← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
The Librarian (Encore)
00:35:06
Season 16, Episode 21
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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. If you've been listening to me for a while, you know how much I value rest. Sleep is really the foundation for everything else we do. Our creativity, our relationships, our our mood. And like you, I've had stretches where.
- [00:30]
Narrator
Sleep just didn't come easily.
- [00:32]
Kathryn Nicolai
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- [02:04]
Narrator
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which nothing Much Happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
- [02:19]
Kathryn Nicolai
I'm Kathryn Nicolai.
- [02:21]
Narrator
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. Now let me say a little about how to use this podcast. I've got a bedtime story for you, and just like the stories you heard when you were little, it's meant to ease you into peaceful sleep. I'll tell our story twice and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. The story is like a cozy nest for your mind, a soft place for it to focus on so that the thoughts and worries of the day can lose their grip on you. If you wake in the middle of the night, don't hesitate to start the story again. You're training your brain to respond to this particular stimulus and over time it will become more and more automatic and your sleep will improve. Our story tonight is called the Librarian and it's a story about the quiet of a closed up library at the end of the day. It's also about the books that sometimes get overlooked on the top shelf, a string of lights glowing over an outdoor table, and knowing what your next book will be. Okay, lights out campers. It's time to set everything down and get as comfortable as you can. Snuggle into your favorite sleep position and let your body go heavy into the sheets. You have done enough for today. Truly, it is enough. Nothing remains but rest. Let's take a slow, deep breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Good. The Librarian Some days I worked the mornings at the library and it would be my key turning in the lock at the beginning of the day, my job to switch on lights and power up the computers in the lab and set out fresh markers on the sills of the whiteboards in the study rooms. But I preferred to close up to work in the afternoon and evening and be there to lock the doors after the last patron had left. Something about ending the day in the stacks felt restful. Satisfying reshelving happened throughout the day, but there were always a handful of books set on the cart or piled inside the return slot when I locked up, and I like to put those back in their places. But before I went home, I just felt good to see that everything was where it was supposed to be reset for the next day. So tonight, once the doors were locked and I had a few books tucked into my elbow, I began to wind through the rooms. Someone had asked me once how many books were in our library, and the number itself is hard to conceptualize. It may not mean much just as it is, so I like to put it in proportion to the residents of our village. Lots of libraries carry around the same number of books as the population they serve. But, and I was very proud of this, we had two and a half bucks for each person grown or young in our community, so we had a lot and you could feel it, especially when the library was empty. So many books, so many shelves and topics and stories. The first book in my stack was was one I reshelved a lot. It was a classic but thick as a loaf of bread, and, if I had to be honest, about as dry as one. Sometimes readers feel the need to check certain books off their list to say they have read them, but the actual reading becomes tedious, and after a good college try they give it up and back the book comes. I'd been a librarian for long enough to have abandoned the idea that there were certain books that everyone should read. Read what you like, that was my motto. Read what interests you, knowing that your interests will change at times, and when they do, you can let go of the books that don't fit and find new ones that do. I walked along a row and squatted down to scan the spines of a dozen books until I found the spot for the one in my hand. When I did, I slid it into place and then switched around three others that were out of order. I tisked quietly in the empty room and muttered, leave it to the professionals, please, and pushed myself back up to see where I was headed next. This cover was another that I was very familiar with. It was a favorite, in fact, a book that had showed up a few times in my life, and each time I'd read it a little differently, understood it differently, but needed it the same. I patted the COVID in a friendly way, glad that it had showed up for one of our patrons, and headed through the quiet aisles toward its shelf. It was getting dark outside, the sun was setting sooner, and I stopped at a window and looked out at the edge of the park and into downtown. The cafe on the corner had strung lights up over the outdoor tables, and they gave off an orange glow that was inviting in the dusk. Maybe I'd walk down for dinner after I was finished. Sometimes there was live music there in the evenings, and even when there wasn't, I loved sitting at one of the sidewalk tables and listening to scraps of conversation and bicycle bells and the breeze coming down the alley. I remembered the book in my hand and I turned back toward the shelves. The spot for this one was way up high on the top shelf, and I stood on my tiptoes to push it into place. I would never intentionally miss shelve a book. The thought of it prickled uncomfortably in my brain, but sometimes I felt a bit bad for the books that were up high or down below hip height. Most readers, at least when they're browsing, looked at the shelves that were within clear sight and easy reach, and a lot of good books got dusty waiting to be checked out. Well, not literally dusty. We obviously did not let that happen. But metaphorically dusty. The next two books in my hand looked like they had been returned to together. They were children's picture books, and the back cover of one was tucked inside the front cover of the other. I liked to imagine the little reader who had jumbled them up together to get them into the return slot. They were both excellent books, books I always enjoyed reading when it was my turn to lead story time in the reading circle. Stepping into the children's section always felt like landing in Oz. The rest of the library was not only quiet, it was designed to be unobtrusive. The colors were muted, the study tables were bare. The surroundings were meant to fade into the background and let the books step forward. In the children's section, we did it all the other way around. Bright colors and textures were there to engage you. We took all the best ideas in the books and represented them with toys and plushes and coloring pages and spread them out over the shelves and tables. I shelved the two books and pushed a few of the tiny chairs into place around the tables. We had a big autumn display going up. A tall paper tree was taped up against one wall, and as kids read books through the next few months, they could write their name across a leaf and stick it up onto the branches. We'd set up a station for decorating them, and one of the local farmers had brought in a big bin of acorns for the kids to glue on. What they really liked to do was dip their hands into the bins up to their elbows, and then drop the acorns on the floor and step on them to hear the satisfying crunch of the shell cracking. I knew I'd be finding acorns under shelves for a few months, and I didn't mind at all. I carried my last book through the nonfiction room and over to a shelf of memoirs. I took a moment to read the description before setting it into place. I liked just collecting information. After all, that was what we did. I was behind the front desk, pushing an arm through the sleeve of my sweater, when I heard the thunk of another book dropping into the return box. I could leave it for my colleagues to collect tomorrow, but, well, I didn't mind shelving one more. When I pulled open the panel and reached down for it, I realized it was the sequel to a book I'd read the summer before and adored. I actually gasped. How did I not know this book existed? I rushed back to the desk and scanned it back into the collection, checking to see if it was on any waiting lists, and when it wasn't, I excitedly checked it out on my own library card. Now I would have this wonderful, unknown story to keep me company over dinner. The Librarian Some days I worked the mornings at the library, and it would be my key turning in the lock at the beginning of the day, my job to switch on the lights and power up the computers in the lab and set out fresh markers on the sills of the whiteboards in the study room. But I preferred to close up to work in the afternoon and evening, and be there to lock the doors after the last patron had left. Something about ending the day in the stacks felt restful and satisfying. Reshelving happened throughout the day, but there were always a handful of books set on the cart or piled inside the return slot when I locked up, and I like to put those back in their places before I went home. It felt good to see that everything was where it was supposed to be reset for the next day. So tonight, once the doors were locked and I had a few books tucked into my elbow, I began to wind through the rooms. Someone had asked me once how many books were in our library. The number itself is often hard to conceptualize. It may not mean much just as it is, so I like to put it in proportion to the residents of our village. Lots of libraries carry around the same number of books as the population they serve, but, and I was very proud of this, we had two and a half books for each person grown or young in our community, so we had a lot, and you could feel it, especially when the library was empty. So many books, so many shelves and topics and stories. The first book in my stack was one I reshelved a lot. It was a classic, but thick as a loaf of bread and, if I had to be honest, about as dry as one. Sometimes readers feel the need to check certain books off their list to say that they have read them. But the actual reading becomes tedious, and after a good college try they give it up and back the book comes. I'd been a librarian for long enough to have abandoned the idea that there were certain books that everyone should read. Read what you like, that was my motto. Read what interests you, knowing that your interests will change at times, and when they do, you can let go of the books that don't fit and find new ones that do. I walked along a row and squatted down to scan the spines of a dozen books until I found the spot for the one in my hand. When I did, I slid it into place and then switched around three others that were out of order. I tsked quietly in the empty room and muttered, leave it to the professionals, please, and pushed myself back up.
- [25:27]
Kathryn Nicolai
To.
- [25:27]
Narrator
See where I was headed next. The next cover was another that I was very familiar with. It was a favorite, in fact, a book that had showed up a few times in my life, and each time I'd read it a little differently, understood it differently, but needed it the same. I patted the COVID in a friendly way, glad that it had showed up for one of our patrons, and headed through the quiet aisles toward its shelf. It was getting dark outside. The sun was setting sooner, and I stopped at a window and looked out at the edge of the park and into downtown. The cafe on the corner had strung lights up over the outdoor tables. They gave off an orange glow that was inviting in the dusk. Maybe I'd walk down for dinner after I was finished. Sometimes there was live music there in the evenings, and even when there wasn't, I loved sitting at one of the sidewalk tables and listening to scraps of conversation and bicycle bells and the breeze coming down the alley. I remembered the book in my hand and turned back toward the shelves. The spot for this one was way up high on the top shelf, and I stood on my tiptoes to push it into place. Now I would never intentionally miss shelve a book. The thought of it prickled uncomfortably in my brain, but sometimes I felt a bit bad for the books that were up high or down below hip height. Most readers, at least when they're browsing, looked at the shelves that were within clear sight and easy reach. And a lot of good books got dusty waiting to be checked out. Well, not literally dusty, we obviously didn't let that happen, but metaphorically dusty. The next two books in my hands looked like they had been returned together. They were children's picture books, and the back cover of one was tucked inside the front cover of the other. I liked to imagine the little reader who had jumbled them up together to get them into the return slot. They were both excellent books, books I always enjoyed reading when it was my turn to lead story time in our reading circle. Stepping into the children's section always felt like landing in Oz. The rest of the library was not only quiet, it was designed to be unobtrusive. The colors were muted, the study tables were bare. The surroundings were meant to fade into the background and let the books step forward. In the children's section, we did it all the other way around. Bright colors, textures were there to engage you. We took all the best ideas in the books and represented them with toys and plushes and coloring pages and spread them out over the shelves and tables. I shelved the two books and pushed a few of the tiny chairs into place around the tables. We had a big autumn display going up. A tall paper tree was taped up against one wall, and as kids read books through the next few months, they could write their names across a leaf and stick it up onto the branches. We'd set up a station for decorating them, and one of the local farmers had brought in a big bin of acorns for the kids to glue on. What they really liked to do was just dip their hands into the bins up to their elbows, and then drop the acorns onto the floor and step on them to hear the satisfying crunch of the shell cracking. I knew I'd be finding acorns under shelves for a few months and didn't mind at all. I carried my last book through the nonfiction room and over to a shelf of memoirs. I took a moment to read the description before pushing it into place. I liked just collecting information. After all, it was what we did. I was behind the front desk, pushing an arm through the sleeve of my sweater when I heard the thunk of another book dropping into the return box. I could leave it for my colleagues to collect tomorrow, but, well, I didn't mind shelving one more. When I pulled open the panel and reached down for it, I realized it was the sequel to a book I'd read the summer before and adored. I actually gasped. How did I not know this book existed? I rushed back to the desk and scanned it back into the collection, checking to see if it was on any waiting lists, and when it wasn't, I excitedly checked it out on my own library card. Now I would have this wonderful, unknown story to keep me company over dinner. Sweet dreams.