them. Our bookshop also came with wide plank wood floors that had been walked on for so long their shine had been replaced with a soft, reflective glow. The ceilings were high and made of tin tiles and perfect for hanging twinkle lights and pots of creeping plants. Today I certainly had some strings of lights ready to go. My plan was to create a little scene in our windows, something that told the story of magically falling into a book and being swept away by its plot and characters, and to do it all with a little holiday magic spilling from the corners. I'd already taken down the pumpkins and corn husk dolls, swept away the Dry bits of straw and leftover pieces of candy found among last month's decorations. Now I started in the corner of the farthest window and set up a small Christmas tree. I'd bought it at the corner store and it only came up to my knee, but up in the raised window it would look perfect. I wrapped an old plaid scarf around the base and strung colored lights on the branches. The storm outside made the day so dim and gray that when I plugged them in, let them shine, it seemed to light up the whole street. I laid out wrapped packages tied with ribbons and bows, one half unwrapped to show a few enticing letters on the beautiful cover of one of the best books of the year. The rain continued to fall as I rolled out a small rug into the window beside the tree and gifts, and the wind blew so hard that our sandwich board sign on the sidewalk began to wobble. I ran out to get it and wrestle it back into the shop. The noise I made and the bell ringing over the door finally woke my old dog Elphabet, in his bed beside the desk, and he turned over and slid lazily out of it. He did big stretches, came over to see me still wiping rain off my glasses and shivering a bit by the door. I pulled on a sweater and helped Alfie up into the window. We watched the rain together for a few moments, and he sniffed at the tree and the staged presence. I had a small armchair, child sized, that usually set in the kids section, and I slid it onto the rug, draping it with a cozy throw and adding another copy of the book open to the middle section, propped on its arm. I thought of that feeling of diving headfirst into a new book, of realizing in the first chapter that you found something fantastic and snuggling in to turn the pages and disappear into another world. Beside the tiny armchair, just where this first window ran into the wood paneling beside the front door, I affixed a small door. I'd commissioned it. I'd commissioned it especially from a friend who built them and installed them around town. Fairy doors, and this one was a little bigger than usual, big enough for the person who could sit in the chair to step through. It hung from the molding and stood slightly ajar, with a clever light inside, as if the person reading that book had just stepped through into a world of wonder in the next window, against the opposite bit of paneling, and began to decorate the rest of the space with the features of this magic world. More twinkle lights were involved, drifts of sparkly fake snow. In the center was a treasure chest, something I'd spotted at the antique shop a while back and was really just an old piece of luggage, but I'd fancied it up a bit with some gold braid, and around it I sprinkled about a hundred tiny paper stars that I'd folded the night before. It looked like a mysterious, magical object waiting to be found on a desolate, moonlit, icy plain, sort of, you know, if you squinted. I turned off all the lights inside, besides the ones in the windows, and leaned against the desk. Alfie had fallen asleep in the small chair and his tail was hanging over the arm. The twinkle lights were reflected in the puddles on the street, and the wind whistled through the cracks in the old building. I smiled, thinking of my customers tomorrow, standing out on the sidewalk and following along with the story in the window, then stepping in out of the cold to find it on a shelf. Holiday window at the bookshop Most of the autumn leaves had fallen, but the wind was blowing them around today, floating them along the curbs and dashing them against the windows of the shops. Here on Main Street. I was building out my holiday window at the bookshop and enjoying the show from the cozy, warm interior. I always love window days and changed them at least once a month. It gave me an excuse to buy more craft supplies, to stop in at the stationery shop and peruse their collection of rubber stamps and stickers, to flip through the pages of construction paper in the bottom drawer of my desk and think about all the possibilities. It reminded me of a teacher in grade school who had decorated the bulletin boards on the last day of every month. I loved walking in on the 1st of October, to pumpkin cutouts and orange and black letters spelling out the month or the first day of April, to see a row of raindrops hanging from the top of the board, paper umbrellas and rubber boots stapled into the corners, thinking on it now. That must have been when this seed was planted, and I smiled, thanking that particular teacher in my head for the lesson of adornment, creative enjoyment of one's environment. Maybe it was as simple as just caring to do a bit more than what was required to make the world sparkle. And thinking of those April raindrops, I noticed some of their December cousins beginning to strike the window panes. The wind was blowing the rain sideways. It cut under the awning and skittered over the glass. A car rolled past on the street and splashed through the puddles, gathering in the cobblestones. It was part of being in the oldest section of downtown that the road was narrower, the doorways a bit wonky, and the cobblestone slick and uneven. But it also came with bonuses you just couldn't find in the newer sections. The heavy oak front doors with their brass fittings, the names and dates etched into the cornerstones, and the wide windows for display were just a few of them. Our bookshop also came with wide plank wood floors that had been walked on for so long their shine had been replaced with a soft reflective glow. The ceilings were high and made of tin tiles and perfect for hanging twinkle lights and pots of creeping plants. Today I certainly had some strings of lights ready to go. My plan was to create a little scene in our windows, something that told the story of magically falling into a book and being swept away by its plot and characters, and to do it all with a little holiday magic spilling from the corners. I'd already taken down the pumpkins and corn husk dolls, swept away the dry bits of straw and leftover pieces of candy found amongst last month's decorations. Now I started in the corner of the farthest window and set up a small Christmas tree. I'd bought it at the corner store when it only came up to my knee, but up in the raised window it would look perfect. I wrapped an old plaid scarf around the base and strung colored lights on the branches. The storm outside made the day so dim and gray that when I plugged them in and let them shine it seemed to light up the whole street. I laid out wrapped packages tied with ribbons and bows, one half unwrapped to show a few enticing letters on the beautiful cover of one of the best books of the year. The rain continued to fall as I rolled out a small rug into the window beside the tree and gifts, and the wind blew so hard that our sandwich board sign out on the sidewalk began to wobble. I ran out to get it and wrestle it back into the shop. The noise I made and the bell ringing over the door finally woke my old dog Elphabet, in his bed beside the desk, and he turned over and slid lazily out of it. He did big stretches and came over to see me still wiping rain off my glasses and shivering a bit by the door. I pulled on a sweater and helped Alfie up into the window. We watched the rain together for a few moments and he sniffed at the tree and the staged presence. I had an armchair child sized that usually set in the kids section, and I slid it onto the rug, draping it with a cozy throw and adding another copy of the book open to the middle section, propped on its arm. My thought of that feeling diving head first into a new book, of realizing in the first chapter that you found something fantastic and snuggling in to turn the pages and disappear into another world. Beside the tiny armchair, just where this first window ran into the wood paneling beside the front door, I affixed a small door. I'd commissioned it especially from a friend who built them and installed them around town. Fairy doors, and this one was a little bigger than usual, big enough for the person who could sit in the chair to step through. It hung against the molding and stood slightly ajar with a clever light inside, as if the person reading that book had just stepped through into a world of wonder. In the next window I hung the doors twin against the opposite bit of paneling and began to decorate the rest of the space with the features of this magic world. More twinkle lights were involved and drifts of sparkly fake snow. In the center was a treasure chest, something I'd spotted at the antique shop a while back and was really just an old piece of luggage, but I'd fancied it up a bit with some gold braid, and around it I sprinkled about a hundred tiny paper stars that I'd folded the night before. It looked like a mysterious magical object waiting to be found on a desolate, moonlit, icy plain. Sort of, you know, if you squinted. I turned off all the lights inside besides the ones in the windows, and leaned against the desk. Alfie had fallen asleep in the small chair and his tail was hanging over the arm. Twinkle lights were reflected in the puddles on the street, and the wind whistled through the cracks in the old building. I smiled, thinking of my customers tomorrow standing out on the sidewalk, following along with the story in the window, then stepping in out of the cold to find it on the shelf. Sweet dreams.