The Journal

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If you're hearing this, it means you've already made sleep a priority, and that's something worth applauding.

You've carved out this quiet moment to wind down.

And I have something that fits beautifully into that routine.

It's called Moonbird.

It's a small screen-free device that gently expands and contracts in your hand, guiding your breath with a calming rhythm.

You don't have to count or focus, just hold it and breathe.

I got mine first, and I'm using it right now.

I use it whenever I record this podcast.

It helps me stay calm and centered as I read to you.

And after seeing how much it helped me, my wife wanted one for herself, and now she loves it too.

There's no screen to distract you, but if you like data, there's an optional app that tracks your heart rate and HRV.

A recent study found that people fell asleep 28% faster and had 37% better sleep quality using Moonbird daily.

If you're ready to take your bedtime ritual even further, you can get 15% off at moonbird.life slash nothing much happens.

We'll have that in our show notes.

Moonbird.life slash nothing much happens.

Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good

and then you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

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 Fellow Earthlings Wildlife Center.

Fellow Earthlings specializes in caring for meer cats.

You can learn more about them in our show notes.

Our bedtime stories are brought to you by the letter you,

as in you.

Your support.

When you buy a product from one of our sponsors or share our show with a friend, leave a good review or subscribe to our premium feed.

Thank you.

Tucking so many in at night gives me sweet dreams.

Subscribe, follow us on socials, and learn more at nothingmuchhappens.com.

Busy minds need a place to rest.

And that's what this is.

So let the gentle shape of the story catch your attention

just enough to replace the background static of your mind.

That gentle focus will shift you right into deep sleep.

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 hesitate to turn on another episode or let them just play all through the night.

Our story tonight is called The Journal and it's a story about the blank pages of a beautiful book and the freedom to finally write in them no matter what comes from your pen.

It's also about tonic water, an espresso,

deep breaths in child's pose,

a garden at midnight, and small prompts reminding us to let go of some things

and dive deeper into others.

Now lights out,

devices down,

snuggle in and get as comfortable as you can.

There's nothing left to do today.

In fact,

nothing

is what is needed now.

Soften your shoulders,

your jaw,

your neck, and hands.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Again, breathe in

and let it go.

Good.

The journal.

I've dusted it countless times,

moved it from one shelf to another,

onto my bedside table and off again,

into my bag and back to the shelf.

It's just

such a beautiful journal.

Honestly, it has intimidated me.

What could I write on the inside

that would be as lovely as the outside?

A few times I'd even opened the front cover,

pressed into the center crease to crack the spine,

and thought for a while about starting an entry.

But then I'd reach toward the pencil cup and freeze up,

wondering if I should use a pretty pen,

dark green or purple ink, or if that was too permanent.

Maybe a pencil would be better.

Then how should I lay it out?

The date in the corner?

Do I give the entry a title?

Bullet points, or

just begin.

By then, the whole exercise, which was meant to be enjoyable and relaxing,

had become anything but

and I'd shut the journal and set it aside again.

Then this week

I'd been in yoga class, resting in child's pose.

My hips sunk back toward my heels, my chest dropped down toward the mat,

when my teacher made a simple suggestion,

a mantra that we might try out for the week, just to see how it felt.

The mantra was,

oh well.

I chuckled into my mat when she said it.

It did seem an almost absurdly simple approach.

She went on to remind us

of how many small, insignificant things we gave mental space to.

How often things that didn't actually matter

were treated not only like they did,

but like they deserved a lot of attention, energy, and urgency.

She invited us to tune in in the coming days

and see if we could spot a few moments when we were getting hung up on details that didn't matter

and try saying to ourselves,

oh well,

it might help build a habit of right-sizing our circumstances

and maybe even

enjoying our days a bit more.

So, today,

when I trailed my fingers over the books on my shelf,

looking for something new to read,

and came across the journal,

I thought of my previous hesitancy to mess up the pretty pages with my scribbles.

I smiled and said,

Oh well,

and slid it off the shelf.

I took my favorite pen from the cup

without a second thought

and dropped them both into my bag

and headed out to the coffee shop.

The shop was busy,

and I liked it.

The sound of milk steaming and beans grinding, the chatter of others,

and the steady ring of the bell over the door

all helped me feel private and unperceived,

like the world was too occupied with its own story

to take much notice of mine.

I settled at a table outside

under a pergola wrapped in ivy and Virginia creeper.

It was shady and cool in the summer heat.

And to go with it, I'd ordered an espresso tonic,

a little sweet, slightly bitter, and very refreshing.

I took my journal and pen from my bag

and rolled my shoulders back,

letting out a big sigh.

The cover reminded me of a garden at midnight.

Dark blue fabric,

embroidered flowers in red and sapphire,

ivory stars,

and a golden moon.

The pages were cut unevenly.

A style I remembered was called Deckled Edges.

And stitched into the binding was a satin chocolate brown ribbon to mark the pages with.

And the size and shape of it

it wasn't standard, it was square, and the perfect size to carry in your hand.

I turned it over, feeling the texture of the cover and edges,

and tried to remember where I'd even got this journal.

Had it been a gift,

something I'd bought for myself at a craft fair or the stationery shop?

It was strange that I couldn't put my finger on it.

It seemed like it had just shown up on my shelf one day.

I remembered my mantra and whispered aloud, Oh well.

I opened the cover and saw a line for my name.

This journal belongs to,

it said.

And with no hesitation,

I scrawled in my name.

It was a little slanted,

and I'd smudged the last letter as I finished it.

But I practised just letting it be.

Not perfect, but

it existed, and it hadn't

Flipping through the pages,

I realized that there were illustrations and quotes on some of them.

How had I not noticed before?

Fireflies

and ship anchors,

birds crossing the sky and fence posts

crowded with grasses.

There were sketches of spotted toadstools

and pocket watches,

and across the center page

a range of mountains capped in snow.

I kept paging through

and saw that the quotes were actually prompts,

short entryways into writing,

with enough space under them to suggest how much to scroll.

All along, this book was

waiting for me to look more closely

and guide me out of my stalling

and into creating.

Well, I thought,

no more waiting.

I set the book down on the table

and opened it up.

I looked through a few of the prompts,

and while I could see myself spinning a tale or recounting a memory from them,

none felt right.

There were simple suggestions to write on

what felt good to-day

What can you hear right now?

Or more thoughtfully,

what are you done with?

But haven't set down yet?

Hmm, I could write a few pages on that one.

I wanted something more creative instead.

Something that would send my little boat sailing out into a sea of imagination.

I decided to trust the journal and flipped through it with my eyes closed.

When my fingers touched a page that seemed to tingle with importance,

I cracked an eyelid and peered down.

I chuckled at the two-word prompt on the page.

It seemed like the other side of the oh well mantra I'd been saying all day.

One that,

instead of dismissing the details,

let you lean in and develop them.

There was a stretch of open pages following the prompt, and I decided to fill them,

no matter what silliness I wrote

or how sloppy my writing.

I lifted my pen and uncapped it,

set the nib to the page,

and began to write under the prompt.

What if

the journal

I've dusted it countless times,

moved it from one shelf to another,

onto my bedside table, and off again.

Into my bag,

and back to the shelf.

It's just

such a beautiful journal.

Honestly, it has intimidated me.

What could I write on the inside

that would be as lovely as the outside?

A few times

I'd even opened the front cover,

pressed into the center crease to crack the spine

and thought for a while about starting an entry.

But then I'd reach toward the pencil cup and freeze up,

wondering if I should use a pretty pen,

dark green or purple ink,

or if that was

too permanent

maybe a pencil would be better

Then

how should I lay it out?

The date in the corner

do I give the entry a title

bullet points

or

just

begin

By then,

the whole exercise,

which was meant to be enjoyable and relaxing,

had become anything but

and I'd shut the journal

and set it aside again.

Then this week

I'd been in yoga class,

resting in child's pose.

My hips sunk back toward my heels.

My chest

dropped down toward the mat

when my teacher made a simple suggestion,

a mantra,

that we might try out for the week, just to see how it felt.

The mantra was

oh well

I chuckled into my mat

when she said it.

It did seem

an almost absurdly

simple approach.

She went on to remind us

of how many

small,

insignificant things

we gave mental space to.

How often things

that

didn't actually matter

were treated not only like they did,

but like they deserved a lot of attention,

energy,

and urgency.

She invited us to tune in in the coming days

and see if we could spot

a few moments

when we were getting hung up

on details that didn't matter

and try saying to ourselves,

oh well,

it might help build a habit

of right-sizing our circumstances

and maybe

even

enjoying our days a bit more.

So today,

when I trailed my fingers over the books on my shelf,

looking for something new to read,

and came across the journal,

I thought of my previous hesitancy to

mess up the pretty pages with my scribbles.

I smiled and said,

Oh well,

and slid it off the shelf.

I took my favorite pen from the cup without a second thought

and dropped them both into my bag

and headed out

to the coffee shop.

The shop was busy

and I liked it.

The sound of milk steaming

and beans grinding,

the chatter of others,

and the steady ring

of the bell over the door,

all helped me feel private and unperceived,

like the world was too occupied with its own story

to take much notice of mine.

I settled at a table outside

under a pergola, wrapped in ivy and Virginia creeper.

It was shady

and cool in the summer heat,

and to go with it,

I'd ordered an espresso tonic,

a little sweet,

slightly bitter, and very refreshing.

I took my journal

and pen from the bag

and rolled my shoulders back,

letting out a big sigh.

The cover reminded me

of a garden at midnight,

dark blue fabric,

embroidered flowers

in red and sapphire,

ivory stars,

and a golden moon.

The pages were cut unevenly.

A style I remembered was called

Deckled Edges

and stitched into the binding

was a satin chocolate brown ribbon to mark the pages with

and the size and shape of it

it wasn't standard

it was

and the perfect size

to carry in your hand

I turned it over

feeling the texture of the cover and the edges

and tried to remember

where I'd even gotten this journal

had it been a gift?

Something I'd bought for myself

at a craft fair or

at the stationery shop?

It was strange that I couldn't put my finger on it.

It seemed like it had just

shown up on my shelf one day.

I remembered my mantra

and whispered aloud,

oh well.

I opened the cover

and saw a line for my name.

This journal belongs to,

it said.

and with no hesitation,

I scrawled in my name.

It was a little slanted,

and I'd smudged the last letter

as I finished it.

But I practiced

letting it be

not perfect,

but it existed,

and it hadn't before.

Flipping through the pages,

I realized there were illustrations

and quotes on some of them.

How had I not noticed before?

There were fireflies

and ship anchors,

birds crossing the sky,

and fence posts crowded with grasses,

sketches of spotted toadstools, and pocket watches,

and across the center page,

a range of mountains capped in snow.

I kept paging through

and saw that the quotes were actually prompts,

short entryways

into writing

with enough space under them

to suggest how much to scroll.

All along,

this book was waiting for me to look more closely

and guide me out of my stalling and into creating.

Well, I thought,

no more waiting.

I set the book down on the table

and opened it up.

I looked through a few of the prompts,

and while I could see myself spinning a tale or

recounting a memory from them,

none felt quite right.

There were simple suggestions to write on.

What felt good today?

Or

what can you hear

right now?

Or more thoughtfully,

what are you done with?

But haven't set down yet.

Hmm,

I could write a few pages on that one.

I wanted something more creative instead.

Something that send my little boat

sailing into a sea of imagination.

I decided to trust the journal

and flip through it

with my eyes closed.

When my fingers touched a page

that seemed to tingle with importance.

I cracked an eyelid and peered down.

I chuckled at the two-word prompt on the page.

It seemed like

the other side

of the oh well mantra

I'd been saying all day.

One that,

instead of dismissing the details,

let you lean in

and develop them.

There was a stretch of open pages

following the prompt,

and I decided to fill them,

no no matter

what silliness I wrote

or how sloppy my writing

I lifted my pen

and uncapped it,

set the nib to the page

and began to write

under the prompt

what

if

Sweet Dreams