0:01

Welcome to Bedtime Stories

0:04

for everyone,

0:06

in which nothing

0:09

much happens, you

0:11

feel good, and then

0:14

you fall asleep. I'm

0:18

Catherine Nikolay. I

0:21

read and write all

0:23

the stories you hear on

0:25

Nothing Much Happens.

0:28

Audio Engineering is by Bob

0:30

Witterersheim. We

0:33

give to a different charity each

0:35

week, and

0:38

this week we are giving to Michigan

0:41

Environmental Justice Coalition,

0:46

working for a world where

0:48

all of us, no matter

0:51

our race, place, or politics,

0:55

have access to affordable, renewable,

0:59

and community controlled energy. You

1:02

can learn more about them in our show notes.

1:07

Today marks six years

1:10

of telling you bedtime Stories, which

1:13

has become the most

1:16

exciting, gentle adventure

1:19

of my life.

1:21

And it seems fitting that today

1:25

I can share something I've been working on

1:27

for quite a while, something

1:30

created just for you to

1:33

bring a piece of the village into

1:36

your homes and

1:38

to guide you into healthy wind

1:40

down routines that will feel

1:43

so good. This

1:46

month, we are releasing but

1:48

Nothing Much Happens wind Down

1:50

Box, a wellness box

1:53

of hand selected products

1:56

that I personally use and

1:58

that I love, along

2:01

with a few exclusive stories

2:04

to round out your cozy routines.

2:08

Each box features products

2:11

specially selected for your

2:13

relaxation from Everescio

2:16

Wellness's Chill Now a

2:19

high potency organic certified

2:21

Raschi mushroom extract

2:24

to nutri Champs tart cherry gummies

2:27

great for sleep and reducing

2:30

inflammation, and they taste great.

2:34

There's a lavender candle to

2:36

mark your moment of calm from

2:39

our favorite small batch candle

2:42

maker's Vella Box. A

2:45

meditative activity for you

2:48

by way of a Brighter Years mini

2:50

coloring book, a

2:53

fantastic way to disconnect

2:55

from your screen and tap

2:58

into your creative self. Before then,

3:02

more mushrooms, this time in chocolate

3:05

specially formulated for sleep,

3:08

from the lovely team behind Alice

3:10

Mushrooms. And some

3:12

delicious essential oils to

3:16

rub on your wrists and neck from

3:18

our friends at Woolsey's. And

3:21

of course some melatonin for those

3:23

who need an extra helping hand to rest

3:26

by way of new strips. Place

3:29

it on your tongue and it dissolves

3:31

in seconds. Like

3:34

everything in this village,

3:37

we took our time to create this for

3:39

you. It's

3:42

such a pleasure to be able to

3:44

help so many of you, to

3:47

tuck you in at night and

3:49

to keep watch till the morning. And

3:52

I'm excited to help create comfort

3:55

in new ways with our first

3:57

ever wind down box. Head

4:01

over to Nothing Much Happens dot

4:03

com for more information. Now,

4:09

after six years and more

4:12

than one hundred and thirty million downloads,

4:16

I've kind of cracked the code on

4:18

how to help you sleep. I'll

4:21

tell you a story. Nothing

4:24

much happens in it. You just rest

4:27

your mind on the words,

4:31

follow along with my voice,

4:34

and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow

4:38

feeling rested and

4:40

refreshed. I'll

4:43

tell it twice,

4:45

and I'll go a little slower the second

4:47

time through. If

4:50

you wake again in the night, you

4:53

can turn a story right back on. You'll

4:56

drop right back to sleep. If

5:00

you're new to this, be

5:02

patient. This is brain

5:04

training, and

5:06

it may take some regular use to

5:09

work reliably. Our

5:12

story tonight is called

5:15

first Mow of the Year, and

5:18

it's a story about a day

5:20

of yard work as

5:22

spring arrives in full. It's

5:26

also about pine cones and

5:28

ladybugs, a

5:31

glass of water enjoyed on the porch step,

5:35

the sun on the back of your neck, and

5:39

the shared experiences that

5:41

connect us. Now

5:49

it's time turn

5:52

out the light, set

5:56

down your device, and slide

5:58

down to your sheets.

6:03

There is nothing left to do. Nothing

6:07

remains but that you rest.

6:12

I'll be here reading

6:14

even after you've fallen asleep.

6:18

Let jaw, shoulders,

6:22

hands and hips all

6:26

relax. All

6:29

is well now

6:32

we rest. Draw

6:35

a deep breath in through

6:37

your nose and

6:42

sigh from your mouth. Nice,

6:50

do that one more time. Breathe in

6:56

and let it go

7:01

good. First

7:05

mow of the year. I

7:10

stood outside the garage,

7:13

my fingers reaching for the handle,

7:17

but looking over my shoulder into

7:20

the back yard and beyond,

7:24

past the tree line that

7:26

marked the yard next door, at

7:30

all the green growth and

7:33

flowers that had shot up and

7:35

blossomed in the last week or so. We

7:41

slept with the windows cracked last

7:43

night, and this morning

7:46

I had opened more airing

7:50

out the house. The

7:53

staleness of long

7:55

cold months washed

7:58

away in minutes. I

8:02

wanted to get outside as

8:04

soon as I could, and

8:08

looking out from the kitchen window, I

8:13

could see a day's worth of chores

8:15

waiting for me. The

8:19

weather had been warming for weeks

8:22

now, and

8:25

I'd been holding off on any mowing

8:28

or cutting back, waiting

8:31

for all the little critters and pollinators

8:35

to wake up and have

8:37

a few meals first. It

8:42

seemed like to day might finally

8:45

be the day for it. I

8:49

turned back to the garage

8:52

and gripped the handle. It

8:57

took a swift turn, a

9:00

little bend in my knees, and

9:03

a strong push up on the

9:05

door to

9:07

send it gliding into place. I

9:13

thought about getting an opener put

9:15

on, but there

9:18

was something about opening it by

9:20

hand that I actually

9:23

liked.

9:26

It was a very specific movement,

9:31

one that was buried deep in

9:33

my muscle memory, from

9:35

when I would hoist open

9:38

the garage door for my grandpa so

9:41

he could get his tractor out. The

9:46

rattily clatter of the old

9:48

door moving on its track, the

9:52

gust of scent from inside

9:56

tools and dust and wood

9:58

shavings,

10:00

the way my wrist knew how far to

10:03

turn my knees, how

10:05

much to bend, And

10:09

then inside the garage, the

10:11

neat peg boarts hung

10:14

with tools, and

10:16

the shiny tractor backed

10:18

into place and waiting

10:21

for its next job. My

10:25

own garage was not

10:29

quite as neat as his had

10:31

been, but

10:33

still there was a

10:36

sort of order to the

10:38

chaos. I

10:41

stepped in and propped my

10:43

hands on my hips,

10:47

looking around at the tools

10:49

and stacks of pots. First

10:54

things first, I thought,

10:58

and reached for a pair of garbs and gloves.

11:02

My thumb went right

11:05

through a hole in the fabric, and

11:07

I laughed, recognizing

11:11

the pair as one I'd

11:13

bought years ago when

11:16

I'd tilled my first garden. They

11:20

were cream with red dots

11:24

that, if you looked close enough, were

11:26

distinguishable as

11:28

ladybugs. I

11:32

took them off and tucked them

11:35

into my back pocket, thinking

11:37

that I could probably fix them

11:39

up with a needle and thread. In a jiffy,

11:45

I found a second pair, this

11:48

one without any terribly

11:51

large holes had put them on. I

11:56

wheeled my more out

11:58

onto the sidewalk and

12:00

shook out a lawn bag beside it.

12:05

From down the block, I

12:08

heard the stuttering start of

12:10

some one else's mower and

12:14

cupped my hand over my eyes

12:17

to shield out the sun and

12:20

peer through the yards. A

12:24

few gardens over, my neighbor

12:27

was mowing the first path through

12:29

his grass, and

12:34

within a second the scent of it hit

12:36

me so green

12:39

and lively. I

12:43

took a few deep breaths with

12:46

my eyes closed. Spring

12:50

was really here, summer,

12:53

just behind in

12:57

my own yard. I

13:00

started to trace back

13:02

and forth, walking

13:06

slowly with my eyes on the ground.

13:12

I picked up sticks and pine

13:14

cones relocated

13:17

rocks and

13:20

gathered a few scraps of trash

13:23

that the wind had blown in. When

13:28

the grass was clear, I started

13:30

my own mower and pushed

13:32

it down the length of the yard. It

13:38

reminded me suddenly of my

13:40

dad's green tennis shoes

13:42

by the back door when I was

13:44

a kid. They

13:48

hadn't started off as green,

13:51

but after

13:53

a day behind the mower, they'd

13:57

begun to color with chlorophyll,

14:00

and he'd given up on trying to keep

14:03

them white.

14:05

They'd just become his mowing

14:08

shoes. I

14:10

looked down at my own pair and

14:14

smiled. There

14:17

was something so small and simple,

14:21

a shared experience of

14:23

being a grown up with chores. But

14:26

it made me really happy. This

14:29

whole day did I

14:33

made slow, even rose

14:36

with the more.

14:39

I'd raised the blade up a bit, so I

14:42

was giving the grass only

14:44

a subtle hair cut. My

14:48

mind got quiet as I mowed.

14:52

The steadiness of my feet pacing

14:55

along behind the wheels, the

15:00

warm sun on the back of my neck, the

15:04

slow, careful turn at the end

15:06

of a row, lining up

15:08

the wheels and starting again. Was

15:12

it so different from walking

15:15

a labyrinth? Didn't

15:18

feel that different. I'd

15:21

had a teacher once who'd

15:24

recommended a walking meditation.

15:28

They'd suggested the best place

15:30

for it was a grocery

15:33

store. Just get

15:35

a cart and

15:37

walk the aisles as slowly

15:40

as you can, notice

15:42

each step. That

15:45

was me Now. When

15:49

the back yard was done,

15:52

I shut down the mower and

15:56

began to wheel it down the driveway

16:00

start in the front. Just

16:04

as a quiet thirst appeared

16:06

in my throat, I

16:08

noticed a tall glass of water

16:11

set out for me on the step of the side

16:13

door. Ah,

16:16

it seemed like the perfect

16:19

time for a break. I

16:23

sat down on the step and

16:26

lifted the cool glass to my lips.

16:32

There were a few slices of

16:34

cucumber floating among

16:36

the ice cubes, and

16:40

it tasted so refreshing

16:43

and delicious. While

16:48

I sipped, I

16:51

looked across the driveway at

16:53

the house next door. They

16:57

had two little boys, well

17:00

not so little anymore. They

17:04

were growing fast in

17:08

my mind. The youngest was still

17:11

riding in the stroller, his

17:14

big brother toddling beside

17:17

as their dads took them for a walk. But

17:21

I knew he must now be several

17:23

years into elementary school,

17:27

the oldest probably in middle school.

17:32

Their dog, a sweet golden

17:34

Retriever named Clover, was

17:38

stretched out on her side on

17:40

the back patio in the sun, and

17:44

even from where I sat, I

17:47

could see the slow rise and fall

17:49

of her ribs as she breathed.

17:55

My glass of water finished, I

17:58

set it down on the step, pushed

18:01

back up onto my feet,

18:05

I reached for the handle bar of the mower.

18:10

In the front yard, I

18:13

repeated the step of patrolling

18:15

the grass for fallen branches

18:18

and found one of Clover's frisbees

18:22

among the Pacassandra. I

18:26

carried it to her fence and

18:28

whistled for She

18:32

lifted her head to look at me, one

18:35

ear flipped inside out, and

18:38

her lips stuck on her teeth. I

18:42

showed her the frisbee,

18:45

and she jumped to her feet, ready

18:48

for me to throw it. I

18:52

sent it out toward the

18:54

back edge of her yard, and

18:57

she went tearing after it.

19:01

She didn't catch it mid air,

19:03

she wasn't that kind of dog, but

19:07

she did dig it out from where it landed

19:10

near a lilac bush, and

19:13

carried it back to her patio

19:16

with her tail happily wagging along

19:18

the way. Across

19:22

the street, another

19:24

neighbor was fixing her mailbox.

19:29

The flag had broken off over

19:31

the winter. A

19:34

new one shiny and

19:36

red sat waiting

19:39

on the grass as she worked away with the

19:41

screwdriver. Just

19:45

like the muscle memory of pushing

19:47

open the garage door, of

19:51

tugging at the pole cord of the moor,

19:55

of green tennis shoes, of

19:57

sleeping in the sun on

20:00

a warm patio, I

20:03

knew the feeling of wrestling with

20:06

a slightly rusted screw. I

20:11

restarted the mower and

20:13

began to pace through the front lawn,

20:16

comforted by the moments my

20:19

neighbors and I

20:21

all had in common. First

20:28

mow of the year. I

20:32

stood outside the garage,

20:36

my fingers reaching for

20:38

the handle, but

20:42

looking over my shoulder into

20:45

the back yard and beyond,

20:50

past the tree line

20:53

that marked the yard next door, at

20:57

all the green growth and

21:00

flowers that had

21:02

shot up and blossomed

21:06

in the last week or so. We'd

21:10

slept with the windows cracked

21:13

last night, and

21:16

this morning I had

21:18

opened more, airing

21:21

out the house. The

21:25

staleness of long

21:28

cold months washed

21:30

away in minutes. I

21:34

wanted to get outside

21:36

as soon as I could, and

21:40

looking out from the kitchen window,

21:44

I could see a day's

21:46

worth of chores waiting

21:49

for me. The

21:52

weather had been warming for

21:54

weeks now, and I'd

21:57

been holding off on

22:00

any mowing or

22:03

cutting back, waiting

22:06

for all the little critters

22:10

and pollinators to

22:12

wake up and

22:14

have a few meals first. It

22:20

seemed like today might

22:23

finally be the day for it.

22:28

I turned back to the garage

22:31

and gripped the handle. It

22:36

took a swift turn, a

22:39

little bend in my knees,

22:43

and a strong push up

22:46

on the door to

22:48

send it gliding into place.

22:54

I'd thought about getting an opener

22:56

put on it, but there

23:00

was something about opening it by

23:02

hand that I actually

23:04

liked. It

23:08

was a very specific movement,

23:12

one that was buried deep

23:15

in my muscle memory, from

23:18

when I would hoist open the garage

23:20

door for my grandpa

23:23

so he could get his tractor out.

23:28

The radially clatter of

23:30

the old door moving

23:33

on its track, the

23:36

gust of scent from inside

23:40

tools and dust and

23:43

wood shavings, the

23:48

way my wrists knew how

23:50

far to turn my

23:52

knees, how much to bend, And

23:57

then inside the garage,

24:01

neat peg boards hung

24:03

with tools, and

24:05

the shiny tractor backed into

24:08

place and

24:10

waiting for its next job. My

24:16

own garage was not

24:19

quite as neat as

24:21

his had been, but

24:24

still there was a sort of order

24:26

to the chaos. I

24:31

stepped in and propped

24:33

my hands on my hips, looking

24:39

around at the tools

24:41

and stacks of pots. First

24:45

things first, I thought,

24:48

and reached for a pair of garden

24:50

gloves. My

24:53

thumb went right through a

24:56

hole in the fabric, and

24:59

I laughed, recognizing

25:02

the pair as one I'd bought

25:05

years before when

25:08

I tilled my first garden. They

25:14

were cream with

25:17

red dots that, if

25:19

you looked close enough, were

25:23

distinguishable as ladybugs.

25:29

I took them off and

25:32

tucked them into my back pocket, thinking

25:36

that I

25:38

could probably fix them up

25:41

with a needle and thread in

25:43

a jiffy. I

25:47

found a second pair, this

25:50

one without any terribly

25:52

large holes, and

25:55

put them on. I

26:00

wheeled my mower out

26:03

onto the sidewalk and

26:06

shook out a lawn bag beside it.

26:12

From down the block, I

26:15

heard the stuttering start of

26:17

some one else's mower and

26:20

cupped my hand over my

26:23

eyes to shield out

26:25

the sun and

26:27

peer through the yards.

26:32

A few gardens over, my

26:35

neighbor was mowing the first

26:37

path through his grass,

26:42

and within a second the

26:44

scent of it hit me so

26:47

green and lively. I

26:51

took a few deep breaths with

26:53

my eyes closed spring

26:58

was really here, summer

27:02

just behind

27:07

in my own yard. I

27:09

started to trace back and

27:11

forth, walking

27:15

slowly with my eyes

27:17

on the ground. I

27:21

picked up sticks and

27:23

pine cones, relocated

27:27

rocks, and

27:30

gathered a few scraps of trash

27:33

that the wind had blown in. When

27:39

the grass was clear, I

27:41

started my own mower and

27:44

pushed it down the length of the yard.

27:50

It reminded me suddenly of

27:53

my dad's green tennis shoes

27:56

by the back door when

27:58

I was a kid. They

28:03

hadn't started off

28:05

as green, but

28:07

after a day behind the mower,

28:12

they'd begun to color with chlorophyll,

28:15

and he'd given up trying

28:18

to keep the might. They'd

28:24

just become his mowing

28:26

shoes. I

28:30

looked down at my own pair and

28:34

smiled. There

28:36

was something so small and

28:39

simple, a

28:42

shared experience of

28:44

being a grown up with chores. But

28:49

it made me really happy. This

28:52

whole day dead. I

28:56

made slow, even rose

29:00

with the mower. I'd

29:03

raised the blade up a bit, so

29:06

I was giving the grass only

29:09

a subtle hair cut. My

29:14

mind got quiet as I

29:16

mowed, the

29:19

steadiness of my feet pacing

29:21

along behind the wheels,

29:26

the warm sun on the back of my neck,

29:31

the slow careful turn at

29:34

the end of a row, lining

29:37

up the wheels, and starting again. Was

29:42

it so different from walking

29:45

a labyrinth? And

29:48

didn't feel that different. I'd

29:52

had a teacher once who'd

29:54

recommended a walking meditation.

30:00

They'd suggested the best place

30:02

for it was a

30:04

grocery store. Just

30:10

get a cart and walk

30:12

the aisles as

30:14

slowly as you can,

30:18

notice each step. That

30:23

was me now. When

30:29

the back yard was done,

30:32

I shut down the moor and

30:35

began to wheel it down the driveway

30:38

to start in the front. Just

30:42

as a quiet thirst appeared

30:45

in my throat, I

30:47

noticed a tall glass of water

30:51

set out for me on the step of

30:53

the side door. Ah,

30:59

it's seemed the perfect time

31:01

for upbreak. I

31:05

sat down on the step and

31:08

lifted the cool glass to my lips.

31:13

There were a few slices of cucumber

31:16

floating among the ice cubes,

31:20

and it tasted so refreshing

31:23

and delicious. While

31:28

I sipped, I looked

31:30

across the driveway at

31:32

the house next door. They

31:36

had two little boys, well

31:40

not so little anymore. They

31:45

were growing fast in

31:48

my mind. The youngest

31:51

was still riding in the stroller,

31:54

his big brother toddling beside

31:58

as their dads took them for a while, but

32:01

I knew he must now be several

32:04

years into elementary school, the

32:08

oldest probably in middle school.

32:14

Their dog, a sweet

32:16

Golden Retriever named Clover,

32:20

was stretched out on her side on

32:23

their back patio in the sun, and

32:28

even from where I sat, I

32:30

could see the slow rise and

32:33

fall of her ribs as she breathed.

32:39

My glass of water finished, I

32:42

set it down on the step and

32:46

pushed back up on to my

32:48

feet. I

32:51

reached for the handlebar of

32:53

the mower in

32:57

the front yard. I

33:00

repeated the step of patrolling

33:03

the grass for

33:05

fallen branches and

33:09

found one of Clover's frisbees

33:12

among the pacissandra. I

33:17

carried it to her fence and

33:19

whistled for her.

33:23

She lifted her head to look at me, one

33:26

ear flipped inside out, and

33:30

her lips stuck on her teeth. I

33:35

showed her the frisbee,

33:38

and she jumped to her feet, ready

33:41

for me to throw it. I

33:45

sent it out toward the back edge

33:47

of her yard, and she

33:50

went tearing after it. She

33:55

didn't catch it mid air,

33:58

she wasn't that kind of dog, but

34:02

she did dig it out from where

34:04

it landed near a lilac

34:06

bush. And

34:09

carried it back to her patio,

34:12

with her tail happily wagging along

34:14

the way. Across

34:19

the street, another neighbor

34:22

was fixing her mailbox. The

34:27

flag had broken off over

34:29

the winter. A

34:32

new one, shiny and red,

34:36

sat waiting on the grass as

34:39

she worked away with a screwdriver. Just

34:45

like the muscle memory of

34:47

pushing open the garage door,

34:52

of tugging at the pull cord of

34:54

the mower, of

34:57

green tennis shoes, of

35:00

sleeping in the sun on

35:03

a warm patio, I

35:07

knew that feeling of wrestling

35:11

with a slightly rusted screw.

35:17

I restarted the mower and

35:20

began to pace through the front

35:22

lawn, comforted

35:26

by the moments my

35:29

neighbors and I

35:31

had in common. Sweet

35:37

dreams