Loading summary
Transcript5 lines
- [00:03]
A
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which nothing much happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I create everything you hear and nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to United24, which works to unite the world around supporting Ukraine in an effort to protect, save and rebuild. You can learn more in our Show Notes thanks to some recent Premium subscribers. Thank you Aiden, thank you Karna, Kyle and Mary thank you. Your support means so much to us. As always, you can subscribe to our Premium for ad free and bonus episodes. It's super affordable. It's literally about a dime a day and the links are in our Show Notes. I have a story to tell you. It is a soft place to rest your mind and just by listening you'll condition a reliable response in your nervous system to fall asleep and return to sleep easily. This is a form of brain training, so be patient. If you are new to this, I'll read the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again later in the night, think back through any part of the story you can remember or just push play again. Our story tonight is called Rain on the Lake and it's a story about a sudden arrival of drops and dark clouds on a spring afternoon. It's also about a brooch in a jewelry box, the smell of rain mixing with lake water, mist and lamps lit in the darkness, memories of rainbows and rowboats and taking rest as showers move across the horizon. I was a full time yoga teacher for over 20 years and I know the power of intentional breathing. It's why our two deep breaths have been part of our bedtime routine since episode one. And that's why I want to introduce you to Moonbird. Moonbird is a handheld breathing device designed to comfortably fit in the palm of your hand. When you shake it, it will start inflating and deflating, so in your hand it will feel like you're holding a little bird that is breathing in and out. The only thing you need to do is breathe along with it. When Moonbird inflates, you breathe in. When Moonbird deflates, you breathe out. Simple, intuitive, it takes all the effort and thinking out of your breathing exercises. It's the perfect companion to your bedtime ritual or use it when you're meditating. When you're stuck in traffic, anytime you need an assist in feeling calm and focused. Listen. I know how to breathe to feel better, but still I use Moonbird because when my mind is racing or wandering, I need a little guidance, and it makes my deep breathing more effective. So when you wake in the middle of the night, don't reach for your phone unless it's to restart your bedtime story. That's fine. Reach for Moonbird. Visit Moonbird Life Nothingmuch happens to save 20% we've got it linked in our show Notes.
- [04:42]
B
I'm not as young as I once was, but I care a lot about maintaining my physical and mental wellness. Cornbread Hemps CBD gummies are a huge.
- [04:55]
A
Piece of my wellness plan.
- [04:58]
B
In fact, I've already reordered several of their products on my own dime. They are that good, and I've gifted two of their Peppermint and Arnica CBD Balms to friends who tell me how much it has helped them, too. Their gummies are formulated to help relieve discomfort, stress, and sleeplessness. And right now, nothing much happens. Listeners can save 30% on their first order. Just head to cornbreadhemp.com nothingmuch and use code nothingmuch at checkout. That's cornbreadhemp.com nothingMuch and use code nothingmuch.
- [05:42]
A
Now. Lights out, campers. It's time. Snuggle down and get as comfortable as you can. Tuck yourself in with care. You, as much as any other soul in the universe, deserve rest and relaxation to feel safe and cared for. So let my voice be a sort of guardian. My stories will watch over you as you sleep. Take a slow breath in through your nose and let it out. Do one more breathe in and release it. Good Rain on the lake I thought all I wanted was sunshine. After a long, monochrome winter, the ice and snow and sky all mirroring each other, I thought I only wanted to see bright golden sunbeams and velvety green yards and bluebirds. But when I heard the rain falling on the roof this afternoon and felt the clouds closing in, I softened, relaxing in a way I hadn't lately. I'd been pottering around the house, following one small chore to another. A sweater laid over the back of a dining room chair led me up to the closet, where I'd started to sort through a jewelry box. I'd found a broken brooch and a watch in need of a new battery. They'd led me back downstairs to stash them in my purse in the hopes I'd remember to take them to the repair shop on my next trip into town. In the kitchen, I tipped the dregs of the last pot of coffee down the drain and rinsed the carafe, then wandered into the living room with a dust cloth to wipe down the bookshelf and framed photos on the mantel. That's when the light began to change and the rain sounded on the roof. I walked over to the window with a frame and a cloth still in hand and looked down toward the lake. The bright colors of spring were shaded over by thick clouds, but rather than dimming my mood, it felt like a relief, like a cool cloth over tired eyes. More than a sprinkle, not quite a storm, a solid shower was spreading over the lake. I became mesmerized, watching the surface of the water ripple and shimmer as it came down. I remember it swimming in the rain as a kid on days that had started out as hot and sunny, when a sudden shift of clouds would block out the bright day, when raindrops fell all around me. One summer we'd had a little inflatable boat, just big enough for me and my friend from down the street to fit into. We'd paddle around in the shallow water, pretending to be explorers, adventurers discovering unknown species of fish and fowler. On days that the rain came, we'd bail out of the boat and flip it over. We'd swim under it, our heads poking up into the bubble of air trapped beneath the inverted seats. Our voices echoed funnily in the small space, and we'd been full of jokes that only made sense to us. The sound of the rain on the keel made me feel cozy and safe, even while we stood chest deep in water. At some point a parent would begin beckoning us out of the lake, telling us to come wrap up in a towel and wait for the rain to pass over. But by then the water felt warmer than the air, and we'd stall and weasel a few more minutes into the deal. If the weather changed quickly, a rainbow might spread across the sky, something that seemed so much like magic. I'd stare at it with a bit of skepticism, as if it were a joke that would be revealed as such at some point. All of these thoughts had passed through my head in a few seconds, watching the rain fall on the lake, I found I wanted to get closer, to feel the air, to smell the lake as the drops came down and I stepped out onto the back porch in my slippers. It was screened in and had just recently had its spring cleaning. The wicker chairs and tables were wiped down and the cushions laundered and plumped. I realized I still held the photo and cloth from my dusting and set them on a table and went close to the screens. A fine mist of water landed on my glasses and cheeks and I laughed. I pulled my glasses from my face and wiped the lenses on my shirt, but stayed close to the screens, liking the cool touch of the rain and the scent of the lake. I could smell moss and water, logged tree trunks in the distance. The sky was even darker and I thought this shower might actually become a storm, that lightning and thunder might literally be on the horizon. I wasn't cold, not yet at least, and I walked along the length of the porch, peering closely at the flower beds, drinking up all this good water. Then into the reedy line at the edge of the lake where I spotted a long legged egret, bright white against the green and gray of the water. What was the experience of a bird or a fish on a day like today? If you have ever seen a horse running unrestrained on a beach, then you know the joy that animals can take in movement, and I wondered what it might be like to soar near a rainbow or to swim just below the surface as gentle rain fell. The sound of the rain rushing down suddenly doubled and a gust of cooler wind raced through the screens. All right then, I thought, enough. I'll go back in. I picked up the frame and my dust cloth and stepped back into the house, pulling the door to the porch tightly behind me. I remembered a window open in a room on the second floor, rushed up the stairs to nudge it closed. Small puddles lay on the silly and I used my cloth to mop them up. On the way back down I switched on a few lamps. I liked the gloom that the storm had brought, but I also liked a bit of glow here and there. I think I was revisiting that feeling of being under the boat in the rain, a little pocket of a different kind of feeling in a sea of something bigger. I dropped my now damp dust cloth down the laundry chute and set the photo on the mantel. If I tried, I knew I could come up with more tasks to attend to. But just now the sound of the rain, the blotted out sun, the flash of lightning on the far edge of the lake, they all seemed to beckon me to my favorite spot on the sofa. I tossed a long blanket over me as I stretched out, turning onto one side, pulling a throw pillow under my head. I'd wondered about the joy of animals and movement and now I thought of them at rest, a scurry of squirrels cuddled together in the knot of a tree, otter cubs napping on the bellies of their parents, all of us letting the rain fall around us as we slept. Rain on the lake, I thought. All I wanted was sunshine after a long, monochrome winter, the ice and snow and sky all mirroring each other. I thought I only wanted to see bright golden sunbeams, velvety green lawns, and bluebirds. But when I heard the rain falling on the roof this afternoon and felt the clouds closing in, I softened, relaxing in a way I hadn't lately. I'd been pottering around the house, following one small chore to another. A sweater laid over the back of a dining room chair led me up into the closet, where I'd started to sort through a jewelry box. I'd found a broken brooch and a watch in need of a new battery. They'd led me back downstairs to stash them in my purse in the hopes I'd remembered to take them to the repair shop on my next trip into town. In the kitchen, I tipped the dregs of the last pot of coffee down the drain and rinsed the carafe, then wandered into the living room with a dust cloth to wipe down the bookshelf and framed photos on the mantel. That's when the light began to change and the rain sounded on the roof. I walked over to the window with the frame and the cloth still in hand and looked down toward the lake. The bright colors of spring were shaded over by thick clouds, but rather than dimming my mood, it felt like a relief, like a cool cloth over tired eyes. More than a sprinkle, not quite a storm. A solid shower was spreading over the lake, and I became mesmerized, watching the surface of the water ripple and shimmer as it came down. I remembered swimming in the rain as a kid on days that had started out as hot and sunny, when a sudden shift of clouds would block out the bright and raindrops fell all around me. One summer we'd had a little inflatable boat, just big enough for me and my friend from down the street to fit into. We'd paddle around in the shallow water, pretending to be explorers, adventurers, discovering unknown species of fish and fowl. On days that the rain came, we'd bail out of the boat and flip it over and swim under it, our heads poking up into the bubble of air trapped beneath the inverted seats. Our voices echoed funnily in the small space, and we'd been full of jokes that only made sense to us. The sound of rain on the keel made me feel cozy and safe, even while we stood chest deep in the water. At some point a parent would begin beckoning us out of the lake, telling us to come wrap up in a towel, wait for the rain to pass over. But by then the water felt warmer than the air and we'd stall and weasel a few more minutes into the deal. If the weather changed quickly, a rainbow might spread across the sky, something that had seemed so much like magic I'd stare at it with a bit of skepticism, as if it were a joke that would be revealed as such at some point. All of these thoughts had passed through my head in just a few seconds as I watched the rain fall on the lake, I found I wanted to get closer, to feel the air, to smell the lake as the drops came down and I stepped out onto the back porch in my slippers. It was screened in and had just recently had its spring cleaning. The wicker chairs and tables were wiped down and the cushions laundered and plumped. I realized I still held the photo and cloth from my dusting and set them on a table and went close to the screens. A fine mist of water landed on my glasses and cheeks and I laughed. I pulled my glasses from my face and wiped the lenses on my shirt, but stayed close to the screens, liking the cool touch of the rain and the scent of the lake. I could smell moss and water logged tree trunks in the distance. The sky was even darker when I thought this shower might actually become a storm, that lightning and thunder might literally be on the horizon. I wasn't cold, not yet at least, when I walked along the length of the porch, peering closely at the flower beds, drinking up all this good water, then into the reedy line at the edge of the lake where I spotted a long legged egret, bright white against the green gray of the water. What was the experience of a bird or a fish on a day like today? If you have ever seen a horse running unrestrained on a beach, then you know the joy that animals can take in movement. When I wondered what it might be like to soar near a rainbow or swim just below the surface as gentle rain fell. The sound of the rain rushing down suddenly doubled and a gust of cooler wind raced through the screens. All right then, I thought, Enough. I'll go back in. I picked up the frame and the dust cloth and stepped back into the house, pulling the door to the porch tightly behind me. I remembered a window open on the second floor and rushed up the stairs to nudge it closed. Small puddles lay on the sill and I used my cloth to mop them up. On the way back down, I switched on a few lamps. I liked the gloom that the storm had brought, but I also liked a bit of glow here and there. I think I was revisiting that feeling of being under the boat in the rain, a little pocket of a different kind of feeling, in a sea of something bigger. I dropped my now damp dust cloth down the laundry chute and set the photo on the mantel. If I tried, I knew I could come up with more tasks to attend to. But just now, the sound of the rain, the blotted out sun, the flash of lightning on the far edge of the lake, they all seemed to beckon me to my favorite spot on the sofa. I tossed a long blanket over me as I stretched out, turning onto one side and pulling a throw pillow under my head. I'd wondered about the joy of animals in movement, and now I thought of them at rest, a scurry of squirrels cuddled together in the knot of a tree, otter cubs napping on the bellies of their parents, all of us letting the rain fall around us as we slept. Sweet dreams.