← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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- [00:01]
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Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe Now. If you're hearing this, it means you've already made sleep a priority and that's something worth applauding. You've carved out this quiet moment to wind down and I have something that fits beautiful beautifully into that routine. It's called Moon Bird. It's a small screen free device that gently expands and contracts in your hand, guiding your breath with a calming rhythm. You don't have to count or focus, just hold it and breathe. I got mine first and I'm using it right now. I use it whenever I record this podcast and it helps me stay calm and centered as I read to you. And after seeing how much it helped me, My wife wanted one for herself and now she loves it too. There's no screen to distract you, but if you like data, there's an optional app that tracks your heart rate and HRV. A recent study found that people fell asleep 28% faster and had 37% better sleep quality using Moon Bird Daily. If you're ready to take your bedtime ritual even further, you can get 15% off at Moonbird Life. Nothing Much Happens. We'll have that in our show Notes Moonbird Life Nothingmuch Happens.
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Welcome to Bedtime.
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Stories for Everyone in which nothing Much Happens.
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You feel good and then you fall asleep.
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I'm Kathryn Nicolai.
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I write and read all the stories.
- [01:58]
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You'Ll 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 Undies for Everyone. Undies for Everyone provides new underwear for children living in poverty or crisis. You can learn more about them in our show Notes. A special thank you to our premium subscribers. You are making this show possible. I can keep creating. Our team is paid and working and millions of folks who need this show but can't afford to contribute don't have.
- [02:47]
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To worry about it going away.
- [02:50]
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So shines a good deed in a weary world. Your subscription that dime a day has a big ripple effect. If you're interested in joining getting our entire catalog ad free, dozens of bonus episodes and extra long eps. Click subscribe on your player or go to nothingmuch happens.com the first month is on us.
- [03:24]
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Now. This process of listening to a bedtime story to wind down and fall asleep.
- [03:34]
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It works by giving your brain a.
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Small job to do. Your brain needs a bit of gentle engagement to move out of default mode.
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And into task positive mode where sleep is possible.
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All you need to do is listen. With time and regular use, the conditioned.
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Effect will become more and more reliable.
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Read 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. Our story tonight is called New Path, and it's a story about a late summer stroll through high grasses and shaded glens. It's also about cone flowers and crushed stone, lifting the hair from the back of your neck to feel the breeze, an eagle's nest lined with moss, a cool creek to wash your hands in, and feeling welcomed and at home in the wild. So, lights out, devices down.
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Find your.
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Favorite sleeping position and snuggle into it. The day is over now. Whatever happened is what happened, and now we are here with nothing to do but rest. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh it out nice. Again.
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Breathe in.
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And let it go. Good.
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New Path.
- [05:54]
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I wasn't sure I had the energy today. We were at the tail end of summer and the heat was wearing me down. The wide open sky, as beautiful and blue as she was, felt overexposed and bleached out, and I almost ended my walk as soon as I'd started it. But then I saw a post at the corner, the one across from the coffee cart on the south side of town, a post with a small sign beside a gravel path, and my curiosity got the better of me. What does that sign say? Where does that path go? A million adventures have started this way, so I turned my weary feet toward it and shaded my eyes with my hand to read. It was just a marker with an arrow pointing down the trail. Garden Path one, it said. Well, that begged the question, what would I find at garden path 2? And off I went, down a small hill and curving to the left. I followed along at a slow, ambling pace. I kept to one edge of the path where there was a bit of shade from a line of long, slim trunked redbud trees. Their heart shaped leaves were still deep green and I wanted to come back in a month to see them. Then, on a breezy, crisp day when the cicadas had quieted down and the air smelled of dry grass, all around me were wild growing switchgrass and purple coneflowers. The milkweed had begun to dry and crack open, and the thin flowers of the coreopsis waved in the wind that was barely there. Every so often I came upon another post marking garden paths too. 3 and 4, I like that they called what grew wild and native to the soil, a garden, and that while the signs didn't give much in the way of information, they did reassure me that I was going the right way. I was still on the path. The path curved now to the right and climbed slowly up toward a line of thick woods. I always like this moment, not that it's one you get every day, out on a walk somewhere you haven't been before, when you can't, from where you stand, quite make out where the path is taking you. What lies ahead? Was I headed into the woods, or would it skirt the tree line and take me into a neighborhood or even a dead end where I'd have nothing to do but turn about and retrace my steps? I could feel the heat on the back of my neck as I made my way up the rise. My hair had come loose and I caught it up, twisting it into a knot and clipping it in place on top of my head. The sudden coolness on my shoulders felt good, a boost to make it the last few paces to the top. Another post and sign. Another arrow. Forest1 Ah, so I was headed in under a canopy of a million leaves, where the sound of chirping bugs suddenly disappeared, and I only heard my footsteps, now on wood chips rather than crushed stone. The smell of cedar and pine rushed at me, and I thought of all the SAP and needles, cones and seed pods quietly working through this shady network, dispersing and protecting genes and chromosomes, drinking from the soil and waving in the wind. Had I truly nearly missed taking this walk? My steps weren't draining my cup, they were filling it. I looked for bird nests in the branches. They were hard to spot, camouflaged by leaves, and it reminded me of an eagle's nest I'd seen on the beach a few weeks before. There was a stand of birch trees up on the cliff, pale and papery above a lonely stretch of sand, and in one was a nest as big around as my kitchen table. I gaped at it, then, even more agog, spotted the eagle talons wrapped powerfully around a long branch. Surveying the shoreline, I dread that aries like this could weigh up to a ton, that they were built with branches as big around as a forearm and were lined with moss and corn stalks. If I were an eagle, that would be the coziest place I could imagine. After a few minutes the eagle had tipped from the branch, spreading his wings to catch the updraft and soaring away. I wondered if that felt like riding down a hill on your bicycle, the rush of air around you on a clear head in the dark of the woods, the white sign on the post stood out, and I could see a patch of waving high grass through the tree trunks. As I came closer, the patch was a wide open field, and suddenly I wanted to be right in the middle of it. I raced down the path into the meadow and opened my arms, spinning in circles and drinking in the joy I felt just being there. How had nearly the whole summer gone by without me, finding myself out in a field ringed by trees, breathing in the sweet sun? Dried, weedy smell. The sun was tilting toward the horizon, and a shaft of light cut through the crown of trees to light up a single corner of the field. The path came close to it but never quite crossed into it, and I loved the perspective it gave me as I walked in the shade. The tall foxtail barley was ripe. The green of the stems had been replaced with a golden shade, shot through with a bit of silver, and the light struck it like in an art house movie. Garden, forest, field. What else could a person need? When I heard the trickle, I smiled. Of course. A bit of water, please. That would be the wax seal on this perfect walk. A thin creek, just wide enough to be crossed in two strides, wound through the meadow. The sound was like rain on cobblestones, but so quiet I could barely hear it over the rippling grasses. I followed the water, watching where it washed over rocks and roots and where the last post was driven into the ground, pointing me back to Garden Path one, back to where I started. I squatted down beside it. I slipped my ring from my finger and into my pocket and plunged both hands into the water. I'd read somewhere that you can cool yourself quickly by running cold water over your wrists. Since the veins there are close to the surface, they can carry the coolness into your body. I didn't know if there was any truth to it, but it felt absolutely heavenly. I washed my hands in the running water, gliding them over one another, washing water up my forearms and pressing my cool palms and against the back of my neck. A few drops ran down my back and I shivered and chuckled to myself. We marvel sometimes at how perfectly the world suits us, how the design on the moth's wings matches exactly some flower in its rainforest. How webs of life fit like puzzle pieces in their environments and among each other, how an hour with trees and grass and water can reset the human heart. But of course it does. We've all grown up together. Here we are. Family. New path I wasn't sure I had the energy today. We were at the tail end of summer and the heat was wearing me down. The wide open sky, as beautiful and blue as she was, felt overexposed and bleached out, and I almost ended my walk as soon as I'd started it. But then I saw a post at the corner, the one across from the coffee cart on the south side of town, a post with a small sign beside a gravel path, and my curiosity got the better of me. What does that sign say? Where does that path go? A million adventures have started this way. So I turned my weary feet toward it and shaded my eyes with my hand toward read. It was just a marker with an arrow pointing down the trail. Garden Path one, it said. Well, that begged the question, what would I find at garden path 2? And off I went, down a small hill and curving to the left, I followed along at a slow, ambling pace. I kept to one edge of the path where there was a bit of shade from a line of young, slim trunked redbud trees. Their heart shaped leaves were still deep green and I wanted to come back in a month to see them. Then, on a breezy cool day when the cicadas had quieted down and the air smelled of dry grass, all around me were wild growing switchgrass and purple coneflowers. The milkweed had begun to dry and crack open, and the thin flowers of the coreopsis waved in the wind that was barely there. Every so often I came upon another post marking garden paths 2, 3, and 4. I liked that they called what grew wild and native to the soil a garden, and that while the signs didn't give much in the way of information, they did reassure me that I was going the right way. I was still on the path. It curved now to the right and climbed slowly up toward a line of thick woods. I always like this moment, not that it's one you get every day, out on a walk somewhere you haven't been before, when you can't from where you stand quite make out where the path is taking you. What lies ahead? Was I headed into the woods, or would it skirt the tree line and take me into a neighborhood or even a dead end where I'd have nothing to do but turn about and retrace my steps? I could feel the heat on the back of my neck as I made my way up the rise. My hair had come loose and I caught it up, twisting it into a knot and clipping it in place on top of my head. The sudden coolness on my shoulders felt good, a boost to make it the last few paces to the Top another post and sign. Another arrow. Forest one. Ah, so I was headed in under a canopy of a million leaves, where the sound of chirping bugs suddenly disappeared, and I only heard my footsteps, now on wood chips rather than crushed stone. The smell of cedar and pine rushed at me, and I thought of all the SAP and needles, cones and seed pods quietly working through this shady network, dispersing and protecting genes and chromosomes, drinking from the soil and waving in the wind. Had I truly nearly missed taking this walk? My steps weren't draining my cup, they were filling it. I looked for birds nests in the branches. They were hard to spot, camouflaged by leaves, and it reminded me of an eagle's nest I'd seen on the beach a few weeks before. There was a stand of birch trees up on a cliff, pale and papery above a lonely stretch of sand, and in one was a nest as big around as my kitchen table. I gaped at it, then, even more agog, spotted the eagle talons wrapped powerfully around a long branch. Surveying the shoreline, I'd read that aries like this one could weigh up to a ton, that they were built with branches as big around as a forearm and were lined with moss and corn stalks. If I were an eagle, that would be the coziest place I could imagine. After a few minutes, the eagle had tipped from the branch, spreading his wings to catch the updraft and soaring away. I wondered if that felt like riding downhill, your bicycle, the rush of air around you and a clear head in the dark of the woods. The white sign on the post stood out, and I could see a patch of waving high grass through the tree trunks. As I came closer, the patch was a wide open field, and suddenly I wanted to be right in the middle of it. I raced down the path into the meadow and opened my arms, spinning in circles and drinking in the joy I felt just being there. How had nearly the whole summer gone by without me finding myself out in a field ringed by trees, breathing in the sweet sun? Dried, weedy smell. The sun was tilting toward the horizon, and a shaft of light cut through the crown of trees to light up a single corner of the field? The path came close to it but never quite crossed into it, and I loved the perspective it gave me as I walked in the shade. The tall foxtail barley was ripe, the green of the stems had been replaced with a golden shade, shot through with a bit of silver, and the light struck it like in an art house movie. Garden, forest, field. What else could a person need? When I heard the trickle. I smiled. Of course. A bit of water, please. That would be the wax seal on this perfect walk. A thin creek, just wide enough to be crossed in two strides, wound through the meadow. The sound was like rain on cobblestones, but so quiet I could barely hear it over the rippling grasses. I followed the water, watching where it washed over rocks and roots and where the last post was driven into the ground, pointing me back to Garden Path one, back to where I started. I squatted down beside it. I slipped my ring from my finger and into my pocket and plunged both hands into the water. I'd read somewhere that you can cool yourself quickly by running cold water over your wrists, since the veins there are close to the surface and they carry the coolness into your body. I didn't know if there was any truth to it, but it felt absolutely heavenly. I washed my hands in the running water, gliding them over one another, washing the water up my forearms and pressing my cool palms against the back of my neck. A few drops ran down my back and I shivered and chuckled to myself. We marvel sometimes at how perfectly the world suits us, how the design on the moth swings matches exactly some flower in its rainforest, how webs of life fit like puzzle pieces in their environments and among each other, how an hour with trees and grass and water can reset the human. But of course it does. We've all grown up together. Here we are family. Sweet dreams.