← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
The Labyrinth (Encore)
00:32:09
Season 16, Episode 11
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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. You feel good and then you fall asleep. 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.
- [01:20]
Narrator
Now let's get ready to sleep. I'll read you a story. It's a place to rest your mind. Like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river. Your mind will follow along with the moving current of my voice and our story and before you know, will ease you into a deep sleep. I'll read the story twice and I'll go a little slower on the second read. If you wake in the night, take yourself back into the story, thinking back through any bit you can remember. This interrupts your brain's tendency to to cycle through thought and will put you right back into sleep mode. It is brain training and it might take a bit of practice, so be patient if you are new to this now it's time to switch off the light. Set down anything you've been looking at. You've looked at a screen for the last time today. Adjust your pillows and comforter until you feel completely at ease. If you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep, try resting the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help to keep your jaw relaxed. Now take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh out of your mouth. Again. Breathe in and out with sound. Good. Our story tonight is called the Labyrinth and it's a story about a slow walk on a gravel path in mid summer. It's also about hidden places, unseen acts of kindness, the way cats sit in their windows, and always, always looking for magic. The Labyrinth in the gardens of the big house on the far side of an open meadow where deer have worn narrow trails through the grass. There is a stone wall that was built when our great grandparents were children. And often when I am out there, my shoes damp with dew on a summer morning, I feel like it's possible to slip through time. I look across the meadow and watch purple coneflowers bobbing in the wind and listen to whippoorwills and mourning doves layering their calls one over the other, and think that this hour could belong to a day from a hundred years before, and that maybe through some trick of the unseen world, by stepping into a footprint laid deep in the ground or passing under a particular branch at the right moment when the moon is at a certain place in the sky, with Venus rising over her shoulder, I might have fallen out of the fabric of time and into another moment. This little bit of fanciful imagination is a leftover from childhood. I'm still looking for the door into the other world. I might run my hands over the stone wall, feeling the smooth rock face and the rough gravelly mortar, and find a tiny hole that could be a keyhole, and then check my pockets just in case a wrought iron skeleton key had somehow been magicked there for me to find. I doubt I'll ever lose this little habit of looking for magic. On this morning the mist made from warm air floating over the lake was still lingering around the edge of the water and between tree trunks like cotton batting that had been stuffed into place by invisible hands. I went around the edge of the stone wall, a wide, brimmed straw hat in my hand in preparation for when the sun made its way over the treetops. The air smelled sweet, like grass and lake water and had that cool, clean feeling that rejuvenates you when you breathe it in. How lovely to be reminded that every morning can be a fresh start, that you can begin again just by deciding to. I kept walking with a stone wall receding behind me and the grass becoming thinner at my feet. I was almost there. Now the labyrinth was in front of me, and this morning I looked to be the only one here to walk it, though even on days when there were many people out to stroll its paths, it was always a quiet place. People didn't come here to chat or socialize. They might give you a small wave or a kind acknowledging nod, but they'd leave you to your walk and you'd leave them to theirs. Labyrinths come in all sorts of shapes and styles, and I've walked them in many places around the world. I found them in city squares, in front of old cathedrals made of polished marble and granite laid out in an intricate pattern. In the street I've found them in the woods made from fallen branches, in city parks drawn with bright lines of spray paint, and of course, here beside the gardens of the big house, where its paths and Hedges are just visible from the map room. This labyrinth has paths bordered by low shrubs that are trimmed neatly so their even tops are only a foot above the ground. You can see where the path takes you. There's no secret about it. That's the difference between a maze and a labyrinth. A maze asks you to solve a puzzle. It might trick you into a dead end and send you back to try another route. But a labyrinth is just giving you somewhere to place your feet and a way to practice journeying with calm attention. It might take you down a winding trail that turns back and forth again and again before you arrive at its center. But it's nothing to unravel or conquer. It's just a process of movement. The paths themselves were laid with tiny white stones, which were regularly and carefully raked by a volunteer from the house at the end of the day. I was the first to step onto them this morning, and I took a moment just to be grateful that people were kind enough to care about such things. So many kind people work behind the scenes of everyday life. We often don't see the bite sized gestures that are made a million times a day to make the world a little softer and more welcoming to others, but they are still happening. I reminded myself to do my own part in that work today. Maybe I'd pick up a bit of garbage along the road, or leave the best parking spot for someone else, or just not take more than I needed. It all added up. At the edge of the labyrinth path, I stopped and slid my feet together underneath me. I thought of the way that cats often sit with their front paws together, their toes in a row, when they are watching birds outside their windows. It seemed like a sign of deliberation and watchfulness, so I had adopted it as a habit Before I took my first step, I caught my hands together behind my back and felt my breath moving over my lip. Sometimes I brought a specific thought to chew on while I walked, and when I did, I often found that the steady rhythm of my gait evened my mind out. I might not know the answer to a question I'd carried in at the start, but by the end I felt more relaxed with not knowing. Safe to just keep asking. Today, after a good night's sleep, my mind was already a bit like the lake on the other side of the garden. A few ripples on the surface, but mostly placid and still. So just walking, feeling the weight shift from heel to toe, was the main event and enough to keep my attention. I followed the turns in the path, let them take me nearly all the way around the labyrinth and then a step closer to its center and nearly all the way around the other way. At its heart was a large flat piece of slate with hedges around it trimmed to point to the four cardinal directions. As I stood there, the wind picked up around me and rushed through the treetops. I closed my eyes and thought that maybe in these small moments when we feel quite tied into the world, when we remember, we can begin again and that our only real work is kindness. Maybe that is when the door opens. Maybe that is magic. The Labyrinth in the gardens of the big house on the far side of an open meadow where deer have worn narrow trails through the grass, there is a stone wall that was built when our great grandparents were children. And often when I am out there, my shoes damp with dew on a summer morning, I feel like it's possible to slip through time. I look across the meadow and watch purple cone flowers bobbing in the wind and listen to whippoorwills and mourning doves layering their calls one over the other, and I think that this hour could belong to a day from a hundred years before, and that maybe through some trick of the unseen world, by stepping into a footprint laid deep in the ground or passing under a particular branch at the right moment when the moon is in a certain place in the sky, with Venus rising over her shoulder, I might have fallen out of the fabric of time and into another moment, this little bit of fanciful imagination. It's a leftover from childhood. I'm still looking for the door into the other world. I might run my hands over the stone wall, feeling the smooth rock face and the rough gravelly mortar, and find a tiny hole that could be a keyhole and check my pockets just in case a wrought iron skeleton key had somehow been magicked there for me to find. I doubt I'll ever stop this little habit of looking for magic. On this morning the mist made from warm air floating over the lake was still lingering around the edge of the water and between tree trunks like cotton batting that had been stuffed into place by invisible hands. I went around the edge of the stone wall, a wide, brimmed straw hat in my hand in preparation for when the sun made its way over the treetops. The air smelled sweet, like grass and lake water, and had the cool, clean feeling that rejuvenates you when you breathe it in. How lovely to be reminded that every morning can be a fresh start, that you can begin again just by deciding to. I kept walking with the stone wall receding behind me and the grass becoming thinner at my feet. I was almost there. Now the labyrinth was in front of me. And this morning I looked to be the only one out here to walk it. Though even on days when there are many people out to stroll its paths, it was always a quiet place. People didn't come here to chat or socialize. They might give you a small wave or kind acknowledging nod, but they'd leave you to your walk and you'd leave them to theirs. Labyrinths come in all sorts of shapes and styles, and I've walked them in many places around the world. I found them in city squares, in front of old cathedrals made of polished marble and granite, laid out in intricate patterns in the street. I found them in the woods made from fallen branches in city parks, drawn with bright lines of spray paint. And of course, here beside the gardens of the big house, where its paths and hedges are just visible from the map room. This labyrinth has paths bordered by low shrubs that are trimmed neatly so their even tops are only a foot above the ground. You can see where the path takes you. There's no secret about it. That's the difference between a maze and a labyrinth. A maze asks you to solve a puzzle. It might trick you into a dead end and send you back to try another ro. But a labyrinth is just giving you somewhere to place your feet and a way to practice journeying with calm attention. It might take you down a winding trail that turns back and forth again and again before you arrive at its center. But it's nothing to unravel or conquer. It's just a process of movement. The paths themselves were laid with tiny white stones, which were regularly and carefully raked by a volunteer from the house at the end of the day. I was the first to step onto them this morning, and I took a moment just to be grateful that people were kind enough to care about such things. So many kind people work behind the scenes of everyday life. We often don't see the bite sized gestures that are made a million times a day to make the world a little softer, more welcoming to others. But they are still happening. I reminded myself to do my own part in that work today. Maybe I'd pick up a bit of garbage along the road, or leave the best parking spot for someone else, or just not take more than I needed. It all added up. At the edge of the labyrinth path, I stopped, slid my feet together underneath me. I thought of the way that cats often sit with their front paws together, their toes in a row, when they are watching birds outside. Their windows. It seemed like a sign of deliberation and watchfulness, so I'd adopted it as a habit. Before I took my first step, I caught my hands together behind my back and felt my breath moving over my lip. Sometimes I brought a specific thought to chew on while I walked, and when I did, I often found that the steady rhythm of my gait evened my mind out. I might not know the answer to a question I'd carried in at the start, but by the end I felt more relaxed with not knowing. Safe to just keep asking. Today, after a good night's sleep, my mind was already a bit like the lake on the other side of the garden, a few ripples on the surface, but mostly placid and still. So just walking, feeling the weight shift from heel to toe, was the main event and enough to keep my attention. I followed the turns in the path, let them take me nearly all the way around the labyrinth and then a step closer to its center and nearly all the way around the other way. At its heart was a large, flat piece of slate with hedges around it, trimmed to point to the four cardinal directions. As I stood there, the wind picked up around me and rushed through the treetops. I closed my eyes and thought that maybe in these small moments when we feel quite tied into the world, when we remember that we can begin again and that our only real work is kindness, maybe that is when the door opens. Maybe that is magic. Sweet dreams.