Samantha (3:20)
Now I have made a soft place for you to settle your mind tonight. A simple story, lean on plot, but full of soothing details. All you need to do is listen. It will engage your brain just enough to help you drift off. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again later in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story right back on. Most listeners report that when they do this, they're back to sleep within seconds. Our story tonight is called Mudlarking on the River, Part one, and it's a story about a sunny morning in early spring that inspires a walk along sandy banks. It's also about ordering your usual at the bakery counter, Canada geese and garden gloves, being gentle with yourself, and hidden treasure waiting to be unearthed. Now, lights out. It's time to snuggle in and make yourself as comfortable as you can. You have enough. You do enough. You are enough. Body is relaxed and ready for a full night's sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Again. Breathe in. Let it all out. Good Mud Larking on The River, Part 1 the snow was gone and the river banks were clear. I'd been anxious to get out in my tall boots and hunt for treasures beside the water since I'd heard from my beachcombing friends about the things they'd found. Today was the perfect day for it. A sunny Saturday with noticeably warmer spring air drifting through town. I'd rolled down my windows as I drove and let the breeze roll over me. Then, yes, I'd had to roll them most of the way back up. It wasn't that warm, but spring was definitely on its way. I passed the bakery on my way to the river and, seeing an open parking spot out front, decided to make a quick stop on the sidewalk. A few patrons sat at a bench in the sun, bundled up and drinking from steaming cups. We are hardy people in the village. Our blood had grown thick over the winter, and we didn't miss a chance to be outside, even when there was still a nip in the air. I nodded to them as I pushed the bakery door open. It smelled heavenly inside. Fresh baked breads and sweet pastries and hot coffee. I'd been coming here since I was a child, and the scent was tied into those memories. Standing in line on my tiptoes, desperate to see into the donut case, waiting to pick up a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving or a birthday cake with my name written in icing across the top, I watched others in the line staring at the cases full of fresh baked treats and the menu of coffee options on the wall. I used to think I was the only one who would rehearse their order in their head while waiting in line till a friend of mine confessed that she did it too. Now I think I could see it on a few of the people around me. Sometimes our brains tell us to be nervous about things we don't really need to be nervous about, and I'd learned to be gentle with my own brain when she did that, to know I wasn't alone and there was nothing wrong, just a miscommunication upstairs and to breathe and observe the moment as it passed. It always helped me to look for some things happening in the world around me in those moments. It kept me in my body and gave me space from my thoughts. Just now I noticed the way the morning light was cutting through the east facing windows and stepped my toes into a patch of sun. I could feel the warmth through my socks and shoes and took a slow, deep breath in and out. When I stepped up to the register I felt calm and more than anything else, hungry and in need of a hot drink. I ordered my usual, a coffee and a large slice of cranberry pecan bread toasted with peanut butter to go. The man at the register smiled as he rang it up, nodding his head as if to say I thought it was good to go somewhere where they knew your usual. I stepped aside after I paid and could see back into the kitchen where the baker was pulling trays of sandwich bread from a huge oven. She swapped them out for trays of pies ready to go in, and I wondered what flavor they were. It seemed early for rhubarb, though they might have it in the hoop houses outside of town. After the pies were loaded in, she wiped her hands on a towel tucked into her apron and turned and saw me at the counter. She smiled so genuinely I felt really welcome. We didn't know each other's names, but we were part of each other's lives. She stepped through from the kitchen and and asked if I was having my usual. I said that I was and she said that she would grind some peanut butter fresh for me. I started to say that that wasn't necessary, but she said it was no trouble and it was best that way because it would be warm on my toast. She ducked back into the kitchen and a moment later I could hear a machine that sounded like my coffee grinder at home kick into gear. A few minutes later I was handed my coffee on a paper sack with a smiley face drawn on it. I could feel the warmth of the toast right through it and peeked inside to see that she had cut it in half and folded it together like a sandwich so that the peanut butter wouldn't leak out, and added in a short stack of napkins. I called out a thank you to her and stepped back out into the sun. I wanted to drink my coffee and eat my breakfast by the river. It was only a few blocks away and there were one or two other cars parked by the water's edge. I pulled up beside them and spotted an empty bench in the full sun. I settled onto it carefully, resting my coffee beside me as I took my toast from the bag. It smelled so good. The sweet, tangy scent of the cranberries and the rich roasted smell of the peanuts, the dark, strong coffee to cut through all of it. As I ate, I watched geese on the riverbank sunning themselves, preening at their brownish gray feathers. These were Canada geese with black necks and heads and that chin strap of white feathers wrapping under from one cheek to the other. I'd looked it up once. They could live almost 25 years, and I wondered how old the members of this gaggle were. When my toast was gone and I'd taken the last sip of coffee from the cup, I dropped my trash in a can nearby and stepped out onto the walk that bordered the river. I had on my tall Wellington boots, and in my jacket pocket I'd brought along some waterproof garden gloves. I looked up and down the river and spotted someone away is away. They were nudging at the shore with their toe and looking down at the spot they were clearing a fellow mudlarker for sure. The riverbank was full of sand and silt. Water was carried down from a lake north of here, and the river ran through woods and behind neighborhoods and through town, under a bridge where people frequently stopped and watched the current fly. And as the water went through all of those places, it picked up things. It claimed lost items and brought them here, where the river curved and those things caught in the sand and were just waiting to be found again. It seemed a good way to welcome spring by digging up something lodged beneath the surface and letting it shine in the sun again. Mud Larking on The River Part 1 the snow was gone and the river banks were clear. I'd been anxious to get out in my tall boots and hunt for treasures beside the water since I'd heard from my beachcombing friends about the things they had found. Today was the perfect day for it. A sunny Saturday, noticeably warmer, spring air drifting through town. I'd rolled my windows down as I drove and let the breeze roll over me. Then, yes, I'd had to roll them most of the way back up. It wasn't that warm, but spring was definitely on its way. I passed the bakery on my way to the river and seeing an open parking spot out front, decided to make a quick stop on the sidewalk. A few patrons sat on a bench in the sun, bundled up and drinking from steaming cups. We are hearty people in the village. Our blood had grown thick over the winter and we didn't miss a chance to be outside even when there was still a nip in the air. I nodded to them as I pushed the bakery door open. It smelled heavenly inside. Fresh baked breads and sweet pastries and hot coffee. I'd been coming here since I was a child and the scent was tied into those memories. Standing in line on my tiptoes, desperate to see into the donut case, waiting to pick up a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving or a birthday cake with my name written in icing across the top, I watched others in the line, staring at the cases full of baked treats and the menu of coffee options on the wall. I used to think I was the only one who would rehearse their order in their head while waiting in line till a friend of mine confessed that she did it too. Now I think I could see it on a few of the people around me. Sometimes our brains tell us to be nervous about things that we really don't need to be nervous about, and I'd learned to be gentle with my own brain when she did that, to know I wasn't alone and that there was nothing wrong, just a miscommunication upstairs and to breathe and observe the moment as it passed. It always helped me to look for some things happening in the world around me in those moments. They kept me in my body and gave me some space from my thoughts. Just now I noticed the way the morning light was cutting through the east facing windows and stepped my toes into a patch of sun. I could feel the warmth through my socks and shoes and took a slow deep breath in and out. When I stepped up to the register I felt calm and more than anything else, hungry and in need of a hot drink. I ordered my usual, a coffee and a large slice of cranberry pecan bread toasted with peanut butter to go. The man at the register smiled as he rang it up, nodding his head as if to say, I thought so. It was good to go somewhere where they knew your usual. I stepped aside after I paid and could see back into their kitchen where the baker was pulling trays of sandwich bread from a huge oven. She swapped them out for trays of pies ready to go in, and I wondered what flavor they were. It seemed early for rhubarb, though they might have it in the hoop houses outside of town. After the pies were loaded in, she wiped her hands on a towel tucked into her apron and turned and saw me at the counter. She smiled so genuinely I felt really welcome. We didn't know each other's names, but we were part of each other's lives. She stepped through from the kitchen and asked if I was having my usual. I said that I was, and she said that she would grind some peanut butter, fresh for me. I started to say that that wasn't necessary, but she said it was no trouble and it was best that way because it would be warm on my toast. She ducked back into the kitchen, and a moment later I could hear a machine that sounded like my coffee grinder at home kick into gear. A few minutes later I was handed my coffee on a paper sack with a smiley face drawn on it. I could feel the warmth of the toast right through it and peeked inside to see that she had cut it in half and folded it together like a sandwich so the peanut butter wouldn't leak out and added in a short stack of napkins. I called out a thank you to her and stepped back out into the sun. I wanted to drink my coffee and eat my breakfast by the river. It was only a few blocks away and there were one or two other cars parked by the water's edge. I pulled up beside them and spotted an empty bench in the full sun. I settled onto it carefully, resting my coffee beside me as I took my toast from the bag. It smelled so good. The sweet, tangy scent of the cranberries and the rich roasted smell of the peanuts, the dark, strong coffee to cut through all of it. As I ate, I watched geese on the riverbank, sunning themselves, preening at their brownish gray feathers. These were Canada geese with black necks and heads and that chinstrap of white feathers wrapping under from one cheek to the next. I'd looked it up once. They could live almost 25 years, and I wondered how old the members of this gaggle were when my toast was gone and I'd taken the last sip of coffee from the cup. I dropped my trash in a can nearby and stepped out onto the walk that bordered the river. I had on my tall Wellington boots, and in my jacket pocket I'd brought along some waterproof garden gloves. I looked up and down the river and spotted someone a ways away. They were nudging at the shore with their toe and looking down at the spot they were clearing a fellow mudlarker for sure. The river bank was full of sand and silt. Water was carried down from a lake north of here, and the river ran through woods and behind neighborhoods and through town under a bridge where people frequently stopped and watched the current fly. And as the water went through all of those places, it picked up things. It claimed lost items when it brought them here where the river curved and those things caught in the sand and were just waiting to be found again. It seemed a good way to welcome spring by digging up something lodged just beneath the surface and letting it shine in the sun again. Sweet dreams.
