← Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
When the Streetlights Come On (Encore)
00:36:40
Season 16, Episode 3
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- [00:01]
A
Hi friends.
- [00:02]
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Want every episode ad free? Tap the link in our Show Notes to subscribe.
- [00:08]
A
If you're on Apple Podcasts, just hit.
- [00:10]
B
Subscribe on our show page Easy and it helps keep the show going. You might not be surprised to hear that I'm a pretty good sleeper, but that's not luck. I've worked hard on my sleep hygiene over the years. Still, even with all that, almost everyone goes through stretches where sleep gets tricky. And one thing that really helps me stay grounded and consistent is Magnesium Breakthrough by Bioptimizers Most people aren't getting enough deep sleep. The phase when your body repairs, resets your stress hormones and supports things like metabolism and mood. And a big reason for that is magnesium deficiency. Over 80% of people don't get enough magnesium. Breakthrough contains all seven forms of magnesium that your body needs most. Supplements only give you one or two. It's also formulated with vitamin B6 and humic and fulvic acids to help you absorb it more effectively. I take it every night as part of my wind down routine. It helps my nervous system stay calm. It supports deep rest and just helps me feel better overall. It's one of those small habits that makes a big difference. You can try it now and save 10%@bioptimizers.com nothingmuch we've got a link to it in our show Notes that's B I O P T I M I z e r s.com nothingmuch use the code N O T H I N G M U C H at checkout.
- [02:00]
A
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
- [02:15]
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I'm Kathryn Nicolai.
- [02:18]
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I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
- [02:24]
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Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
- [02:29]
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We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.
- [02:39]
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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.
- [02:54]
A
But the stories are always soothing and family friendly and our wishes for you are always Deep Rest and sweet dreams. Now, busy minds need a place to rest. That's how this works. I'll tell you a story and you can rest your mind on it. Just by listening will shift you into your brain's task positive mode where sleep is possible. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't try to muscle yourself back to sleep. Softly, softly is the approach, friends. Just turn an episode right back on and you'll drop back off to sleep, usually within seconds. This is grown up sleep training and for most folks, best results come after a few weeks of regular use, so be patient with the process. Our story tonight is called when the Street Lights Come on, and it's a story about a trip to the mailbox through the last lit moments of the day. It's also about bikes being wheeled into the garage for the night, things learned from the Farmer's Almanac, layers of paint peeling away under your hand, and a tender way to be shepherded home and sent to dreamland. Now settle in. It's time. Turn things off. Set them down. You don't have to solve everything to know how you'll handle everything to be able to have some space from it. It's okay if for right now you just let go. Body heavy and relaxed, Muscles softening. Face jaw, eyes eased and ready for sleep. Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out through your mouth once more. Fill up and let it go Good when the street lights come on this far north, the sun doesn't set in the mid summer till after nine. It made for long days and especially on the hottest A nap in the afternoon was often required. Retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch and pulling down the blinds till it was shady and dim. Settling into cool sheets while the ceiling fan circled was one of my favorite parts of the day. Often, even if I didn't sleep, I might read for a while, doze while listening to some music, and just let my body rest out of the heat and brightness of the day for a while. We aren't meant, I don't think, to just go and go and go. As important to me as all the things I did with my days were all the things I didn't do all the times. I refrained. I rested, I regrouped, and on the days I took a break, I found myself better able to enjoy the end of the long days, to be back out in the yard to tie up tomato plants, or to go for one last bike ride before the street lights came on. Tonight, after dinner, I remembered I had a letter to Mail, and while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox, at the end of the drive, the red carrier flag flipped up to signal its presence for tomorrow's pickup. There was a collection box on a corner a few streets up, and a walk sounded like the perfect way to button up the day. As I set out, the sun was just above the horizon and I stretched out my arm and measured the distance between the bottom of the sun and the edge of the land, just a smidge more than the width of one finger, which meant a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set. I'd learned that trick from the Farmer's Almanac, along with some understanding of the different kinds of dusk. Did you know that there are different dusks, and not even just dusk? There are three categories of dusk, twilight, and dawn, namely nautical, astronomical, and civil. I was a little surprised that the categories weren't something like poetic, nostalgic, and somnolent, but I guess not everyone thought about the sky like I did. The nautical designation had to do with when the sun reached a particular position so many degrees below the horizon. The astronomical type was similar, though the degree measurements were different. During astronomical dusk, most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky. Civil twilight, dusk, and dawn were the shortest version of these times of day and often influenced things like, well, when the streetlights came on. Looking up at the one closest to me, I saw that it hadn't happened yet. There were still kids out playing, though I think even they were winding down. The active games of the day were turning into quieter activities. I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk or sitting on porch steps with books in their laps. I could smell spent barbecue grills cooling off from that mineral scent of sprinkler runoff on hot sidewalks. In my hand was the letter, a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend. It had taken my last stamp, and for a few minutes I'd thought I'd been all out, till I found a book with a single stamp left wedged into the corner of the drawer. It was a Halloween stamp featuring a jack o' lantern with a lit, toothy grin, and as I smoothed it into place, I'd smiled at it, thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door and wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message or just run out of stamps. At the next corner was the collection box, and as I stepped up to it I remembered being a child, wanting to be the one to pull the flap open, wanting to drop whatever piece of mail we had into it, wanting to be the one to do all the things, to see how they worked, and if I'm honest, I still like it. Pushing down the lever on the toaster, sticking on a stamp, pushing the buttons that drop a candy bar through a vending machine. I hope that makes me more childlike than childish, but really, I don't care. I never went numb to the little tactile joys of living. And there may be some secret there. It delivers an extra spoonful of pleasure. An interesting to my days. The collection box was bright blue and by the feel of the flap's handle had been repainted many times. Where it was chipped, layers were revealed, and in the low light I could just make out the sun faded color of the previous paint jobs. It creaked a bit as I tugged it open and dropped my letter in, then let it swing shut. When I turned back to the street, extended my arm to the horizon again, I could see the edge of the sun sinking into it. Dusk would turn to twilight, first civil, then nautical, then astronomical. On my way back home, the breeze picked up and the touch of it on my shoulders and face was soft and cooling. An older gentleman with a little white dog on a leash passed me. He nodded kindly, and I smiled back. In a yard to one side I spotted a rabbit, its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders, nibbling away at a patch of marigolds. Were marigolds, the flowers that my grandmother dried at the end of the season, whose flower heads could be broken open to release a dozen silvery black seeds, like tiny matchsticks or slivers I thought they had. A block from home, it happened. The streetlights came on, not all at once but one after another, a second delay in between, each one starting at the park and winding its way down the street. To me it felt like being called home, like being gently shepherded, and I liked it. Lights were coming on inside houses, bikes wheeled into garages for the night, and passing by my neighbor's house, I heard him through the screen door say to his son, time to brush your teeth, buddy. It made me smile and nearly put a hand on my heart as I turned up my own driveway. Such a tender thing, to be welcomed home, to be guided through the rituals of bed, and to be lovingly tucked in. My turn next. When the street lights come on this far north, the sun doesn't set in the mid summer till after nine. It made for long days, and especially on the hottest. A nap in the afternoon was often required, retreating to a quiet bedroom after lunch and pulling down the blinds till it was shady and dim, settling into cool sheets while the ceiling fan circled. What's one of my favorite parts of the day? Often, even if I didn't sleep, I might read for a while, doze while listening to music, and just let my body rest out of the heat and the brightness of the day for a while we aren't meant, I don't think, to just go and go and go. As important to me as all the things I did with my day were all the things I didn't do. All the times I refrained. I rested, I regrouped, and on the days I took a break, I found myself better able to enjoy the end of the long days, to be back out in the yard, tie up tomato plants, or to go for one last bike ride before the street lights came on. Tonight, after dinner, I remembered I had a letter to mail, and while it could certainly spend the night in the mailbox at the end of the drive, the red carrier flag flipped up to signal its presence for tomorrow's pickup. There was a collection box on a corner a few streets up, and a walk sounded like the perfect way to button up the day. As I set out, the sun was just above the horizon, and I stretched out my arm and measured the distance between the bottom of the sun and the edge of the land, just a smidge more than the width of one finger, which meant a few minutes more than a quarter of an hour till it set. I'd learned that trick from the Farmer's Almanac, along with some understanding of the different kinds of dusk did you know that there are different dusks, and not even just dusk? There are three categories of dusk, twilight, and dawn, namely nautical, astronomical, and civil. I was a little surprised that the categories weren't something like poetic, nostalgic, and somnolent, but I guess not everyone thought about the sky like I did. The nautical designation had to do with when the sun reached a particular position so many degrees below the horizon. The astronomical type was similar, though the degree measurements were different. During astronomical dusk, most celestial objects could be seen in a clear sky. Civil twilight, dusk, and dawn were the shortest versions of these times of day and often influenced things like, well, when the streetlights came on. Looking up at the one closest to me, I saw that it hadn't happened yet. There were still kids out playing, though I think even they were winding down. They the active games of the day were turning into quieter activities. I saw a few little ones drawing with sidewalk chalk or sitting on porch steps with books in their laps. I could smell spent barbecue grills cooling off and that mineral scent of sprinkler runoff on hot sidewalks. In my hand was the letter, a bit of monthly correspondence with an old friend. It had taken my last stamp, and for a few minutes I thought I'd been all out, till I found a book with a single stamp left wedged into the corner of the drawer. It was a Halloween stamp featuring a jack o' lantern with a lit, toothy grin, and as I smoothed it into place I'd smiled at it, thinking of my friend pulling this letter from the slot in her door and wondering if I'd been trying to send her a spooky message or just run out of stamps. At the next corner was the collection box, and as I stepped up to it I remembered being a child, wanting to be the one to pull the flap open, wanting to drop whatever piece of mail we had into it, wanting to be the one to do all the things, to see how they worked. If I was honest, I still liked it. Pressing down the lever on the toaster, sticking on a stamp, pushing the buttons that drop a candy bar through a vending machine. I hoped that made me more childlike than childish, but really I didn't care. I never went numb to the little tactile joys of living and thought that there was some secret there. It delivered an extra spoonful of pleasure and interest to my days. The collection box was bright blue, and by the feel of the flaps, handle had been repainted many times. Where it was chipped, layers were revealed, and in the low light I could just make out the sun faded color of the previous paint jobs. It creaked a bit as I tugged it open, and I dropped my letter in and let it swing shut. When I turned back to the street and extended my arm to to the horizon again, I could see the edge of the sun sinking into it. Dusk would turn to twilight, first civil, then nautical, then astronomical. On my way back home, the breeze picked up and the touch of it on my face and shoulders was soft and cooling. An older gentleman with a little white dog on a leash past me. He nodded kindly and I smiled back. In a yard to one side I spotted a rabbit, its ears laid relaxedly back on its shoulders, nibbling away at a patch of marigolds were marigolds, the flowers that my grandmother dried at the end of the season, whose flower heads could be broken open to release a dozen silvery black seeds like tiny matchsticks or slivers I thought they had a block from home. It happened. The street lights came on, not all at once but one after another, a second delay in between, each one starting at the park and winding its way down the street to me. It felt like being called home, like being gently shepherded, and I liked it. Lights were coming on inside houses, bikes wheeled into garages for the night, and passing by my neighbor's house. I heard him through the screen door say to his son, time to brush your teeth, buddy. It made me smile and nearly put a hand on my heart as I turned up my own driveway. Such a tender thing to be welcomed home, to be guided through the rituals of bed and to be lovingly tucked in. Your turn next. Sweet dreams.