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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 Hot Mess Express. They are a woman led nonprofit serving the women in our communities with no judgment through cleaning, organizing and offering a fresh start. Learn more about them in our show Notes for ad free episodes. Subscribe to our premium feed at. Nothing much happens.com this is a form of brain training. We're conditioning a response that will improve over time, so all you need to do is listen. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. Our story tonight is called the Wind Phone and it's a story about a gentle way to say what's heavy on your heart. It's also about wood chips and lilacs, a private spot protected by trees and lifting a handset to set down some grief. When I started building this show and my shop, it really felt like I had to figure everything out on my own. And there are so many pieces it can get overwhelming fast. That's why having the right tools matter. And for a lot of businesses, that partner is Shopify. Shopify helps you run everything in one place, from your storefront to payments to getting your work out into the world without needing a whole team behind you. And as you grow, it's there for the bigger pieces too, like inventory, shipping and support when you need it. Start your business today with the industry's best business partner, Shopify. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at shopify.com nothingmuch go to shopify.com nothingmuch that's shopify.com nothingmuch so into bed. Lights out. Pull the blanket up over your shoulder and let everything relax. Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth one more time. Breathe in and let it out. Good. The Wind Phone May was shining today showing off. When I stepped out of my car, the small gravel lot, and started down the path, there was so much to take in and notice that I'd had to stand still for a few moments and let each sense have its fill. Birds singing, grass rustling in the breeze, bright blue skies and the perfume of so many plants and flowers and trickles of moving water. I was still getting used to all the activity after a quiet winter. There was so much to hear and smell and touch and look at, so many textures and layers. The winter is beautiful, but in a spare way. Shades of white, an icy gray. Fewer scents, stillness and silence. Now I was in a kaleidoscope, a swatch book of paints, patterns, and sounds. May apples grew thick along the borders of the trail, trillium and wild violets among them. The path itself was made of a fresh carpet of wood chips, and the smell that rose from them as I walked was sweet and resiny. It was edged with long, split rails, and along its north side bright green moss grew in patches in the meadow. To one side I could see red winged blackbirds flitting through the tall grasses and could hear the echoing call of a mourning dove. Beneath the birdsong was a low thrum of insects and buzzing things, and further out, the occasional snap of a twig as squirrels chased and deer stepped among the trees. I made almost no sound, my feet quiet against the wood shavings. There was just the gentle thump of my pack against my hip and my breath rising as I got warmer and walked farther. I chuckled, thinking of a friend I sometimes hiked with who, when I'd expressed a bit of embarrassment about having a red face and loud breath as we walked, had said quickly, it's because your heart is beating, silly. That's a good thing. It's supposed to. We do sometimes feel embarrassed for having beating hearts, don't we? Hearts that hope and break and don't always learn from a lesson. I tried lifting my head a bit higher even as my breath got louder. Tilting my warming face to the sky with pride, I hoisted my pack a bit higher on my shoulder, feeling the things inside tumble and knock together. In the first week of each month I made this walk, and over the years I'd been doing it, I'd learned what I might find handy along the way. Turning with the path, I passed a lilac bush that was in full bloom and stopped to fish out one of my needful things. The garden clippers had slipped down behind a few rags in the pack, and it took me a moment to wiggle them Loose. If I found flowers along the way, I'd always clip some in the cold months. Sometimes I could find some holly or pine boughs if there was nothing. If snow covered too much, I always had the painted stones in the bottom of the bag. They would do in a pinch. But these lilacs were a lovely early summer treat. They smelled bright and sweet and looked like they'd been piped from an icing bag. I gathered a solid handful of stems and walked on. It was just a little farther. When the wind phone had first been proposed, we weren't sure where to put it. We wanted it to be a spot with some privacy, and in the end we'd found it. There's a horseshoe shaped copse of trees. The open bit of the shoe looks out over a valley. So when you stand with the trees at your back, you feel like you've got the coverage and protection of their branches and all the space in front of you to cast your words. The phone is the kind that you used to find in a booth with a folding door and a coin slot for your quarters. The booth isn't there now. Seemed like it would have just been asking for some raccoon related trouble if we kept it. We just brought out the phone. It's on a post driven deep into the ground so it won't tip even when the rain comes. And with a little awning above to keep out the weather, I came through the trees and spotted it. I approached slowly in case it was in use, but no one was there. The phone wasn't hooked up to a live line, but you could still place a call. It was a phone for communicating heavy things. A place to send a message to someone lost, to leave worries and troubles like a message on a cosmic recording machine. That was why it was called a wind phone, because you let the wind take your words and carry them away. My own contribution to its upkeep lay in a small addition I'd made to the handset. The sound of wind is so soothing, isn't it? And I wanted say if someone came to place a call on a still day, for them still to feel the presence of it, to hear the whistling one way or another. So I'd rigged a small pickup. Inside the earpiece I'd played a steady and varying stream of sound. Wind from all over the world. I stepped up to the phone and lifted the handset from the cradle. When I pressed it to my ear, I could hear the soft howl of breezes and I let out a sigh. Still working just fine. There was A mason jar I detached to the side of the post with a bit of steel strapping, and I lifted out the dried out forsythia stems I'd put in last month and exchanged them for the lilacs. I took my water bottle from my bag and gave them a drink. Then, with a few spare rags from my pack, I polished up the plaque that wish comfort to those who placed calls and peaceful rest to those who received them. There was nothing to tidy, but still I did wiped the handset, polished the metal numbered pushpad in that tiny space above the buttons and below the hook switch where in another life the number of this payphone would have been printed out. On a piece of paper someone had scrawled a small note that just said take your time. I didn't need to place a call today, but my turn would come. I hoped that when it did the wind would carry away the hurt but not the memories. I turned away and looked out over the valley and the wind began to blow. The wind Phone May was shining today. Showing off When I stepped out of my car in the small gravel lot and started down the path, there was so much to take in and notice that I'd had to stand still for a few moments and let each sense have its fill. There were birds singing, grass rustling in the breeze, bright blue skies and the perfume of so many plants and flowers and trickles of moving water. I was still getting used to all the activity after a quiet winter. There was so much to hear and smell and touch and look at now, so many textures and layers. The winter is beautiful, but in a spare way, shades of white, an icy gray. Fewer scents, stillness and silence. Now I was in a kaleidoscope, a swatch book of paints, patterns, and sounds. Mayapples grew thick along the border of the trail, trillium and wild violets among them. The path itself was made of a fresh carpet of wood chips and the smell that rose from them. Walk as I walked was sweet and resiny. It was edged with long split rails, and along its north side bright green moss grew in patches in the meadow. To one side I could see red winged blackbirds flitting through the tall grasses and could hear the echoing call of a mourning dove. Beneath the birdsong was a low thrum of insects and buzzing things, and further out, the occasional snap of a twig as squirrels chased and deer stepped among the trees. I made almost no sound, my feet quiet against the wood shavings. There was just the gentle thump of my pack against my hip and my breath rising as I got warmer and walked farther. I chuckled, thinking of a friend I sometimes hiked with who, when I'd expressed a bit of embarrassment about having a red face and loud breath as we walked, had said quickly, it's because your heart is beating, silly. That's a good thing. It's supposed to. We do sometimes feel embarrassed for having beating hearts, don't we? Hearts that hope and break and don't always learn from a lesson. I tried lifting my head a bit higher even as my breath got louder. Tilting my warming face to the sky with pride, I hoisted my pack bit higher on my shoulder, feeling the things inside tumble and knock together. In the first week of each month I made this walk, and over the years I've been doing it, I've learned what I might find handy along the way. Turning with the path, I passed a lilac bush that was in full bloom and stopped to fish out one of my needful things. The garden clippers had slipped down behind a few rags in the pack and it took me a moment to to wiggle them loose. If I found flowers along the way, I'd always clip some in the cold months. Sometimes I could find some holly or pine boughs, but if there was nothing, if snow covered too much, I always had the painted stones in the bottom of the bag. They would do in a pinch, but these lilacs were a lovely early summer. They smelled bright and sweet and looked like they'd been piped from an icing bag. I gathered a solid handful of stems and walked on. It was just a little farther when the wind phone had first been proposed. We weren't sure where to put it. We wanted it to be a spot with some privacy, and in the end we'd found it. There's a horseshoe shaped copse of trees. The open bit of the shoe looks out over a valley, so when you stand with the trees at your back, you feel like you've got the coverage and protection of their branches and all the space in front of you to cast your words. The phone is the kind that you used to find in a booth with a folding door and a coin slot for your quarters. The booth isn't there now. Seemed like it would have been just asking for some raccoon related trouble if we'd kept it. We just brought out the phone. It's on a post driven deep into the ground so it won't tip even when the rain comes, and with a little awning above to keep out the weather, I came through the trees and spotted it. I approached slowly in case it was in use, but no one was there. The phone wasn't hooked up to a live line, but you could still place a call. It was a phone for communicating heavy things, a place to send a message to someone lost, to leave worries and troubles on a cosmic recording machine. That was why it was called a wind phone, because you let the wind take your words and carry them away. My own contribution to its upkeep lay in a small addition I'd made to the handset. The sound of wind is so soothing, isn't it? And I wanted say, if someone came to place a call on a still day for them to feel the presence of it, to hear the whistling one way or another. So I'd rigged a small pickup inside the earpiece. It played a steady and varying stream of sound. Wind from all over the world. I stepped up to the phone and lifted the handset from the cradle. When I pressed it to my ear I could hear the soft howl of breezes and let out a sigh. Still working just fine. There was a mason jar that I had attached to the side of the post with a bit of steel strapping, and I lifted out the dried out forsythia stems I'd put in last month and exchanged them for the lilacs. I took my water bottle from my bag and gave them a drink. Then, with a few spare rags from my pack, I polished up the plaque that wished comfort to those who placed calls and peaceful rest to those who received them. There was nothing to tidy, but still I did. Wiped the handset, polished the metal numbered pushpad. In that tiny space above the buttons and below the hook switch where in another life the number of this payphone would have been printed out on a piece of paper someone had placed a small note. It just said, take your time. I didn't need to place a call today, but my turn would come. I hoped that when it did, the wind would carry away the hurt, but not the memories. I turned away and looked out over the valley and the wind began to blow. Sweet dreams.

Podcast Summary: Nothing Much Happens—“The Wind Phone”

Host: Kathryn Nicolai (Wellness Loud)

Date: May 4, 2026

Episode Overview

In this tranquil episode titled "The Wind Phone," Kathryn Nicolai invites listeners into a soothing, sensory-rich story designed to foster calm and relaxation before sleep. The narrative centers on a peaceful walk to a special, secluded telephone—an actual “wind phone”—where visitors can speak their burdens and memories into the ether, letting the wind carry away their grief and worries. Through gentle, detailed descriptions of nature and ritual, the episode provides listeners with comfort and guidance in processing their emotions, all while embodying the show’s signature philosophy: that “nothing much happens,” and that’s the magic that brings rest.

Key Discussion Points and Insights

Setting the Mood (03:20–05:30)

Kathryn sets up the ritual of bedtime: gentle breathing, drawing the blanket up, relaxing the body.
She transitions smoothly into the story, inviting listeners to follow along twice for deeper absorption and calm.

Descriptive Nature Walk (05:31–09:00)

Vivid portrayal of stepping from the car into a vibrant May landscape; the world is waking up after a quiet winter.
Sensory immersion:
- “Birds singing, grass rustling in the breeze, bright blue skies and the perfume of so many plants and flowers and trickles of moving water.” (07:12)
Reflection on how spring’s abundance contrasts with winter’s simplicity.
The narrator’s mindfulness: standing still to take everything in with every sense.

Self-Compassion and Embodiment (09:01–10:15)

Personal anecdote about hiking with a friend, feeling self-conscious about a red face and loud breath.
- Quote: “It’s because your heart is beating, silly. That’s a good thing. It’s supposed to.” (09:48)
Reflection on vulnerability and self-acceptance:
- “We do sometimes feel embarrassed for having beating hearts, don’t we? Hearts that hope and break and don’t always learn from a lesson.” (10:04)
Small acts of pride and acceptance, like tilting the face to the sky.

Ritual of Remembrance and Offering (10:16–13:20)

Describes monthly walks and the practical items in the narrator's pack—clippers for flowers, backup painted stones.
Gathering lilacs:
- Sensory details: “They smelled bright and sweet and looked like they’d been piped from an icing bag.” (12:09)

The “Wind Phone” (13:21–17:00)

The “wind phone’s” location is carefully chosen: a private, horseshoe-shaped grove looking out over a valley.
Description of the phone: an old-style handset set on a post, not connected to any live line.
- Purpose:
  - “It was a phone for communicating heavy things. A place to send a message to someone lost, to leave worries and troubles like a message on a cosmic recording machine.” (15:23)
Origin of the name:
- “That was why it was called a wind phone, because you let the wind take your words and carry them away.” (15:45)
Personal touch: narrator has installed a small device in the earpiece playing recordings of wind from all over the world, so even on still days, the wind is present.

Acts of Care and Mindful Upkeep (17:01–19:20)

The narrator replaces last month’s dried forsythia with fresh lilacs, gives them water.
Gently polishes the plaque:
- “That wished comfort to those who placed calls and peaceful rest to those who received them.” (18:40)
Attending to the phone’s details—cleaning the handset, pushpad, and a small note above the numbers.
- Quote:
  - “On a piece of paper someone had scrawled a small note that just said: take your time.” (19:08)

Letting Go—and Hope (19:21–End)

The narrator doesn’t need to make a “call” this time, but knows the opportunity will come in the future.
Hopes the wind will “carry away the hurt, but not the memories.”
Closing with gratitude and acceptance, watching the valley as the wind rises.

Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

On Embarrassment and Self-Compassion:
“We do sometimes feel embarrassed for having beating hearts, don’t we? Hearts that hope and break and don’t always learn from a lesson.” (10:04)
(A gentle, universal reflection on human vulnerability.)
On the Wind Phone’s Purpose:
“It was a phone for communicating heavy things. A place to send a message to someone lost, to leave worries and troubles like a message on a cosmic recording machine.” (15:23)
On Letting Go:
“I hoped that when it did the wind would carry away the hurt but not the memories.” (19:15)
Advice Left by a Stranger:
“Take your time.” (19:08)
(A simple but poignant reminder found on a note above the phone’s buttons.)

Timestamps for Important Segments

Ritual Relaxation and Breathing: 03:20
Spring’s Arrival and Sensory Landscape: 05:31
Reflection on Hearts and Acceptance: 09:45
Lilac Gathering and Preparation: 12:09
Introducing the Wind Phone: 13:21
Detailing the Phone’s Purpose and Features: 15:23
Acts of Care and Comfort: 17:01
Finding the “Take your time” Note: 19:08
Wishing for Healing and Memory: 19:15

Tone & Style

The entire episode is narrated in Kathryn’s signature calming, gentle tone. Her language is laced with soft imagery, sensory detail, and quiet wisdom. Each act—walking, clipping lilacs, cleaning the phone—is described mindfully and with deliberate, slow pacing, inviting the listener to slow down as well.

Summary

"The Wind Phone" is a meditative exploration of remembrance, gentle grief, and the restorative powers of nature and ritual. Kathryn Nicolai guides listeners to a secret, symbolic place where words can be released, hurts can be softly aired, and every detail—birdsong, fresh-cut lilacs, a note scrawled “take your time”—is tended with intention. The episode’s comfort lies in its simplicity: nothing much happens, and in that calm, hearts can find rest.