← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Sleeping Weather (Encore)
00:34:08
Season 16, Episode 19
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- [00:01]
Kathryn Nicolai
Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe Now. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens.
- [00:23]
Narrator
You feel good and then you fall asleep.
- [00:29]
Kathryn Nicolai
I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family friendly and our wishes for you are always Deep rest and sweet dreams.
- [01:19]
Narrator
Now I'm about to tell you a bedtime story to help you relax and drift off to sleep. The story is simple and not much happens in it, and that's kind of the idea. It's just a cozy place to rest your mind. I'll read the story twice and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you find yourself still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. That's how it goes sometimes. Relax, walk yourself back through whatever bits of the story you can remember, lean into them, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed and calm. This is a kind of brain training. We're training your brain to follow along with the shape of the story, like an upturned leaf floats along on the surface of a river. Each time you use a story to settle your mind, it will happen more quickly and with more ease. So have some patience. If you're new to this, our story tonight is called Sleeping Weather and it's a story about a break from the heat and humidity. It's also about the view from the porch swing at night, deer walking quietly through the corn fields and clearing your mind with paper and pen at the end of the day. Now it's time to settle in. Turn off your light, put down all of your devices, stretch deep into your sheets and settle yourself into your favorite sleeping position. Mission I'll be here reading even after you've fallen asleep, and I'll keep watch all night. You are done for today. You have done everything that you needed to and now it's time for sleep. Take a slow breath in through your nose and sigh it out of your mouth. Nice. Let's do that again. Deep breath in. Out with sound. Good Sleeping Weather the last few nights were stuffy, even with the windows open and the Curtains drawn back, it was as if I couldn't convince any of the cool night air to push its way through the screens. The overhead fan helped a bit, but I tossed and turned, kicking the sheets off when the heat overwhelmed me and then reaching for them 10 minutes later when I hadn't exactly cooled down but wanted their comfort. After a dozen years or so of living in this old farmhouse, I'd been through plenty of sultry summers, and I knew how to navigate the warm days. Early in the morning, I'd open everything up. While my coffee was brewing, I'd climb the creaky front staircase to the bedrooms and open each window, then do the same in the lower level. I'd prop open the big front door with the crumbling brick I dug out of the garden a few years ago. The mornings out here tended to be cool, the dew not burning off until late morning, so I'd air the house out while I ate breakfast and did the first of my morning chores. Then, when the sun rose high enough to shine on the kitchen windows, I'd diligently go room to room and close it all up again. I'd pull down the blinds and draw the curtains tight in any spots where I knew the sunlight would be able to work through the leafy canopy of tree branches above us. And for the most part, the house would stay cool all day. It might get a little warm if I made dinner on the stove or heated up the oven, which meant I cooked out as much as I could before bed. I'd step out onto the wide front porch in my pajamas and sit on the swing. Before I'd moved to this house, I'd spent most of my life in a city, and I guess I'd expected the countryside to be quiet in comparison. But I often laughed at just how loud it was out on the porch. I mean, a good kind of loud, but loud. Crickets, June bugs, bullfrogs, songbirds, and ducks, and when a storm blew through, the open fields, gave it nothing to buffer against. And the winds were electrifyingly strong and loud. The rain came down heavy and thunder echoed for miles. All of that drew me out to the porch swing each night. I'd sit back and press my toes against the wooden floorboards and swing and listen. Sometimes I brought my book, though I often found myself distracted by the changing color of the sky at sunset or skeins of geese crossing the horizon. In fact, porch time was perfect for picture books or recipe books, books I could look at for a few moments, then rest my finger on the page and get lost in the view of the meadow for a while. The corn out in the far field was so high that sometimes I could only make out the points of antlers in the dusk moving above the silk of the cobs, and I would try to imagine how many were in the herd. A few does brought their babies to sit in shady spots in my flower garden during the day, and they had grown used to me. I chatted to them while I pulled weeds and watched as they grew over the summer. They might be out there now, picking through the fields and getting ready for autumn. The last few nights, even when the temperature dropped in the evening, the humidity had stayed and the house had been stuffy and hot, and I'd woken again and again. But tonight was shaping up to be altogether different. The humidity was dropping. The stickiness that had made my limbs feel heavy and weary was gone. The air was light and cool. It had been the talk of the countryside, in fact. We all read our farmers almanacs, diligently, watched the weather vanes on our roof ridges, and checked our barometers at least twice a day. It was just part of living out in the open farmland. And twice today, once at the mailbox as a neighbor pulled up beside me to chat, and once at the feed store. A few of us gathered around the checkout desk. I'd heard the same words. Good sleeping weather. Yes, we all agreed. Tonight we would have good sleeping weather. And tonight, out on the porch, as the sun was setting and the dusk getting thicker, I brought my journal out to the swing. I struck a match and lit the candle and the glass lantern on the table beside me. I would set myself up for the best night of sleep I could, and I often found that if I wrote in my journal for a few minutes, I could offload a lot of pesky, unimportant thoughts that might otherwise weigh on my mind. It was a habit I'd started years ago. Often before a big moment, I'd write first, before a big test, a phone call when I had a decision to make, or even just something pure to enjoy. It gave me space. I wouldn't allow my mind to edit at all. Any thought that flickered through my neurons just went through the pen and onto the page, and a lot of it came out as utter nonsense. Stream of consciousness, Boulder dash, strange intrusive thoughts, worries about things that never in a million years would happen, ideas I didn't even recognize or understand myself. But that's okay. That was the point, actually. To clear the static that wasn't me and leave space for what was. At first I'd been embarrassed of the pages, even though no one ever saw them, and I would rip them up and throw them away, or, in my dramatic younger years, burn them on a bonfire. I was more comfortable now with my own strangeness, as years had taught me that we are all strange, every one of us. So then, I guess none of us are now. I just closed the book when I felt like I had drained the reservoir. I never even considered going back to look at what I'd written the day before. I wrote beside the lantern, the fields thrumming with insects and breeze, and when I was done I clicked my pen decisively closed, shut the book, and stood. I stretched my back and took a few deep breaths, then leant over to blow out the candle inside. I pulled the door shut and locked it behind me, then walked through the dark house. I knew every inch of it by now and could feel my way easily up the stairs to my room. Tonight I would sleep the sleep I'd been craving for days, that thick, dreamless sleep that lasts the whole night. Sleeping Weather the last few nights were stuffy. Even with the windows open and the curtains drawn back, it was as if I couldn't convince any of the cool night air to push its way through the screens. The overhead fan helped a bit, but I tossed and turned, kicking the sheets off when the heat overwhelmed me and then reaching for them 10 minutes later when I hadn't exactly cooled down but wanted their comfort. After a dozen years or so of living in this old farmhouse, I'd been through plenty of sultry summers, and I knew how to navigate the warm days. Early in the morning, I'd open everything up. While my coffee was brewing, I'd climb the creaky front staircase to the bedrooms and open each window, then do the same in the lower level. I'd prop open the big front door with the crumbling brick I dug out of the garden. A few years ago. The mornings out here tended to be cool, the dew not burning off until late morning, so I'd air the house out while I ate breakfast and did the first of my morning chores. Then, when the sun rose high enough to shine on the kitchen windows, I'd diligently go room to room and close it all up again. I'd pull down the blinds and draw the curtains tight in any spot where I knew the sunlight would be able to work through the leafy canopy of tree branches above us, and for the most part, the house would stay cool all day. It might get a little warm if I made dinner on the stove or heated up the oven, which meant I cooked out as much as I could before bed. I'd step out onto the wide front porch in my pajamas and sit on the swing. Before I'd moved to this house, I'd spent most of my life in a city, and I guess I'd expected the countryside to be quiet in comparison. But I often laughed at just how loud it was out on the porch. I mean, a good kind of loud, but loud. Crickets, June bugs, bullfrogs, songbirds, and ducks, and when a storm blew through the open fields, gave it nothing to buffer against. And the winds were electrifyingly strong. Loud. The rain came down heavy and thunder echoed for miles. All of that drew me out to the porch swing each night. I'd sit back, press my toes against the wooden floorboards, and swing and listen. Sometimes I brought my book, though I often found myself distracted by the changing color of the sky at sunset or skeins of geese crossing the horizon. In fact, porch time was perfect for picture books or recipe books, books I could look at for a few moments, then rest my finger on the page and get lost in the view of the meadow for a while. The corn out in the far field was so high that sometimes I could only make out the points of antlers in the dusk moving above the silk of the cobs, and I would try to imagine how many were in the herd. A few does brought their babies to sit in shady spots in my flower garden during the day when they had grown used to me. I chatted to them while I pulled weeds and watched as they grew. Over the summer they might be out there now, picking through the fields and getting ready for autumn. The last few nights, even when the temperature dropped in the evening, the humidity had stayed and the house had been stuffy and hot, and I'd woken again and again. But tonight was shaping up to be altogether different. The humidity was dropping, the stickiness that had made my limbs feel heavy and weary was gone. The air was light and cool. It had been the talk of the countryside. In fact, we all read our farmers almanacs, diligently, watched the weather vanes on our roof ridges, and checked our barometers at least twice a day. It was just part of living out in the open farmland, and twice today, once at the mailbox as a neighbor pulled up beside me to chat, and once at the feed store, a few of us gathered around the checkout desk. I'd heard the same words. Good sleeping weather. Yes, we all agreed. Tonight we would have good sleeping weather. Out on the porch, as the sun was setting and the dusk getting thicker, I brought my journal out to the swing. I struck a match and lit the candle and the glass lantern on the table beside me. I would set myself up for the best night of sleep I could, and I often found that if I wrote in my journal for a few minutes, I could offload a lot of pesky, unimportant thoughts that might otherwise weigh on my mind. It was a habit I'd started years ago, before any big moment. I'd write first, before a big test or a phone call, when I had a decision to make or even just something pure to enjoy. It gave me space. I wouldn't allow my mind to edit at all. Any thought that flickered through my neurons just went through the pen and onto the page, and a lot of it came out as utter nonsense. Stream of consciousness, Boulder dash, strange intrusive thoughts, worries about things that never in a million years would happen, ideas I didn't even recognize or understand myself. But that's okay. That was the point, actually, to clear the static that wasn't me and leave space for what was. At first I'd been embarrassed of the pages, even though no one ever saw them, and I would rip them up and throw them away or in my dramatic younger years, burned them on a bonfire. I was more comfortable now with my own strangeness, as years had taught me that we are all strange, every one of us. So then, I guess none of us are now. I would just close the book when I felt like I had drained the reservoir and never even considered going back to look at what I'd written the day before. I wrote beside the lantern, the fields thrumming with insects and breeze, and when I was done I clicked my pen decisively closed, shut the book, and stood. I stretched my back and took a few deep breaths, then leant over to blow out the candle inside. I pulled the door shut and locked it behind me, then walked through the dark house. I knew every inch of it by now and could feel my way easily up the stairs to my room. Tonight I would sleep the sleep I'd been craving for days, that thick, dreamless sleep that lasts the whole night. Sweet dreams.