← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Rainy Day Rituals
00:32:14
Season 16, Episode 6
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- [00:01]
Kathryn Nicolai
Hi friends. Want every episode ad free? Tap the link in our Show Notes to subscribe. If you're on Apple Podcasts, just hit subscribe on our show page easy and it helps keep the show going. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in Which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to the Asher House. Each year they take in dozens of new dogs, cats and other large animals and livestock, some of whom live out their lives on the property, while others who would do well in loving homes are adopted out. You can learn more about them in our Show Notes. Have we got a deal for you. You can get our entire catalog of over 300 episodes, all completely ad free for a dime a day. But wait, there's more. Order now and you'll also get dozens of exclusive bonus episodes. Our super sized episodes, which are over nine hours long apiece and the knowledge that you are helping this independent venture continue to serve the public. I know I crack me up. But seriously, we hope you'll consider becoming a premium subscriber. Follow the link in our notes or click the Join button on your podcast app. The first month is on us now. I have a story to tell you and just by listening will train your brain to respond more reliably, to fall asleep, and to return to sleep quickly and easily. 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 restart a story. Our story tonight is called Rainy Day Rituals and it's a story about small tasks attended to as a storm blows through. It's also about a fuzzy radio playing in the background, terry cloth and tidily folded towels, thunder and lightning, flickering lights and candle flames, and allowing yourself to do less and enjoy more. So lights out. Devices down. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. Relax your jaw, soften your shoulders, and feel your whole body dropping heavy into the bed. You are safe and I will be here guarding you with my voice. As you sleep, draw a deep breath in through your nose and release from your mouth. Do that again. Breathe in and sigh. Good Rainy Day Rituals it was a stormy day at the cottage and I didn't mind it. The week had been hot and humid and I'd been soaking up as much sun as I could, wanting to store it away in my cells to tide me over winter, but I'd also been a little worn out by it. My eyes were tired of squinting at the sun. I was tired of sweating through my T shirts and wanted a day to spend inside without feeling like I was missing out. Of course, we are never really missing out, just seeing other spaces, living different moments. So even before I'd opened my eyes this morning, I'd already given myself permission to spend the whole day inside, reading books in a room with the blinds drawn or watching movies on the sofa, even if it was sunny and hot out. When I'd heard the rumble of thunder and the drumming rain on the roof, well, it had made the decision all the sweeter. I tuned the dial of the radio on the porch as I sipped my coffee, listening in for the forecast. Pack your umbrellas, they suggested. A perfect day if you're a duck, they quipped. I chuckled to myself as I sat wrapped in my robe watching a stream of water pour from the gutterspout that smell of summer rain, especially when lightning was crackling through the sky. Petrichor and ozone, earthy, sweet and slightly crisp and metallic. It was refreshing, energizing. I found that my need for a day of rest was being replaced with a yen for a day of quiet, satisfying activity. I strolled over the uneven floors of the old cottage, considering what tasks might feel rewarding, not too taxing, and those that I might especially wish I had seen to when the heat and humidity returned. There were just a few dishes in the sink and I had them washed up and drying in the rack. The whole kitchen wiped down and returned to factory settings within a few minutes. I moved on to the bedroom where I made the bed and changed into soft terrycloth pants and a tee. Something about terry cloth always reminds me of coming in from a day swimming when I was a kid. I must have had a few matched sets back then. I'd be tired from all my cannonballs and doggy paddling, all my sprints up and down the break wall, all the sunshine I drunk in, and I'd trade my damp swimsuit for fresh clean clothes, a terry cloth set which would feel so good against my sun kissed skin. Then, nearly without fail, I'd fall asleep on the porch swing or sofa and eventually be woken up when dinner was ready. Oh, to be a child, sitting down at the table, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your plate was filled with favorite foods and knowing you could do it all again tomorrow. I smiled to myself as I hung my robe on the bathroom door, thinking that the grown up version of that might be takeout delivered at the end of your nap. Not a bad idea for later today. I noticed a full laundry basket heaped with clean towels and washcloths beside the dryer, remembering that I'd emptied it before bed the night before but hadn't had the energy to fold and put the things away. That felt like the perfect kind of chore for me today, and I would take my time and fold them right, not just shaking them out as I stood in front of the shelf trying to flip them into thirds. I carried the basket to the kitchen table, freshly wiped down from my quick reset, and laid the first one over the surface. Now I've found over the years that bath towel folding can be highly personal. Many of us tend to have very strong feelings about rolled versus flat, spa style versus retail, or even just the way my dad did it versus the way your mom did. Luckily, I was queen of my own cupboard and shape and stacking style were all up to me. I'd tried the spa rolls before and I have to admit they were appealing. I loved the way they looked on the stool beside my tub when I'd stack one crossed over another as if my bathroom were about to be photographed for a magazine. But they didn't stack well in the linen cupboard. Several times I'd reached for one, the fuzzy material caught on two others and pulled them out to land in an unrolled pile on the floor. Since then I'd gone to the retail fold, one that stacked neatly and reminded me of the piles of new towels in a fancy shop. I folded that first towel in half widthwise, then in thirds, lengthwise, and once more in half from top to bottom. It left me with a tidy rectangle, no tag hanging out flat and even for stacking. As I worked my way through the basket, I listened to the hum of the radio in the background, the soft hush of steady rain, and the occasional crackle of thunder. Just as I was pulling the last towel from the basket, a bright branch of lightning sliced through the sky and a moment later the lights went out around me. I stood still, held the towel in my hands and waited. I've always found this moment, the moment when the power goes out, just a bit exciting. My stomach took a little flip and I let myself imagine an afternoon without electricity. I'd light a few candles, reach for the book on the top of my to be read stack, and settle in on the porch glider, the cool, stormy air blowing through the screens and the quiet of the street like a balm on my nerves. I'd keep the fridge closed to preserve the cold inside and would have no choice but to order myself my favorite meal from the restaurant on the other side of the river, where I could see that the lights still shone. Just then the lights flickered and came back on, the radio buzzing back to life and the oven giving a friendly beep as if marking itself present in class. I shook out the towel and laid it on the table, folding and stacking it on the others. Ah, well, I thought as I carried them to the cupboard and put them away. I can just pretend. I flicked the light switches off as I walked through the house, struck a match and lit my candle and carried my book to the porch. Rainy Day Rituals it was a stormy day at the cottage, and I didn't mind. The week had been hot and humid, and I'd been soaking up as much sun as I could, wanting to store it away in my cells to tide me over in winter, but I'd also been a little worn out by it. My eyes were tired of squinting at the sun. I was tired of sweating through my T shirts and wanted a day to spend inside without feeling like I was missing out. And of course, we are never really missing out, just seeing other spaces, living different moments. So even before I'd opened my eyes this morning, I'd already given myself permission to spend the whole day inside, reading books in a room with the blinds drawn or watching movies on the sofa, even if it was sunny and hot out. When I'd heard the rumble of thunder and drumming of rain on the roof, well, it had made the decision all the sweeter. I turned the dial of the radio on the porch as I sipped my coffee, listening in for the forecast. Pack your umbrellas, they'd suggested. A perfect day if you're a duck, they quipped. I chuckled to myself as I sat wrapped in my robe, watching a stream of water pour from the gutterspout that smell of summer rain, especially when lightning was crackling through the sky. Petrichor and ozone, earthy, sweet, slightly crisp and metallic. It was refreshing, energizing, and I found that my need for a day of rest was being replaced with a yen for a day of quiet, satisfying activity. I strolled over the uneven floors of the old cottage, considering what tasks might feel rewarding, not too taxing, and those that I might especially wish I had seen to when the heat and humidity returned. There were just a few dishes in the sink, and I had them washed up and drying in the rack, the whole kitchen wiped down and returned to factory settings within a few minutes. I moved on to the bedroom where I made the bed and changed into soft terry cloth pants and a tea. Something about terry cloth always reminds me of coming in from a day of swimming when I was a kid. I must have had a few matched sets back then. I'd be very tired from all my cannonballs on doggy paddling, all my sprints up and down the break wall, all the sunshine I'd drunk in and I'd trade my damp swimsuit for fresh clean clothes, a terry cloth set which would feel so good against my sun kissed skin. Then nearly without fail I'd fall asleep on the porch swing or sofa and eventually be woken up when dinner was ready. Oh to be a child sitting down at the table rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your plate was filled with favorite foods, knowing you could do it all again tomorrow. I smiled to myself as I hung my robe on the bathroom door, thinking that the grown up version of that might be takeout delivered at the end of your nap. Not a bad idea for later today. I noticed a full laundry basket heaped with clean towels and washcloths beside the dryer, remembering that I'd emptied it before bed the night before but hadn't had the energy to fold and put the things away. That felt like the perfect kind of chore for me today. And I would take my time and fold them right, not just shaking them out as I stood in front of the shelf trying to flip them into thirds. I carried the basket to the kitchen table, freshly wiped down from my quick reset, and laid the first one over the surface. Now I've found over the years that bath towel folding can be highly personal. Many of us tend to have very strong feelings about rolled versus flat, spa style versus retail, or even just the way my dad did it versus the way your mom did. Luckily I was queen of my own cupboard and shape and stacking style were all up to me. I tried the spa rolls before and I have to admit they are appealing. I loved the way they looked on the stool beside my tub when I'd stack one crossed over another as if my bathroom were about to be photographed for a magazine. But they didn't stack well in the linen cupboard. Several times I'd reached for one and the fuzzy material caught on two others and pulled them out to land in an unrolled pile on the floor. Since then I'd gone to the retail fold, one that stacked neatly and reminded me of the piles of new towels in a fancy shop. I folded that first towel in half width wise, then in thirds lengthwise and once more in half from top to bottom. It left me with a tidy rectangle, no tag hanging out and flat, uneven for stacking. As I worked my way through the basket, I listened to the hum of the radio in the background, the soft hush of steady rain, and the occasional crackle of thunder. Just as I was pulling the last towel from the basket, a bright branch of lightning sliced through the sky, and a moment later the lights went out around me. I stood still, held the towel in my hands, and waited. I've always found this moment, the moment when the power goes out, just a bit exciting. My stomach took a little flip and I let myself imagine an afternoon without electricity. I'd light a few candles, reach for the book on the top of my to be read, stack and settle on the porch glider, the cool, stormy air blowing through the screens and the quiet of the street like a balm on my nerves. I'd keep the fridge closed to preserve the cold inside and would have no choice but to order myself my favorite meal from the restaurant on the other side of the river, where I could see that lights still shone. Just then the lights flickered and came back on, the radio buzzing to life and the oven giving a friendly beep as if marking itself present in class. I shook out the towel and laid it on the table, folding and stacking it on the others. Ah well, I thought as I carried them to the cupboard and put them away. I can just pretend. I flicked the light switches off as I walked through the house, struck a match and lit my candle and carried my book to the porch. Sweet dreams.