Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (2:31)

welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone in which nothing much Happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep.

Kathryn Nicolai (2:46)

I'm Kathryn Nicolai.

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (2:49)

I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Kathryn Nicolai (2:55)

Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (3:02)

week and this week we are giving

Kathryn Nicolai (3:05)

to Frosted Faces Foundation.

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (3:08)

They deliver the promise of family and

Kathryn Nicolai (3:11)

comprehensive veterinary care for senior pets whose love and lives are in jeopardy. Learn more about them in our show

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (3:20)

Notes There is a lot happening behind the scenes at NMH headquarters right now. A new book, an app, more ways to feel connected and calmed.

Kathryn Nicolai (3:35)

And if you want to stay in

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (3:36)

the loop, join our newsletter. You'll even get a little note straight from me with each one.

Kathryn Nicolai (3:44)

That and our premium subscription can all be found@nothingmuchhappens.com

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (3:51)

now just by listening to

Kathryn Nicolai (3:54)

a soft story at the end of

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (3:57)

the day, we can do more than help you sleep. We can help you regulate your nervous system and make doing so a reliable

Kathryn Nicolai (4:08)

part of your wind down each night.

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (4:11)

All you need to do is listen. The rest will happen automatically. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

Kathryn Nicolai (4:25)

If you wake later in the night, just press play again. Our story tonight is called Soap Bubbles

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (4:35)

and Sidewalks and it's a story about some spring cleaning done in fresh air. It's also about a curtain shifting near an open window, a hose in a bucket, old CDs in the glove box, clean that goes all the way into the corners, and the energy that returns when spring does

Kathryn Nicolai (5:03)

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Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (6:27)

that we sent you so switch off your light, put down anything you've been looking at or working on. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. Let it sink in that you are in bed and that there is nothing left to do but Rest.

Kathryn Nicolai (6:53)

Draw a deep breath in through your

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (6:55)

nose and sigh from your mouth. Nice. One more time. In and out. Good soap bubbles and sidewalks When I was a kid and spring cleaning came around, I'm sure I'd moaned and groaned, dragged my feet on my way to clean out the lost toys and stuffed animals from under my bed.

Kathryn Nicolai (7:42)

The urgency to deep clean, to get

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (7:48)

all the way into the corners and reset the house to zero, wasn't mine. It was my parents. As a kid, cleaning served only to take me away from something else I wanted to do and besides seemed pointless.

Kathryn Nicolai (8:11)

The clutter would return anyway.

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (8:15)

Now that I am the grown up in the equation, I understand the urgency, the way a house can become noisy with its need to be tended to, how satisfying clearing out the old resetting a space can be, and how eager one can become after a few months without being able to really do the job properly. The winter had been long and cold, and to me a house never feels clean until it is flooded with fresh air and, if at all possible, sunshine. This weekend had already proven to be immensely rewarding and productive. The snow had melted away completely and the days were warm enough to open the doors and windows, at least for a few hours. I'd cleaned out drawers and washed all the bedding, which had dried on the line and come in smelling of fresh spring air. The fridge had been wiped down and

Kathryn Nicolai (9:46)

cleared out of expired condiments, the shelves reorganized and tidy.

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (9:53)

Windows were washed, floors mopped, bookshelves dusted. I'd even finally driven over to the charity shop and dropped off the bags of clothes and household bits I'd been meaning to donate for months. They'd been rolling around in my backseat since a snowstorm had shut us indoors for a few days just after the New Year. Every weekend I'd meant to drop them off but forgotten, and now I finally had. When I pulled back into the driveway, the house sparkled in the sunlight, all those clean windows almost winking at me in the bright light. I'd opened all of them on the second floor, and I could see the thin cotton curtains of my bedroom twisting and floating in the breeze. I took deep breaths, knowing that the whole house would feel reinvigorated by the time I closed them up tonight. Now that my inside work was done and the fresh air so sweet, I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon outdoors and with my backseat empty, I knew which chore to turn to next. I clicked the button on my visor and watched as the garage door rolled slowly up into place. I would connect the hose fill a bucket with soapy water and give the car its first bath of the spring. I might even get out the vacuum and properly clean the mats and footwells. Suddenly excited by the plan in a way my childhood self would have been flabbergasted by, I rooted through the garage looking for everything I would need. I found one of those giant sponges that are so fun to squeeze out a half full bottle of dish soap and some clean rags to dry with. When I hooked up the hose and twisted on the nozzle, my gut lost for a few minutes rinsing the front walkway, watching the rivulets of water cutting paths through the dust and dirt left behind when the snow melted. The scent of hose water, that minerally rubber smell, made me smile, remembering playing with the hose on hot days when we were little wet sidewalks and wearing your swimsuit at 9am on a Tuesday, because why not? I squeezed a good bit of soap into my bucket and filled it with water from the hose and before I plunged the sponge in for the first time, decided to be smart and tug off my sweatshirt. Even in early spring the air, which had felt cool at first, was warming up and would probably have me sweating after a few minutes of work. Then lather, rinse, repeat for a while I leaned in close to admire the shimmering colors in the soap bubbles. I knew it had something to do with the way the light hit the

Kathryn Nicolai (14:33)

outer film of a bubble,

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (14:36)

that it overlapped with the light bouncing off its inside wall, creating interference. Then, as the film slid and wobbled, the bubble became thicker in some spots and thinner in others, and all of that created a tiny polychromatic lather on the passenger door that appeared and disappeared depending on the direction I swept my sponge. Layers of dirt and street salt came away and I laughed, thinking that I'd nearly forgotten what color my car was under all of that. I pulled out the floor mats and laid them in the driveway to hose them off. When the water ran clear, I draped them over the porch railings to let them drip dry. In the glove box I found a couple CDs which I'd been moving from car to car for the last 20 years. This car didn't even have a CD player, but it didn't feel right to drive around without them. They were mixes made by an old friend,

Kathryn Nicolai (16:17)

and I sat in the passenger

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (16:18)

seat for a few minutes, reading through the songs, thinking about the summer. We'd driven up north for a few hours, then back again just to have something to do. These had played the whole way in the seat pockets I found a pair of mittens, or rather two mittens, that weren't a pair but could team up in a moment of need. Common law mittens, I supposed. Under the driver's seat I found a hair clip I'd been looking for for ages and from what I could tell, every lip balm I'd ever owned. I cleaned out receipts and coffee sleeves, dusted and wiped the dash, and even remembered to put the first aid kit my uncle had sent all of us cousins for Christmas into the trunk. Across the street, my neighbors were raking dead leaves out from under their hedgerow. A lawnmower started in a backyard. Kids yelled the rules of a game from the end of the block. After months of nearly everything being slowed down are made just a little more difficult by the short days and the continuous cold. The ease of warm weather was returning, and tonight I would sleep in a clean house on fresh sheets, Soap bubbles, sidewalks. When I was a kid and spring cleaning came around, I'm sure I'd moaned and groaned, dragged my feet on my way to clean out the lost toys and stuffed animals from under my bed. After all, the urgency to deep clean, to get all the way into the corners and reset the house to zero, wasn't mine. It was my parents. As a kid, cleaning served only to take me away from something else I wanted to do and besides seemed pointless.

Kathryn Nicolai (19:35)

The clutter would return anyway.

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (19:41)

Now that I am the grown up in the situation, I understand the urgency, the way a house can become noisy with its need to be tended to, how satisfying clearing out the old and resetting a space can be, and how eager one can become after a few months without being able to really do the job properly. The winter had been long and cold, and to me a house never feels clean until it is flooded with fresh air and, if at all possible, sunshine. This weekend had already proven to be immensely rewarding and productive. The snow had melted completely and the days were warm enough to open the doors and windows, at least for a few hours. I cleaned out drawers and washed all the bedding, which had dried on the line and come in smelling of spring. The fridge had been wiped down and cleared out of expired condiments, the shelves reorganized and tidy. Windows were washed, floors mopped, bookshelves dusted. I'd even finally driven over to the charity shop and dropped off the bags of clothes and household bits I'd been meaning to donate for months. They'd been rolling around in my backseat since a snowstorm had shut us indoors for a few days just after the New Year Every weekend I'd meant to drop them off,

Kathryn Nicolai (23:05)

but forgotten. And now

Author/Narrator of Nothing Much Happens (23:10)

I'd finally done it. When I pulled back into the driveway, the house sparkled in the sunlight, all those clean windows almost winking at me in the bright light. I'd opened all of them on the second floor, and I could see the thin cotton curtains of my bedroom twisting and floating in the breeze. I took deep breaths, knowing that the whole house would feel reinvigorated by the time I closed them up tonight. Now that my inside work was done, the fresh air so sweet, I decided to spend the rest of the afternoon outdoors. And now, with my back seat empty, I knew just which chore to turn to next. I clicked the button on my visor and watched as the garage door slowly rolled up into place. I would connect the hose, fill a bucket with soapy water, and give the car its first bath of the spring. I might even get the vacuum out and properly clean the mats and footwells. Suddenly excited by the plan in a way my childhood self would have been flabbergasted by, I rooted through the garage looking for everything I would need. I found one of those giant sponges that are so fun to squeeze out, a half full bottle of dish soap and some clean rags to dry with. When I hooked up the hose and twisted the nozzle on, I got lost for a few minutes rinsing the front walkway, watching the rivulets of water cutting paths through the dust and dirt left behind when the snow melted. The scent of hose water, that minerally rubber smell, made me smile, remembering playing with the hose on hot days when we were little wet sidewalks and wearing your swimsuit at 9am on a Tuesday, because why not? I squeezed a good bit of soap into my bucket and filled it with water from the hose and before I plunged the sponge in for the first time, decided to be smart and tug off my sweatshirt. Even in early spring air, which had felt cool at first, the sun was warming me up and would probably have me sweating after a few minutes of work. Then lather, rinse, repeat for a while I leaned in close to admire the shimmering colors, the soap bubbles. I knew it had something to do with the way the light hit the outer film of a bubble that it overlapped with the light bouncing off the inside wall, creating interference. Then as the film slid and wobbled, it became thicker in some spots and thinner in others, and all of that created a tiny polychromatic lather on the passenger door that appeared and disappeared depending on the direction I swept my sponge. Layers of dirt and street salt came away and I laughed, thinking that I'd nearly forgotten what color my car was. Under all of that. I pulled out the floor mats and laid them in the driveway to hose them off. When the water ran clear, I draped them over the porch railings and let them drip dry. In the glove box I found a couple old CDs, which I'd been moving from car to car for the last 20 years. This car didn't even have a CD player, but it didn't feel right to drive around without them. They were mixes made by a friend, and I sat in the passenger seat for a few minutes, reading through the songs, thinking about the summer. We'd driven up north for a few hours and then back again just to have something to do. These had played the whole way. In the seat pockets I found a pair of mittens, or rather two mittens, that weren't a pair but could team up in a moment of need. Common law mittens, I supposed. Under the driver's seat I found a hair clip I'd been looking for for ages and, from what I could tell, every lip balm I'd ever owned. I cleaned out receipts and coffee sleeves, dusted and wiped the dash, and even remembered to put the first aid kit my uncle had sent to all of us cousins for Christmas into the trunk. Across the street, my neighbors were raking dead leaves out from under their hedgerow. A lawnmower started in a backyard. Kids yelled the rules of a game from the end of the block. After months of nearly everything being slowed down or made just a little more difficult by the short days and the constant cold, the ease of warm weather was returning, and tonight I would sleep in a clean house on fresh sheets. Sweet dreams,