← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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- [00:01]
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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. Hi, I'm Kathryn Nicolai and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to that isn't news or true crime or self improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding soothing and quietly uplifting without being cheesy, relaxing without putting you to sleep. And just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute. While you're tidying up or when you want a little escape that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the Village of Nothing Much wherever you listen.
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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
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I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to TinyPaw's Pug Rescue finding their forever homes. Learn more about them in our show
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notes
- [01:59]
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for bonus and ad free episodes and to support and sustain what we do. Become a premium member by clicking subscribe in Apple or Spotify or by going to nothingmuchhappens.com.
- [02:15]
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you know how this goes. I'm going to build a scaffolding with words, a support system for your mind to rest in. I'll read our story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, any scaffolding will do this story or any simple, pleasant memory. Just start at a beginning point and walk yourself through and within a few steps you'll fall right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called Slow Life and it's about changing your pace lots of small ways. It's also about the texture of tree bark, your shoulders releasing from your ears, and the feeling of cello music vibrating in your chest. Now lights out. Snuggle in. Release your jaw. Anything left from the day, take a second to acknowledge it. It's the act of looking away that makes thoughts stickier. If you look head on, just acknowledge what is there, how it feels. Often it will release its grip on you and a couple breaths will help complete the cycle.
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Take a deep breath in through your nose.
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Let it out your mouth. Nice.
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One more. Breathe in and out.
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Good. Slow Life There are certain lessons I have to learn over and over again. I can't count how many times I've started cooking dinner by saying to myself I don't need the big pan. In an attempt to save time cleaning up, I reach for the smaller1. Then 10 minutes later, when it's overflowing with vegetables and spices and I still need to add the sauce, I concede and take the bigger pan out and sloppily shift everything from one to the other, thereby actually tripling the mess. It's the same on that street that runs through downtown. The lights are timed and if I slow down, I'll actually hit a half dozen green lights in a row. But I forget over and over and race only to stop and wait at each one. What other lessons? To mind my own business, to let what others think of me be theirs. I put too many clothes in the washing machine, then have to dry them three times. Most of these come to the same thing. Slow down. Slow down to remember what I already know. Slow down to enjoy the process of everyday actions. Slow down because I'll just make better choices when I'm not rushed. So I'm trying to have a slower life in the moments when I can it started at home in very small ways. When I washed the dishes, I waited till the water temperature was just right before I filled the sink. Then I found I didn't have to run more hot or cold in as I went. I slowed down as I put away a stack of folded T shirts, and rather than drop half of them in a heap in a drawer, they actually went in the way they were meant to. It was a deliberate practice, something I had to revisit pretty regularly as my inner engine was so used to revving up that I'd find myself rushing for no reason, And soon I'd stub my toe or back out of the driveway with my coffee cup on the car roof. Or need three tries to turn off a light switch and think I'm doing it again, and I'd take a deep
- [09:05]
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breath
- [09:09]
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and let it out and slow down. Even trickier was living slowly out of the house when the momentum of the people around me could easily catch me up like a leaf in the current of a creek. It helped to look for small details to pay attention to when I waited in line on a busy morning at the bakery, feeling the haste of those around me eager to get a bagel and get to work or school. I really looked at the golden color of the croissants in the case. I listened to the creaky board under my feet. I breathed in the jammy smell of the donuts when I was in the park, walking fast for no reason, a stitch in my side and without the space in my head or senses to enjoy the summer breeze, I'd catch myself sometimes literally, by reaching out to loop an arm around the trunk of a tree. I'd close my eyes and lift my face to the sky and give the hurry a chance to drain out of me. With my eyes still closed, the sounds around me shifted from background noise to hi Fi stereo. I'd listen to hear my own breath, feel my heartbeat, and once I could, I'd start to walk again, deliberately, looking for a pace that just felt good. I'd remind myself of something my yoga teacher used to say when I was trying too hard on my mat, straining with my shoulders clenched to my ears in warrior Virabhadrasana too, she'd lay her hands gently on my shoulders and remind me there's nowhere to get, nowhere to get nowhere. I'd read once about the word utopia, a word we've taken to mean paradise, a place of perfection. The literal translation, though, is just no place, and when I read that, I didn't take it as a seed of pessimism planted in the literature, as if Sir Thomas More were saying paradise couldn't exist, but rather that perfection lives in open spaces, in unhurried minutes, in bare experience. Was that what he meant? Honestly, I didn't care. It meant that for me. I looked forward to some of those bare experiences tonight as I headed to the auditorium where the community theater played. There was a chamber music concert that I'd bought a ticket for, and when the usher at the door tore it and handed me back the stub, he gestured up the aisle and straight toward the stage. In keeping with the concept of music for a small space, the audience was limited and seated right on stage with the musicians. I found my seat and slipped my program into my bag. I didn't want to read about it. I wanted to listen without distraction. The house lights dimmed and it felt like the stage was a raft floating in a broad sea of darkness. The musicians took their places, and I pressed my feet flat on the floor and rested my palms on my knees. I closed my eyes and turned myself over to listening. I could hear the small sounds of the instruments being brought into position. I swear I could even hear the sound of everyone coming to attention, that all of us musicians and audience members decided together to turn our inner dials to the same channel. Then there was the high, poignant voice of a violin playing a melody I didn't know. The cello joined in, and I could feel the resonance of it in my chest. I'd heard someone say once that sound is just touch from a distance, and I could see why as the viola and piano came in, as they handed the melody back and forth and knit the notes together, it felt like I was woven into the music. I slowed my breath down. I was no place, and I intended to stay. Slow life. There are certain lessons I have to learn over and over again. I can't count how many times I've started cooking dinner by saying to myself, I don't need the big pan. In an attempt to save time cleaning up, I reach for the smaller1. Then 10 minutes later when it's overflowing with vegetables, spices, and I still need to add the sauce, I concede and take the bigger pan out and sloppily shift everything from one to the other, thereby actually tripling the mass. It's the same on the street that runs through downtown. The lights are timed and if I slow down, I'll actually hit a half dozen green lights in a row. But I forget over and over and race, only to stop and wait at each one. What other lessons? Oh, to mind my own business, to let what others think of me be theirs. I put too many clothes in the washing machine and then have to dry them three times. Most of these come to the same thing. Slow down. Slow down to remember what I already know. Slow down to enjoy the process of everyday actions. Slow down because I'll just make better choices when I'm not rushed. So I'm trying to have a slower life in the moments when I can. It started at home in very small ways. When I washed the dishes. I waited till the water temperature was just right before I filled the sink. Then I found I didn't have to run more hot or cold in as I went. I slowed down as I put away a stack folded T shirts, and rather than drop half of them in a heap in the drawer, they actually went in the way they were meant to. It was a deliberate practice, something I had to revisit pretty regularly, as my inner engine was so used to revving up that I'd find myself rushing for no reason and soon I'd stub my toe or back out of the driveway with my coffee cup on the car
- [22:36]
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roof
- [22:38]
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or need three tries to turn off a light switch and think, ah, I'm doing it again. And I take a deep breath and let it out and slow down. Even trickier was living slowly out of the house, when the momentum of the people around me could easily catch me up like a leaf in the current of a creek, it helped to look for small details to pay attention to. So when I waited in line on a busy morning at the bakery, Feeling the haste of those around me eager to get a bagel and get to work or school, I really looked at the golden color of the croissants in the case. I listened to the creaky board under my feet. I breathed in the sweet, jammy smell of the donuts. When I was in the park, walking fast for no reason, a stitch in my side, and without the space in my head or senses to enjoy the summer breeze, I'd catch myself, sometimes literally, by reaching out to loop an arm around the trunk of a tree. I'd stop, close my eyes, and lift my face to the sky and give the hurry a chance to drain out of me. With my eyes still closed, the sounds around me shifted from background noise to hi fi stereo. I'd listen. To hear my own breath, to feel my heartbeat, and once I could, I'd start to walk again, deliberately looking for a pace that just felt good. I'd remind myself of something my yoga teacher used to say when I was trying too hard on my mat, straining with my shoulders clenched to my ears. In Warrior Virabhadrasana 2, she'd lay her hands gently on my shoulders and remind me there's nowhere to get, Nowhere to get. Nowhere. I'd read once about the word utopia, a word we've taken to mean paradise, a place of perfection. The literal translation, though, is actually just no place, And when I read that, I didn't take it as a seed of pessimism planted in literature, as if Sir Thomas More were saying paradise couldn't exist, but rather that perfection lives in open spaces, In unhurried minutes, in bare experience. Is that what he meant? Honestly, I didn't care. It meant that for me. I looked forward to some of those bare experiences tonight, as I headed to the auditorium where the community theater played. There was a chamber music concert that I'd bought a ticket for,
- [29:04]
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and when
- [29:04]
B
the usher at the door tore it and handed me back the stub, he gestured up the aisle and straight toward the stage. In keeping with the concept of music for a small space, the audience was limited and seated right on stage with the musicians. I found my seat and slipped my program into my bag. I didn't want to read about it. I wanted to listen without distraction. The house lights dimmed and it felt like the stage was a raft floating in a broad sea of darkness. The musicians took their places and I pressed my feet flat on the floor and rested my palms on my knees. I closed my eyes and turned myself over to listening. I could hear the small sounds of the instruments being brought into position. I swear I could even hear the sound of everyone coming to attention. That all of us musicians and audience members decided together to turn our inner dials to the same channel. Then there was the high poignant voice of a violin playing a melody I didn't know. The cello joined in and I could feel the resonance of it in my chest. I heard someone say once that sound is just touch from a distance and I could see why. As the viola and piano came in, as they handed the melody back and forth and knit the notes together it felt like I was woven right into the music. I slowed my breath down. I was no place and I intended to stay. Sweet dreams.