← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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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. Looking to strengthen your health and well being? Tune into the Dr. Tyna show, one of Apple Podcast's top alternative health shows with Dr. Tyna Moore, a naturopathic physician and chiropractor. She covers topics like metabolic health, chronic diseases, pain management and more with expert interviews and solo episodes. It's a no nonsense, science backed approach to empower you to improve your health and resilience. New episodes every Thursday produced by Drake Peterson and Wellness Loud.
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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories
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you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
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Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Wishbone Pet Rescue in Douglas, Michigan. They work to protect, shelter and re home animals in need.
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Learn more about them in our show
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Notes
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before we begin, a little reminder that we're just four days away from launching the Nothing Much Happens app. Thousands of villagers have already joined and
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we can't wait to welcome you too.
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If you sign up before launch, you'll still save 25% off with our founders pricing. We'll also be celebrating together on launch day with our very first live event. I'll be sitting down with Bob Wittersheim, the wonderful producer and sound designer behind Nothing Much Happens for a live conversation at 6pm Eastern on July 9th.
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We'd love to have you there.
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Visit nothingmuch happens.com to join us
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in silence. Your brain can often spin into chaos. There's no guardrails to keep it in line, but a story gives you an
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external framework for your thoughts, which helps
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them settle rather than spin. And all you have to do is listen. I'll read our story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't wait to see if the spinning will resume. Just push play again and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called out and Back and it's a story about a calm way to cap a long summer day. It's also about hickory trees and fresh hay in the field, katydids and kickstands, and letting your senses fill with with the sights and sounds around you. Being here while here is happening. People often ask me things like how
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books, podcasts, memberships and online shops actually get started, and the answer is usually much less glamorous than they expect.
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You have an idea, you put it into the world, and then you need a way for people to support it.
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And that's one of the things Shopify does so well. It removes a lot of the friction
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between having an idea and actually selling it. From day one, the tools are there,
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including checkout, so when someone is ready to buy, the process is simple and seamless. I remember how reassuring it was to know that part was already handled. Customers could browse, make a purchase, come back later without having to start from scratch. Each time Shopify checkout makes the experience smooth for them, which makes it easier for you to focus on your business. And once the Once the basics are working, your attention can shift from setting things up to actually growing what you've built. And that's where the fun begins with Shopify. Nothing stands between your idea and a real business. So go make it one. Start your free trial at shopify.com nothingmuch go to shopify.com nothingmuch that's shopify.com nothingmuch
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so lights out, campers. Set things down. Be done with the day. Get as comfortable as you possibly can and let your whole body relax into your bed. You have done enough for today. It's enough. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in and out. Good. Out and back. The screen door clapped into its frame behind me as I hopped down the back porch steps and strode through the high grass to the shed. It needed cutting, but the heat had been too high for the last few days, both for me to push the heavy mower in lines across the yard and for the poor grass, which was already struggling not to burn up in the blazing sun. I guessed we had another hour or more of daylight left to the day, and with the sun shifting down behind the trees, the heat had mellowed to something still warm but more like a glow than a glare. The shed door took two tugs to swing open, and as it did, a moth slipped past me into the evening air. I thought about how moths fly toward porch lights, confusing them for the moon, a navigational disconcertion that has them circling back again and again. Of course, it wasn't just moths who misplace their landmarks and get lost in loops. It can happen to all of us. Wheeling my bike out, I pressed down on the saddle and bounced it a few times against the pavement, checking that the tires hadn't lost any air. It felt springy and firm, ready for a good long ride, and I threw one leg across the frame and climbed on. Those first few wobbly feet of each ride always make me laugh
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when you're
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not going fast enough to balance easily and you end up turning the handlebars too sharply and then over correcting back again. It only lasts a second or two before the forward momentum smooths everything out, but it does keep one humble. Our driveway is a long one that's common out here in the countryside, where houses might sit a good quarter mile back from the road. Ours wasn't quite that long, but nearly and 50 years ago someone had planted a row of shagbark hickory trees on either side of the drive whose leaves formed a tall rustling canopy. As I pedaled under it. I thought of that saying about planting trees whose shade you'll never sit in. I wondered if I had gotten my own hands into that sort of dirt lately. I turned left onto the two lane road at the end of our drive and after a couple hundred yards right onto a secondary street with almost no traffic. Over the years, I'm pretty sure I have ridden up and down every road in a 5 mile radius. I'd loved finding a new path from one point on the map to another, riding down a street I'd never been on for the very first time. Even now I tried to follow a different route with each ride,
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though I
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wasn't likely to run across some brand new adventure today. It had been a while since I'd taken this particular way. The road had been graded and recently, so while the spring melt potholes were gone, there was a bit of loose gravel scattered over the surface. I slowed down, feeling my tires skid on the grit, and rode closer to the edge where there was a clear path. Cattails grew in the ditch, which meant we'd had more rain than most summers. The land here was marshy, but there had been plenty of Julys when paltry precipitation left these acres more brown than green. And cattails are aquatic, so the ditches must have at least some water flowing through them. My legs found a rhythm on the flat road and my mind smoothed out just following the steady movement and hum of my tires. In a field ahead of me, a tractor pulled a rake through the windrows, gathering up hay that had been cut a day or two before. As I pedaled past, I watched the machine turn and align one wheel with the edge of its last pass so not a stem was lost. Fresh cut hay in the heat of midsummer has a rich, unmistakable and wonderful scent. Like grass, but woodier, like honey, but greener like dust that's been sun Baked in the distance I could just make out the apple trees of the orchard, low and wide and evenly spaced. I wondered how the fruit was growing this year. The Paula reds and the ginger golds would already begin to ripen in just a month or so. The road curved and dipped slightly, and I let my feet rest still on the pedals as gravity pulled me forward. Ahead I could hear the river. This was a dead end, and I knew it. Often I preferred a loop when I rode, a steadily changing view with none of it repeated, but today I was riding out and back, and that felt neat and tidy, like being on the exact middle page of a book,
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like
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an even number or the color blue. The road ended with a guardrail set across its width, and I stopped and propped my bike on its kickstand beside it. The galvanized steel had a mottled and slightly rusty look, and I wondered when it had been put there. One day there wasn't a barrier, and then one day there was, and would be for 50 years.
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70.
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I stepped around one end of it and walked down a worn footpath through the trees toward the river. The water was moving steadily, not rushing, but a leaf dropped on the surface in front of me would surely be out of sight in a minute or less. With my eyes closed, I listened past the sound of the moving water and could still faintly make out the tractor working back and forth through its rows, and there was a high buzzing sound that, as I tuned into it, I realized had been so constant for days now that I'd mostly stopped hearing it. The katydids. The smell of the woods around me was redolent of damp soil and minerals and tree bark. I've tried to store all these things, the sights, scents, and sounds, and carry them somewhere in my pockets to have for January, but my brain doesn't seem to work like that. Maybe there are holes in my pockets, but I've learned that when I later go reaching for these bits of sense memory, I will come up empty handed, and if anything, that has made them sweeter to sit with in the moment, more special for how temporary they are. So I stayed another 10 minutes or
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so,
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leaning my back against a tree and watching the river flow past, breathing slow and deep. And then eventually I pushed away from the trunk, climbed up the bank back to my bike, and kicked the stand back into place. I walked my bike a few yards before I climbed aboard, ready now to head back home and put another summer day to bed. Out and back. The screen door clapped into its frame behind me as I hopped down the back porch steps and strode through the high grass to the shed. It needed cutting, but the heat had been too high for the last few days, both for me to push the heavy mower in lines across the yard and for the poor grass, which was already struggling not to burn up in the blazing sun. I guessed we had another hour or more of daylight left to the day, and with the sun shifting down behind the trees, the heat had mellowed to something still warm, but more like a glow than a glare. The shed door took two tugs to swing open, and as it did, a moth slipped past me into the evening air. I thought about how moths fly toward porch lights, confusing them for the moon, a navigational disconcertion that has them circling back again and again. Of course, it wasn't just moths who misplaced their landmarks and got lost in loops. It can happen to all of us. Wheeling my bike out, I pressed down on the saddle and bounced it a few times against the pavement, checking that the tires hadn't lost any. It felt springy and firm, ready for a good long ride, and I threw one leg across the frame and climbed on. Those first few wobbly feet of each ride always make me laugh when you're not going fast enough to balance easily and you end up turning the handlebars too sharply, then over, correcting back again. It only lasts a second or two before the forward momentum smooths everything out, but it does keep one humble. Our driveway is a long one that's common out here, the countryside where houses might sit a good quarter mile back from the road. Ours wasn't quite that long, but nearly and 50 years ago someone had planted a row of shag bark hickory trees on either side of the drive, whose leaves formed a tall rustling canopy
- [22:59]
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as
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I pedaled under it. I thought of that saying about planting trees whose shade you'll never sit in, and wondered if I had gotten my own hands into that sort of dirt lately. I turned left onto the two lane road at the end of our drive and after a couple hundred yards right onto a secondary street with almost no traffic. Over the years I'm pretty sure I have ridden up and down every road in a 5 mile radius, and I'd loved finding a new path from one point on the map to another, riding down a street I'd never been on for the very first time. Even now I tried to take a different route with each ride, and though I wasn't likely to run across some brand new adventure today, it had been a while since I'd gone this particular way. The road had been graded, and recently, so while the spring melt potholes were gone, there was a bit of loose gravel scattered on the surface. I slowed down, feeling my tires skid on the grit, and rode closer to the edge where there was a clear path. Cattails grew in the ditch, which meant we'd had more rain than most summers. The land here was marshy, but there had been plenty of Julys when poultry precipitation left these acres more brown than green. Cattails are aquatic, so the ditches must have at least some water flowing through them. My legs found a rhythm on the flat, and my mind smoothed out just following the steady movement and hum of my tires. In a field ahead of me, a tractor pulled a rake through the windrows, gathering up hay that had been cut a day or two before. As I paddled past, I watched the machine turn and align one wheel with the edge of its last pass so not a stem was lost. Fresh cut hay in the heat of midsummer has a rich, unmistakable, and wonderful scent. Like grass, but woodier, like honey, but greener, like dust that's been sun baked. In the distance I could just make out the apple trees of the orchard lo wide and evenly spaced. I wondered how the fruit was growing this year. The Paula reds and ginger golds would already begin to ripen in a month or so. The road curved and dipped slightly, and I let my feet rest still on the petals as gravity pulled me forward. Ahead, I could hear the river. This was a dead end, and I knew it. Often I preferred a loop when I rode, a steadily changing view with none of it repeated. But today I was riding out back, and that felt neat and tidy, like being on the exact middle page of a book, like an even number or the color blue. The road ended with a guardrail set across its width, and I stopped and propped my bike on its kickstand beside it. The galvanized steel had a mottled and slightly rusty look, and I wondered when it had been put there. One day there wasn't a barrier, and then one day there was, and would be for 50, 70 years. I stepped around one end of it and walked down a worn footpath through the trees toward the river. The water was moving steadily, not rushing, but a leaf dropped on the surface in front of me would surely be out of sight in a minute or less. With my eyes closed, I listened past the sound of the moving water and could still faintly make out the tractor working back and forth through its rows, And there was a high buzzing sound that, as I tuned into it I realized, had been so constant for days now that I'd mostly stopped hearing it. The katydids. The smell of the woods around me was redolent of damp soil and minerals and tree bark. I've tried to store all of these things, the sights, scents, and sounds, and carry them somewhere in my pockets to have for January, but my brain doesn't seem to work like that. Maybe there are holes in my pockets, but I've learned that when I later go reaching for these bits of sense memory, I will come up empty handed if anything, that has just made them sweeter to sit with in the moment, more special for how temporary they are. So I stayed another 10 minutes or so, leaning my back against a tree and watching the river flow past, breathing slow but deep, and then eventually I pushed away from the trunk, climbed up the bank back to my bike, and kicked the stand back into place. I walked my bike a few yards before I climbed aboard, Ready now to head back home and put another summer day to bed. Sweet dreams.