Kathryn Nicolai (3:25)

I'm Kathryn Nicolai.

Narrator/Host (3:27)

I write and read all the stories 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 Mimi's Pantry. They work to bridge the gap for individuals and families who are faced with the challenge of having enough nourishing food and educational resources available to them. Learn more about them in our show Notes. Many of you have asked for longer episodes and we are delivering Once a month we will give you a two to three story episode on the free feed and a five to six story episode on our premium feed. In fact, over on premium we regularly publish episodes that are over nine hours long and we're always adding more. So if that sounds helpful or joyful to you, let me remind you that the cost comes out to just 10 cents a day and that the first month is on us. Also, your support here literally keeps us going. Learn more@nothingmuch happens.com.

Kathryn Nicolai (4:50)

Just as with our.

Narrator/Host (4:51)

Regular episodes, these stories are simply a.

Kathryn Nicolai (4:55)

Soft place to occupy your mind, to keep it steady and allow you to drift.

Narrator/Host (5:04)

So all you need to do is listen. I'll tell the stories twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to just start them over again. Our stories tonight lean into the winter season with tales of walks in the snow, time by the fire, thick blankets, and hot drinks. If you've ever wished not just to be warm, but to be chilled first and then warmed with a blanket, these are for you. There are days when my brain feels crowded. Too many decisions, too many open tabs, back to back work that asks me to stay sharp even when I feel a little foggy. And on those days, it's tempting to reach for something caffeinated. But I've learned that jittery energy and an afternoon crash don't help me think any better. They certainly don't suit the work I do. That's why I've been using Nature Sunshine Brain Edge. Nature Sunshine Brain Edge combines hand harvested yerba mate with powerful nootropics to support focus, memory and cognitive performance. Without the crash, I notice that I feel clearer and more steady when I'm recording, writing, or working through a long to do list. It enhances focus and clarity. The nootropic botanicals help me concentrate and stay sharp. It supports memory and learning, promoting recall and mental stamina with ingredients like bacopa and ginkgo, and it delivers smooth, sustained energy. The wild harvested yerba mate provides natural caffeine without the jitters or the sudden drop off. I like that it's a simple drink mix. I can have it hot or cold. It fits easily into my broader wellness routine, especially on mentally demanding days. So don't fight through feeling foggy and lethargic. Ignite your mental performance with Brain Edge. Nature Sunshine is offering 20% off your first order plus free shipping. Go to naturesunshine.com and use the code Nothing Much at checkout. That's code nothing much@naturesunshine.com so settle in.

Kathryn Nicolai (7:44)

Be at ease.

Narrator/Host (7:46)

The day was what it was and now we are here with nothing to do and no plans to make or hold on to.

Kathryn Nicolai (7:57)

Just deep restorative sleep.

Narrator/Host (8:02)

So take a deep breath in through your nose.

Kathryn Nicolai (8:08)

And sigh from the mouth. Again.

Narrator/Host (8:14)

Breathe in.

Kathryn Nicolai (8:19)

And out.

Narrator/Storyteller (8:24)

Good.

Kathryn Nicolai (8:27)

Cold snap and crosswords I'd always loved small spaces. Even as a child I found myself crawling into cabinets and pulling pillows into the space under desks. I'd happily curl up with a book or a toy and spend an hour or two snug in my makeshift nest. So when I found this apartment on the top floor of an old brick building on the edge of downtown, it immediately felt like home. It was a studio and I liked doing all my living in one space. It had coved ceilings and tall windows that looked all the way into the park. It had a small kitchen with a built in banquette space for my big bed, a bathroom tiled in black and.

Narrator/Storyteller (9:58)

White.

Kathryn Nicolai (10:00)

And very best of all, a fireplace. It had been a wood burning hearth when the building was first built.

Narrator/Storyteller (10:15)

In.

Kathryn Nicolai (10:16)

Art Deco style a hundred years before, but had been converted to gas before I'd moved in. I loved the smell of a wood fire, but I had to admit that being able to turn it on by remote from the comfort of my still warm bed was a luxury I enjoyed. And that's what I did today. We'd had a cold snap that had started the evening before. It had already been cold, but as the sun went down the temperature dropped steeply and when I'd come home a couple bags of groceries Last night around seven, the chill had followed me right into the elevator and I'd had to drink a whole pot of tea to warm up and it had gotten even colder. Overnight. I'd slept well, though with my apartment just a little cooler than usual. When I woke a little past sunrise, I'd plumped the pillows and sat up in bed, pulling the comforter closer around me, and clicked on the fireplace. A line of blue flame skirted along the bottom of the ceramic logs, then sprung up into orange and red fire, and I let out a sigh. I stayed in bed for a letting the room warm up and sipping from the cup of water on my nightstand. There were plenty of days when I had to get right up and out, when lounging in bed wasn't an option. But today was a lazy Sunday. I didn't have any plans.

Narrator/Storyteller (13:05)

And with.

Kathryn Nicolai (13:05)

The icy wind blowing against my windows, I decided I wouldn't make any. Eventually the craving for coffee nudged me out of bed, and I pulled back the blankets and stepped down into my slippers. I filled my kettle at the sink and set it on the stove and listened to the click, click, click of the gas lighter turning on. I took my French press from the drying rack and put the pieces of it together. I ground coffee beans and dumped them into the pot, using a small paintbrush to get all of them from the crevices of the grinder. While I waited for the water to boil, I strolled over to the windows and looked down into the street. It certainly looked cold. I saw a few brave souls in the coffee shop and wondered if the usual meeting of grandfathers at the big table along the back wall would still happen. The diner was open down the street, and the bakery kitty corner to it, had its lights on. The kettle whistled behind me, and I left the window and poured the water into my press, letting the steam curl around my neck as it filled. I set the plunger on top and took my favorite mug from the cupboard. While it brewed, I fished through my bag hanging from the coat rack by the door. I'd gotten a gift from my brother over the holidays, a box that had showed up on my doorstep wrapped in brown paper. Inside were a couple books of crosswords and Sudoku puzzles. I hadn't done any in years, but over the last few weeks I'd become a regular puzzler. I stuck to the easy and medium puzzles. I didn't have anything to prove and I just liked filling them in, though I still got stuck from time to time. I'd even worn through the eraser on my pencil and had to stop at the stationery shop to buy a few of those pink eraser caps. To extend its usefulness, I pressed the plunger down on my French press and poured a cup to the brim. I set it on my nightstand, dropped my crossword book and pencil on the coverlet and crawled back into bed. I tucked the covers tight around me and rested back against the pillows. I would stay in bed as long as I wanted. This morning in my snug apartment.

Narrator/Storyteller (17:26)

With.

Kathryn Nicolai (17:26)

The fire burning and my puzzles, I had one of those moments of pure glee, simple joy at how happy I was with my situation, and it made me laugh and wriggle against the sheets. I flipped open my book and propped it in my lap, took a long sip of coffee, and read the first clue. One across, voice above tenor, four letters. Well, that was alto. I'd noticed that there were a few handy clues that puzzle makers used over and over again. What was the best cookie for dunking?

Narrator/Storyteller (18:37)

An Oreo.

Kathryn Nicolai (18:40)

How did you join the poker game, Auntie? What foil did fencers use? Epi. And I'd learned a few things as I worked the puzzles. Who did Leander Love. It was Hero, who was the Roman goddess of the dawn Aurora. For a cross historical period. This one came up a lot, too, but it was usually three letters and this was asking for five.

Narrator/Storyteller (19:31)

Oh, Epoch.

Kathryn Nicolai (19:36)

The wind blew in a strong gust and I looked up to see snowflakes cascading past my window. Even better to be home and snug in bed and watch it come down. I drank more coffee. 21 down. Took it very easy. 5 letters and it started with an.

Narrator/Storyteller (20:14)

L.

Kathryn Nicolai (20:16)

Well, this one was right up my alley. I thought it must be something to do with laying down and checked the cross clue on the third letter, an alignment of celestial bodies. I'd had this one before, and I'd had to look it up when I'd finally surrendered because it was a very tricky one, A word I'd never heard before. Syzygy. So that put a Z in the middle of. Took it very easy. Lazed.

Narrator/Storyteller (21:07)

Yep, that sure fit.

Kathryn Nicolai (21:13)

The snow was falling even thicker outside, and I rested my pencil in the crease of my book and reached for my cup. It was nearly empty. Might have another one for certain. Then maybe some toast or oatmeal. Or both. The rest of the day would be more of the same. Puzzles, movies, a long bath in my tub, a pot of soup, playing records, enjoying the fire just like when I was a child tucked inside my cupboard. I was content to be nestled inside, to enjoy my own company and only emerge when I was ready.

Narrator/Storyteller (22:23)

Winter Walk Deep snow had fallen overnight, and the morning broke clear and cold. I lingered at the kitchen table with an extra cup of coffee as I watched the light shift and the sun come up. Sunrise in deep winter, with its bright pinks and streaks of yellow feels like an affirmation from Mother Nature herself. Yes, the days are short and the landscape coated in shades of white and gray, but the skies are vibrant. There is bright life. In the thickest days of winter, with the sun up, I'd opened all the curtains and let it slant into the rooms of my house. We hadn't seen much sun in a while, and I found myself stopping to look out and taking a few deep breaths every few minutes as I worked through my morning chores. Someone told me years ago that you get a better night's sleep in a bed that's been made. Something about the feeling of tidiness and order helped you to drift off, so I'd made a habit of it, and now I found it to be a kind of morning meditation. I did it the same way each time and took care with the process. I had an armchair with a little ottoman in front of my bedroom window where I sometimes sat and read, and I stacked the pillows on it and pulled back the duvet and sheet. I smoothed out the sheet under it and pulled the blankets back up. Walking around the bed and refolding and tucking the edges, I shook out the pillows and plumped them back into place. I took a soft plaid throw that my kitty liked and swirled it into a nest and placed it at the foot of the bed for her. With curtains open and the morning light coming in, the room looked neat and inviting. I had a day to enjoy, but I was already looking forward to going to bed tonight. With my chores done and the day becoming as warm and as bright as it would likely get, I decided to bundle up and take a long walk in the fresh snow. I layered on sweater and coat, thick socks and boots, hat and scarf and gloves, and closed the back door behind me and stood looking out at the unbroken drifts of snow. The cold air opened my eyes wide and I looked up at the peaks of old evergreens and the bare branches of maples stacked with a foot of snow. Winter walks are slow walks, and you make your way carefully and a bit ploddingly, but it gives you time for lots of looking and thinking and noticing. Past the edge of the yard I stepped onto a well worn path and into thickening woods. I had a few acres and this portion of my land backed up to more woods that were public so I could walk for a long time and not run out of trees and wilderness. I remembered the winter walks I took with my family as a child. There was an empty lot at the end of the street, and beyond it fields and clusters of trees, and while the whole thing was probably no bigger than a city block, it felt like a secret land, a place where there was no end of exploring to be done. Children have this power to look at something simple, and every day, imagine the wondrous. I felt a growing warmth in my belly and chest from the exercise and fresh air. I took deep breaths of it and let it fill my lungs. The familiar paths looked new in the thick snow, and I took a few turns, intentionally leading myself away from my usual route, knowing I could follow my boot prints back if I got turned around. I followed a frozen creek with just a trickle of moving water past a thick grove of birch trees there rippled white bark, at home in the white winter, to an open meadow where I stood for a while with a sudden feeling that there was something here to see. She stepped out slowly from the trees across the field a doe, tall and elegant. I guessed she'd seen me long before I was aware of her, but she'd trusted and let me see her anyway. I was caught by her beauty and stood still and maybe forgot to breathe for a moment. Then I called out, low and calm, nice day for a walk, and she wagged her white tail and bent her head to nose through the snow for a bit of winter brows. I supposed she was as glad to see the sun as I had been this morning and reminded myself that the earth is what we all have in common. I left her to her meal and followed my tracks back through the woods and eventually into my own garden. The long walk had made me hungry, and I was already thinking my way through the fridge and pantry and mentally setting the table. I kicked the snow from my boots and stood in the back hall, reversing the process that had started this morning's adventure. I went to my room to change snowy layers for warm, fresh ones and found Kitty curled into her spot on the bed. She turned her chin up in an impossible angle, wriggled lazily on her spine, and let out a soft meow. I curled up around her and told her about the deer I'd seen in the open field. I told her she was probably back in her den by now, nestled down with her friends, and Kitty purred. It was good to go out into the woods and walk and remember the fresh air, and then it was good to retrace your steps, tuck back into the warmth and comfort of home. The winter wasn't over yet, but the sun was out and there was much to enjoy while we waited for spring.

Narrator/Storyteller (31:06)

Fresh snow Fresh snow had fallen overnight, another three or four inches of the light fluffy kind that while it couldn't be packed into a snowball or rolled to stack one on top, another with a carrot nose and twig arms.

Narrator/Storyteller (31:31)

Was.

Narrator/Storyteller (31:31)

Really lovely to kick through with winter.

Narrator/Storyteller (31:33)

Boots or stride across with snowshoes or.

Narrator/Storyteller (31:39)

Slide over with a pair of freshly waxed skis. In fact, I'd spent the day before trekking in my snowshoes with friends.

Kathryn Nicolai (31:52)

On.

Narrator/Storyteller (31:52)

A long trail that wound through the woods and beside a frozen lake. We'd stopped every now and then to catch our breath and take in the shades of white and blue and icy dark gray that lay in layers on the landscape. At the edge of the lake, whose surface was streaked and marbled with brighter, thicker layers of ice like a shining.

Narrator/Storyteller (32:25)

Clear granite.

Narrator/Storyteller (32:29)

I'd noticed the upturned stems of Queen Anne's lace. The petals had fallen away months ago, but the stems and woody veins remained and now held a tiny pocket of fresh snow like wine in a glass. Though the day was cold, the steady push of my legs and pull on my poles had kept me plenty warm, and I'd loved the feeling of cool air on my cheeks as we made our slow progress through foothills and bare brush back toward the ski lodge. We'd followed the long walk with an equally long, lingering rest around the fireplace in the lodge. It was a cozy space lift lined with brick and stone, tall windows that looked out at the slopes and old worn wood floors. The ceilings were high, with knotty beams running the length of the room, and the fire was sunken in a pit with soft benches all around. We'd unbundled from our coats and hats and gloves, met up there for hot drinks. I'd propped my feet in their insulated socks upon the brick surrounding the fire and let out a deep, contented sigh. My friends chatted about the things we'd seen on our walk, the long low profile of a fox, its ruddy brown fur standing out against the white as he glided through the trees.

Kathryn Nicolai (34:30)

The bubbles.

Narrator/Storyteller (34:31)

Caught in the surface of the lake and tiny dots high up on the slopes cutting a smooth zigzag down the mountain. A tray of drinks arrived, coffees and cocos and toddies with sweet and strong smelling steam rising off of them. I'd ordered a hot chocolate and it came with a peppermint stick which slowly melted into the chocolate as I stirred. It had been a pleasure just to sit and listen to my friends as they talked. It was something I valued more as I got older, friends I could just quietly be with. I didn't need to talk or push the moment forward. We were all just happy to be around each other. We'd happily read books shoulder to shoulder on a sofa for an hour or watch an old movie till someone fell asleep and someone else covered them up with a blanket. It was a good place to be in your life when you realized you didn't need to prove anything to the people you were sharing your time with. You didn't need to be clever or have a joke to tell. Just showing up as yourself was enough. That night, after the fire had died.

Narrator/Storyteller (36:12)

Down.

Narrator/Storyteller (36:14)

After we trooped off to dinner and sleepily to our rooms, I'd run a hot bath for myself. My muscles were well worked from our snowshoeing, and a good long soak sounded just right. As the water filled the tub I'd trailed in a good amount of Epsom salts. I smiled to myself in the dark room. It seemed a sign I was definitely getting older. When packing for a weekend away, I'd been sure to bring Epsom salts and peppermint oil for sore muscles. Well, that was fine by me. Getting older seemed to me just another way to say making friends with yourself. I turned off the water and set a towel by the tub. I left the room dark. There was a window which seemed oddly placed, a pie in the opposite wall, but once I'd slid down into the water, I saw that it was perfectly aligned for gazing out at the mountain from the tub. That's when it had started to snow. I had been watching the moment the first flakes formed and fell. The whole world seemed quiet as it came down. The wind kicked up a bit, and I watched as small cyclones of whirling snow spun until they spun themselves out at last. With my fingertips turning pruney in the water, I drained the tub and wrapped myself in a thick robe. When I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over my shoulder, I imagined my friends were all well into their dreams by now. The snow kept falling through the night, and when I woke up today, I'd seen those fresh three or four inches. We met back up around the breakfast table and agreed today would be for skiing. The lodge made their own homemade granola, toasted oats, cinnamon, and walnuts, and I filled my bowl with it, adding a sliced banana and coconut milk. We ate hearty to carry us through the morning on the slopes, and soon we were zipping back into our gear and clicking our skis into place. I had come late to skiing, and my first season I'd taken lessons cautiously, juddering down tiny hills while six year olds blazed past me, shouting encouragement. Since then I'd figured out that the more I relaxed, the less rigidly I held myself on my skis, the smoother the ride would be. It still took me a few runs to settle into a rhythm, but soon I was gliding from one run to another, feeling the fresh air rush past me and pulling it deep into my lungs. My friends and I would sometimes catch up with each other and race to the bottom or ride the chair lift up. I loved watching the chairlift climb the swinging legs of excited little ones against the blue sky as we headed up to do it all over again. I knew we would make our way up and down until we had thoroughly worn ourselves out and follow it up just as we had yesterday with feet up in front of the fire and hot chocolate and a good dinner. And then I could have another bath and another long look out of that window and another night's deep sleep.

Kathryn Nicolai (41:17)

Cold snap and Crosswords I've always loved small spaces. Even as a child I found myself crawling into cabinets and pulling pillows into the space under desks. I'd happily curl up with a book or a toy and spend an hour or two snug in my makeshift nest. So when I found this apartment.

Narrator/Storyteller (42:14)

On.

Kathryn Nicolai (42:14)

The top floor of an old brick building on the edge of downtown.

Narrator/Storyteller (42:23)

It.

Kathryn Nicolai (42:23)

Immediately felt like home. It was a studio and I liked doing all my living in one space. It had coved ceilings and tall windows that looked all the way into the park. It had a small kitchen with a built in banquette space for my big bed, a bathroom tiled in black and white, and very best of all, a fireplace. It had been a wood burning hearth when the building was first built.

Narrator/Storyteller (43:30)

In.

Kathryn Nicolai (43:30)

Art Deco style a hundred years before, but had been converted to gas before I'd moved in. I loved the smell of a wood fire, but I had to admit that being able to turn it on by remote from the comfort of my still warm bed was a luxury I enjoyed. And that's what I did today. We'd had a cold snap that had started the evening before. It had already been cold, but as the sun went down the temperature dropped steeply, and when I'd come home with a couple bags of groceries last night around seven, the chill had followed me right into the elevator and I'd had to drink a whole pot of tea to warm up and it had gotten even colder overnight. I'd slept well, though with my apartment just a little cooler than usual. When I woke a little past sunrise, I'd plumped the pillows and sat up in bed, pulling the comforter closer around me and clicked on the fireplace. A line of blue flame skirted along the bottom of the ceramic logs, then sprung up into the orange and red fire, and I let out a sigh. I stayed in bed for a while, letting the room warm up and sipping from the cup of water on my nightstand. There were plenty of days when I had to get right up and out, when lounging in bed wasn't an option. But today was a lazy Sunday. I didn't have any plans, and with the icy wind blowing against my windows, I decided I wouldn't make any. Eventually the craving for coffee nudged me out of bed, and I pulled back the blankets and stepped down into my slippers. I filled my kettle at the sink and set it on the stove and listened to the click, click, click, click of the gas lighter turning on. I took my French press from the drying rack and put the pieces of it together. I ground coffee beans and dumped them into the pot, Using a small paint brush to get all of them from the crevices of the grinder. While I waited for the water to boil, I strolled over to the windows and looked down into the street. It certainly looked gold. I saw a few brave souls in the coffee shop and wondered if the usual meeting of grandfathers at the big table along the back wall would still happen. The diner was open down the street, and the bakery, kitty corner to it, had its lights on. The kettle whistled behind me, and I left the window and poured the water into my press, letting the steam curl around my neck as it filled. I set the plunger on top and took my favorite mug from the cupboard. While it brewed, I fished through my bag hanging from the coat rack by the door. I'd gotten a gift from my brother over the holidays, a box that had showed up on my doorstep wrapped in brown paper. Inside were a couple books of crosswords and Sudoku puzzles. I hadn't done any in years, but over the last few weeks I'd become a regular puzzler. I stuck to the easy and medium puzzles. I didn't have anything to prove, and I just liked filling them in, though I still got stuck from time to time. I'd even worn through the eraser on my pencil and had to stop at the stationery shop to buy a few of those pink eraser caps. To extend its usefulness, I pressed the plunger down on my French press and poured a cup to the brim. I set it on my nightstand and dropped my crossword book and pencil on the coverlet and crawled back into bed. I tucked the covers tight around me and rested back against the pillows. I would stay in bed as long as I wanted. This morning in my snug apartment with the fire burning and my puzzles, I had one of those moments of pure glee, simple joy at how happy I was with my situation, and it made me laugh and wriggle against the sheets. I flipped open my book and propped it in my lap, took a long sip of coffee, and read the first clue. One across, voice above tenor. Four letters. That was alto. I'd noticed that there were a few handy clues that puzzle makers used over and over again. What was the best cookie for dunking? An Oreo. How did you join the poker game, Auntie? What foil did fencers use? Epi. And I'd learned a few things as I worked the puzzles. Who did? Leander Love. It was Hero, Who was the Roman goddess of the dawn.

Narrator/Storyteller (53:44)

Aurora.

Kathryn Nicolai (53:47)

Four across historical period. This one came up a lot, too, but it was usually three letters and this was asking for five.

Narrator/Storyteller (54:05)

Oh, epic.

Kathryn Nicolai (54:12)

The wind blew in a strong gust and I looked up to see snowflakes cascading past my window. Even better to be home and snug in bed and watch it come down. I drank more coffee. 21 down took it very easy. Five letters and it started with an.

Narrator/Storyteller (54:50)

L.

Kathryn Nicolai (54:52)

Well, this one was right up my alley. I thought it must be something to do with laying down and checked the cross clue on the third letter.

Narrator/Storyteller (55:13)

An.

Kathryn Nicolai (55:13)

Alignment of celestial bodies. I'd had this one before, and I'd had to look it up when I'd finally surrendered because it was a very.

Narrator/Storyteller (55:30)

Tricky one.

Kathryn Nicolai (55:35)

A word I'd never heard before. Syzygy. So that put a Z in the middle of. Took it very easy. Laced. Yep, that sure fit. The snow was falling even thicker outside, and I rested my pencil in the crease of my book and reached for my cup. It was nearly empty. I'd have another one for certain, then maybe some toast or oatmeal. Or both. The rest of the day would be more of the same. Puzzles, movies, a long bath in my tub, a pot of soup, playing records, enjoying the fire just like when I was a child tucked inside my cupboard. I was content to be nestled inside, to enjoy my own company.

Narrator/Storyteller (57:08)

And only.

Kathryn Nicolai (57:09)

Emerge when I was ready.

Narrator/Storyteller (57:15)

Winter Walk Deep snow had fallen overnight, and the morning broke clear and cold. I'd lingered at the kitchen table with an extra cup of coffee as I watched the light shift and the sun come up. Sunrise in deep winter, with its bright pinks and streaks of Yellow feels like an affirmation from Mother Nature herself. Yes, the days are short and the landscape coated in shades of white and gray, but the skies are vibrant. There is bright life. In the thickest days of winter. With the sun up, I'd opened all the curtains and let it slant into the rooms of my house. We hadn't seen much sun in a while, and I found myself stopping to look out and taking a few deep breaths every few minutes as I worked through my morning chores. Someone told me years ago that you get a better night's sleep and a bed that's been made. Something about the feeling of tidiness and order helped you to drift off, so I made a habit of it, and now I found it to be a kind of morning meditation. I did it the same way each time and took care with the process. I had an armchair with a little ottoman in front of my bedroom window where I sometimes sat and read, and I stacked the pillows on it and pulled back the duvet and sheet. I smoothed out the sheet under it and pulled the blankets back up. Walking around the bed and refolding and tucking the edges, I shook out the pillows and plumped them back into place. I took a soft plaid throw that my kitty liked and swirled it into a nest and placed it at the foot of the bed for her. With curtains open and the morning light.

Narrator/Storyteller (60:26)

Coming in.

Narrator/Storyteller (60:29)

The room looked neat and inviting. I had a day to enjoy, but I was already looking forward to going to bed tonight. With my chores done and the day becoming as warm and bright as it would likely get, I decided to bundle up and take a long walk in the fresh snow. I layered on a sweater and a coat, thick socks and boots, hat and scarf and gloves, and closed the back door behind me and stood looking out at the unbroken drifts of snow.

Narrator/Storyteller (61:28)

The cold air opened my eyes wide.

Narrator/Storyteller (61:32)

And I looked up at the peaks of old evergreens and the bare branches of maples stacked with a foot of snow. Winter walks are slow walks. You make your way carefully and a.

Narrator/Storyteller (61:54)

Bit ploddingly.

Narrator/Storyteller (61:57)

But it gives you time for lots of looking and thinking and noticing. Past the edge of the yard I stepped onto a well worn path and into thickening woods. I had a few acres and this portion of my land backed up to more woods that were public so I could walk for a long time and not run out of trees or wilderness. I remembered the winter walks I took with my family as a child. There was an empty lot at the end of the street, and beyond it fields and clusters of trees and while the whole thing was probably no bigger than a city block, it felt like a secret land, a place where there was no end of exploring to be done. Children have this power to look at something simple and every day and imagine the wondrous. I felt a growing warmth in my belly and chest from the exercise and fresh air. I took deep breaths of it and let it fill my lungs. The familiar paths looked new in the thick snow, and I took a few turns, intentionally leading myself away from my usual route, knowing I could follow my boot prints back if I got turned around. I followed a frozen creek with just a trickle of moving water past a thick grove of birch trees there rippled white bark at home in the white winter, to an open meadow where I stood for a while, a sudden feeling that there was something here to see. She stepped out slowly from the trees across the field a doe, tall and elegant. I guessed she'd seen me long before I was aware of her, but she'd trusted and let me see her anyway. I was caught by her beauty and stood still and maybe forgot to breathe for a moment. Then I called out, low and calm, nice day for a walk, and she wagged her white tail and bent her head to nose through the snow for a bit of winter brows. I supposed she was as glad to see the sun as I had been this morning and reminded myself that the earth is what we all have in common. I left her to her meal and followed my tracks back through the woods and eventually into my own garden. The long walk had made me hungry, and I was already thinking my way through the fridge and pantry and mentally setting the table. I kicked the snow from my boots and stood in the back hall, reversing the process that had started this morning adventure. I went to my room to change snowy layers for warm, fresh ones and found Kitty curled into her spot on the bed. She turned her chin up in an impossible angle, wriggled lazily on her spine, and let out a soft meow. I curled up around her and told her about the deer I'd seen in the open field. I told her she was probably back in her den by now, nestled down with her friends, and Kitty purred. It was good to go out into the woods and walk and remember the fresh air. And then it was good to retrace your steps, tuck back into the warmth and comfort of home. The winter wasn't over yet, but the sun was out and there was much to enjoy while we waited for spring. Fresh snow.

Narrator/Storyteller (67:31)

Fresh snow had fallen overnight, another three or four inches of the light, fluffy kind that, while it couldn't be packed into a snowball or rolled to stack one atop another with a carrot nose and twig arms, was really lovely to kick through with winter boots or stride across with snowshoes or slide over with a pair of freshly waxed skis. In fact, I'd spent the day before trekking in my snowshoes with friends on a long trail that wound through the.

Narrator/Storyteller (68:25)

Woods.

Narrator/Storyteller (68:28)

And beside a frozen lake. We'd stopped every now and then to catch our breath and take in the shades of white and blue, an icy dark gray that lay in layers on the landscape. At the edge of the lake, whose surface was streaked and marbled with brighter, thicker layers of ice like a shining clear granite, I'd noticed the upturned stems of Queen Anne's lace. The petals had fallen away months ago, but the stems and woody veins remained and now held a tiny pocket of fresh snow like wine in a glass. Though the day was cold, the steady push of my legs and pull on my poles had kept me plenty warm, and I'd loved the feeling of cool air on my cheeks. As we'd made our slow progress through foothills and bare brush back toward the ski lodge, We'd followed the long walk with an equally long, lingering rest around the fireplace in the lod. It was a cozy space lined with brick and stone, tall windows that looked out at the slopes and old worn wood floors. The ceilings were high, with knotty beams running the length of the room, and the fire was sunken in a pit with soft benches all around. We'd unbundled from our coats and hats and gloves and met up there for hot drinks. I'd propped my feet in their insulated socks up on the bricks surrounding the fire and let out a deep, contented sigh. My friends chatted about the things we'd seen on our walk, the long, low profile of a fox, its ruddy brown fur standing out against the white as he'd glided through the trees, The bubbles caught in the surface of the lake and tiny dots high up on the slopes cutting a smooth zigzag down the mountain. A tray of drinks arrived, coffees and cocos and toddies with sweet and strong smelling steam rising off of them. I'd ordered a hot chocolate and it came with a peppermint stick which slowly melted into the chocolate as I'd stirred. It had been a pleasure just to sit and listen to my friends as they talked. It was something I valued more as I got older, friends I could just quietly be with. I didn't need to talk or push the moment forward. We were all just happy to be around each other. We'd happily read books shoulder to shoulder on a sofa for an hour.

Narrator/Storyteller (73:14)

Or.

Narrator/Storyteller (73:14)

Watch an old movie till someone fell asleep and someone else covered them up with a blanket. It was a good place to be in your life when you realized you didn't need to prove anything to the people you were sharing your time with. You didn't need to be clever or.

Kathryn Nicolai (73:42)

Have a joke to tell.

Narrator/Storyteller (73:46)

Just showing up as yourself was enough. That night, after the fire had died.

Kathryn Nicolai (73:57)

Down.

Narrator/Storyteller (74:00)

After we trooped off to dinner and then sleepily to our rooms, I'd run a hot bath for myself. My muscles were well worked from our snowshoeing, and a good long soak sounded just right. As the water filled the tub I'd trailed in a good amount of Epsom.

Narrator/Storyteller (74:33)

Salts.

Narrator/Storyteller (74:38)

I smiled to myself in the dark room. It seemed a sign I was definitely getting older. When packing for a weekend away, I'd been sure to bring Epsom salts and peppermint oil for sore muscles. Well, that was fine by me. Getting older seemed to me to just be another way to say making friends with yourself. I turned off the water and set a towel by the tub. I left the room dark. There was a window which seemed oddly placed up high on the opposite wall, but once I'd slid down into the water, I saw that it was perfectly aligned for gazing out at the mountain from the top. That's when it had started to snow. I had been watching the moment the first flakes formed and fell. The whole world seemed quiet as it came down. The wind kicked up a bit, and I watched as small cyclones of whirling snow spun until they spun themselves out. At last. With my fingertips turning pruney in the water, I drained the tub and wrapped myself in a thick robe. When I climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over my shoulder, I imagined my friends were all well into their dreams by now. The snow kept falling through the night, and when I woke up today I'd seen those fresh three or four inches. We met up back around the breakfast table and agreed today would be for skiing. The lodge made their own homemade granola, toasted oats, cinnamon, and walnuts, and I filled my bowl with it and, adding a sliced banana and coconut milk. We ate hearty to carry us through the morning on the slopes, and soon we were zipping back into our gear and clicking our skis into place. I had come late to skiing, and my first season I'd taken lessons cautiously, juddering down tiny hills while six year olds blazed past me shouting encouragement. Since then I'd figured out that the more I relaxed the less rigidly I held myself on my skis the smoother the ride would be. It still took me a few runs to settle into a rhythm but soon I was gliding from one run to another, feeling the fresh air rush past me and pulling it deep into my lungs. My friends and I would sometimes catch up with each other and race to the bottom or ride the chair lift back up together. I loved watching the chairlift climb, swinging legs of excited little ones against the blue sky as we headed up to do it all over again. I knew we would make our way up and down until we had thoroughly worn ourselves.

Narrator/Storyteller (80:01)

And follow it up just as we had yesterday with feet up in front.

Narrator/Storyteller (80:07)

Of the fire.

Narrator/Storyteller (80:10)

And hot chocolate and.

Narrator/Storyteller (80:13)

A good dinner and that I could have another bath and another long look out of that window and another night's deep sleep. Sweet dreams.