Jasper (0:01)

Hi friends. Want every episode ad free? Tap the link in our Show Notes to subscribe. If you're on Apple Podcasts, just hit subscribe on our show page Easy and it helps keep the show going. Let's take a deep breath together. In through the nose and out through the mouth. It feels good to breathe deeply, and the air we breathe, especially at night, matters more than we might think. While we sleep, our bodies are hard at work restoring, repairing, and recharging. But that work can be quietly disrupted by what's floating in the air, things like dust, pollen, and other allergens. I didn't used to think much about indoor air quality, but once I did, I realized if we care about what we eat and drink, why not care just as much about what we breathe? That's why I sleep with a Jasper air scrubber in my room. It has no annoying lights and doubles as a gentle white noise machine that's become essential to my bedtime rhythm. But more than anything, it's turned my bedroom into a sleep sanctuary, a space where the air helps me sleep deeply and peacefully. I can't recommend Jasper enough. You can learn more at Jasper Co, and if you use the code sleep, you'll get $300 off. That's J A S P R.co use code sleep for $300 off.

Kathryn Nicolai (1:51)

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 give to a different charity each week and this week we are giving to Greyhound Pets, Inc. They work to find responsible, loving homes for greyhounds, to acquaint the public with the desirability of greyhounds as pets and to help them adopt. You can learn more about them in our show Notes for an ad free and bonus filled version of this show and to support the work we do, all for just a dime a day, we hope you'll consider becoming a premium subscriber. There's a link in our notes and Spotify and Apple users can click the handy join button right on our show page. The first month is on us. Knowing a bit about how this works can help it work even better. So know that by listening to the steady sound of my voice, by attending even with just a small part of your brain to the shape of the story, we are giving your brain a job to do and that keeps it from wandering and lets you drift off. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through. If you wake up later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode back on over time. You'll find yourself falling asleep within seconds. Our story tonight is called the Last Train Home and it's a story about a few moments at the end of a long day. It's also about dogwood flowers and sodium lights, a seat on a bench, the long summer twilight, a yawn that resets your system and some soft, quiet time settled in with your fellow passengers. It's time. Turn out your light. Set down anything you've been looking at or working on. Feel how good it is to be in bed, to be at the end of your day. You are safe. You have done enough for the day and nothing remains but rest. Draw deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth. Again. Breathe in and release it good. The Last Train Home it had been a long day and it felt good to be nearly at the end of it. The bag slung over my shoulder felt a little heavier than it had when I set out this morning, though it was actually lighter since my lunch pail was empty now and my water bottle only had a few sips left in it. The air was cooling off as the sun slid further down the western sky. On the way into the station I noticed the dogwoods in full bloom. Their star shaped white flowers were just starting to drop petals and when the breeze blew a few showered down on the sidewalk below. I took the steps up and into the station. There were just a few others and all of us carried the same energy. That end of the day quietude. The morning zip converted into a lived in rhythm that had us ambling rather than rushing to the platforms. I found a bench near the tracks and set my bag down beside me. A long sigh left my lungs and I clasped my hands in my lap, looking out past the platforms and into the field beyond. Whippoorwills gathered on a distant rooftop and their calls echoed in the evening air. On a bench further down the platform, a man sat with a boy dressed in soccer gear, a ball on his lap. The boy leaned against his dad, who shifted to put one arm around him. He murmured some small joke that made the boy smile. When the smile turned into a long yawn, his eyelids drooped as he tipped his head onto his dad's shoulder. His yawn became my own and I stretched my arms overhead, flipping my palms inside out and feeling my joints creak. And population, I thought to myself as I rolled my shoulders and settled back in to wait for my train. I'd looked it up a week or two before, that kind of long and often involuntary stretch that makes you yawn and shiver and sometimes twist your face into funny shapes. I'd learned it had a name, pandiculation, and a purpose, that it eases tension and helps your mind and body to sync back up after a period of inactivity, which is why it hits us most in the mornings. It was also one of those things that our bodies did to help us close out stress cycles and return to neutral. Our bodies did a lot to protect us each day, and learning about pandiculation made me even more grateful to mine. In the distance, the train whistle blew when I looked down the tracks to see the headlight of the front car rounding a bend. Vibrations rumbled up through the pavement and into the soles of my shoes. I sat waiting a moment before I stood to board. Even though taking the train was a regular part of my day, I still felt a little thrilled when the rush of air passed over me and the cars came to a stop. There was a soft hiss as the doors unlocked and slid back. I stood and reached for my bag and climbed aboard. The train was nearly empty, just me, a few other commuters, and the soccer star and his dad. I settled into a window seat and propped my chin in my hand. The doors closed and I felt the train rock backward and then forward as we set off. The tracks ran along a row of shops and cafes, and as we picked up speed I saw people shopping, talking on street corners, and eating at outdoor tables. There must have been a group bike ride happening. A dozen or more cyclists were riding with lighted helmets and flags on their baskets. Twilight was so long this time of year, not like in winter, when day turns to night, like a light switched off. There were angles that accounted for such things, but I'd also read that in summer the warmer air holds more particles, more moisture, and they scatter the remaining light so that summer evenings feel brighter and more colorful. I thought it made sense. In the summer. I, too, wanted to stay up later. I smiled at the angled reflection of my face in the glass. I was looking out at the world through the faint image of myself. I remembered that that was nearly always the case, even when it wasn't so literally true as in this moment. We see the diners at the cafe, the shoppers in the window, our fellow travelers, all of them refracted just a little through our own hopes and history. I leaned back in my seat as we passed through a short tunnel. I closed my eyes and felt the brief flash of each passing light on my face. The tracks curved and I let the momentum rock me in my seat. My stop was coming up. I was so used to this stretch of road that my body knew it before my mind did, and I found myself taking a few deep breaths and reaching for my bag before the train began to slow. Almost home, I thought as the station came into sight. I nodded to the soccer player and his dad as I stepped off the train, hoping they only had one more stop to go. I passed through the station, came out onto the street in the purple light of dusk. A patch of lilies grew in the flower bed at the corner and their scent stood out in the night air, so sweet I imagined every honeybee within five miles was in love with them. A row of street lamps turned on overhead as I made my way up the block toward home. The faint buzz, an orange glow of their sodium light, made warm pockets on the sidewalk. From inside the houses on either side of the street, I heard the laugh tracks of TV shows, the chorus of music, and the low voices of conversation. A calico cat watched me from the top of a porch pier, her tail wrapped around her ample body. The lights were on in my house and I smiled in the dark. I hoped there might be a plate in the oven for me and a place waiting at the table. Another day was done and I was home. The last train home. It had been a long day and it felt good to be nearly at the end of it. The bag slung over my shoulder felt a little heavier than it had when I set out this morning, though it was actually lighter since my lunch pail was empty now and my water bottle only had a few sips left in it. The air was cooling off as the sun slid further down the western sky. On the way into the station I noticed the dogwoods in full bloom. Their star shaped white flowers were just starting to drop petals, and when the breeze blew, a few showered down onto the sidewalk below. I took the steps up and into the station. There were just a few others, and all of us carried the same energy, that end of the day quietude, the morning zip converted into a lived in rhythm that had us ambling rather than rushing to the platforms. I found a bench near the tracks and set my bag down beside me. A long sigh left my lungs and I clasped my hands in my lap, looking out past the platforms and into the field beyond. Whippoorwills gathered on a distant rooftop and their calls echoed in the evening air. On a bench further down the platform, a man sat with a boy dressed in soccer gear, a ball balanced on his lap. The boy leaned against his dad, who shifted to put one arm around him. He murmured some small joke that made the boy smile, and the smile turned into a long yawn. His eyelids drooped as he tipped his head back onto his dad's shoulder. His yawn became my own, and I stretched my arms overhead, flipping my palms inside out, feeling my joints creak and pop. Pandiculation, I thought to myself as I rolled my shoulders and settled back in to wait for my train. I'd looked it up a week or two before, that kind of long and often involuntary stretch that makes you yawn and shiver and sometimes twist your face into funny shapes. I'd learned it had a name, pandiculation, and a purpose, that it eases tension and helps your mind and body sink.