Sidewalk Chalk

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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 Catherine Nikolai.

I write and read everything you hear

on Nothing Much Happens

with Audio Engineering by Bob Wittersheim.

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They are a volunteer-based rescue for small breed and mixed dogs where they receive love and care until they find that special home to call their own.

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The first month is on us.

Just like you can condition your muscles,

you can condition your brain to fall asleep and return to sleep more quickly and easily.

And the good news is that all you need to do to accomplish this is to listen.

The more regularly you use the show, the better.

Most listeners report best results after about a month of regular use.

I'll tell the story twice,

and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on.

Our story tonight is called Sidewalk Chalk.

And it's a story about a journey through the park on a bright day.

It's also about a cold drink from the coffee shop, a frog blinking from a pond, Alice and the caterpillar, birch trees and drawings on the sidewalk, and paying more attention

when small, happy moments wash over you.

Now,

let's settle in.

Get as comfortable as you can.

You are about to fall asleep,

and you will sleep deeply all night long.

I know I am just a stranger on the internet,

but I hope you can feel

how earnestly I care,

how I am holding space for you to let your guard down

and feel safe

and dream sweetly.

Take a deep breath in through your nose,

Exhale through your mouth.

Again, inhale.

Out with sound.

Good.

Sidewalk chalk.

The sunshine and warm weather was back.

The storms last week had been a nice reprieve.

The grass was green.

The flowers looked refreshed.

And the lily pads in the pond seemed to have doubled in number in the last few days.

I'd felt the urge to get out

and catch some sun on my face.

So I'd wandered into the park downtown.

The coffee shop on Main Street had kombucha on tap,

and I had a tall, icy cup of it in my hand

as I strolled past the newspaper kiosk at the entrance.

The paved path circling the pond was busy with walkers and strollers,

and I turned at a fork to go deeper into a wooded area.

I love that feeling

of even in the middle of town,

being able to suddenly step into wilderness and nature.

The bird song rose around me

like the volume dial had just been turned up

and a chipmunk crossed in front of me,

his cheeks bulging with forage snacks.

I sighed as I passed under the shade of a giant oak tree.

The wind blew,

and a few leftover raindrops that had been clinging to its leaves

fell to my face and arms.

I sipped at my tea,

tart and floral.

I thought it had been

elderberry

or

huckleberry lemon.

Either way, it was delicious.

And I caught myself feeling

truly happy, contented.

I'd realize these moments flicker through my days all the time,

like sunlight filtering down to the sidewalk through the leaves.

And I'd been trying to pay more attention to them,

to let them take up more space in my mind

by simply witnessing them with my eyes wide open,

my senses alert.

It was as if I was marking them down,

like a hatchmark chalked on a wall,

an accounting of the goodness in my days.

A small murky pool

had formed from the rain around a stand of birch trees,

and as I passed it,

a sudden movement caught my eye.

It was immediately followed by a plop,

and I realized I'd startled a frog.

I stopped to wait for him to surface.

Sure enough, a few seconds later,

a tiny curved head

and two round, blinking eyes peered up at me.

I could just see his limbs floating beneath the water line

as ripples streamed away

in concentric circles.

I thought of a haiku I'd read

from the book on my bedside table.

The Old Pond

A Frog Jumps In

The Sound of the Water

It had been written by a poet

named Matsuo Basho

who died 300 years before I'd been born

and lived in a land six thousand miles away.

Yet we'd both noted

the same moment.

He described exactly how it felt to be here

right now.

I smiled at the frog,

finding the continuity from Basho to me

a comfort and a joy.

The path took me out of the copse of trees

and into an orderly garden,

full of lavender,

delphinium, and foxglove.

There were neat boxwoods and topiaries

carved into cones,

spirals and giant toadstools.

What a difference from the wild I'd just stepped out of.

I almost expected to see the Queen of Hearts marching toward me.

I looked down at the path

and saw that someone else must have had the same thought.

There was a white rabbit,

sketched with sidewalk chalk on the pavement.

Beside it was a pocket watch on a gold chain

and a teapot.

All of the drawings were a little bit faded

and I guessed they'd been made just before the rain had fallen.

I paused

wondering if I'd dropped out of the poetry of Basho

and down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.

I remembered a flyer I'd seen at the coffee shop while waiting for my drink order,

a program run by the library.

What had it said?

Something like stories and sidewalk chalk.

I'd been skimming it when they called my name,

and hadn't picked up much of what it was about.

But clearly it was

just like it sounded.

I imagined a librarian

telling about Alice and the Cheshire Cat,

drawing out bottles with tags attached, and playing cards.

and I felt a bit disappointed that I'd missed it.

Grown-ups like stories too.

In the next section of pavement,

the kids must have been encouraged to draw characters from the story.

And I spotted what I thought might have been the Mad Hatter

and the Caterpillar.

There was also a dinosaur,

Bingo, and what I was pretty sure was Cookie Monster.

So they'd added a bit of their own favorites.

At the edge of the flower garden was a small wooden box on a stand.

Sort of like the little libraries in my own neighborhood,

where you could borrow and lend books.

But this one was full to bursting with coloured chalk,

dusty cylinders

and shades of pink and green and yellow,

some fresh and unused,

others smaller and broken,

gathered at an old coffee cup,

chalked on the pavement below the box,

were the simple words

express yourself.

What a delightful invitation.

I sorted through the clinking pieces

and sat down on the path.

I drew a bit,

a tree,

a bluebird,

a rainbow with fluffy white clouds on either end.

I drew the frog floating in the pool

and the chipmunk with his stuffed cheeks.

I went back to the faded images drawn by the storyteller

and did my best to color them back in,

retracing so that they would last a few more days.

I thought about the poem in the woods,

the story in the garden,

and the attempt I'd been making to witness more of the good things

that happened in my orbit.

I took a blue stick of chalk back to the edge of the tree line.

There was another line of poetry

that had been drifting through my mind,

a line by the profound and beautiful Mary Oliver.

I sketched it out on the path,

hoping that the next person who saw it would be likewise inspired.

I stood back

and whispered her instructions for living a life.

She wrote,

Pay attention,

be amazed,

Tell about it.

Sidewalk chalk.

The sunshine and warm weather was back.

The storms last week

had been a nice reprieve.

The grass was green.

The flowers looked refreshed.

and the lily pads in the pond seemed to have doubled in number

in the last few days.

I'd felt the urge to get out

and catch some sun on my face.

So I'd wandered into the park downtown.

The coffee shop on Main Street had kombucha on tap,

and I had a tall, icy cup of it in my hand

as I strolled past the newspaper kiosk

at the entrance.

The paved path circling the pond

was busy with walkers

and strollers

and I turned at a fork

to go deeper into a wooded area.

I love that feeling

of even in the middle of town

being able to suddenly step

into wilderness and nature.

The bird song rose

around

me,

like the volume dial had just been turned up,

and a chipmunk crossed in front of me,

his cheeks bulging with foraged snacks.

I sighed as I passed under the shade of a giant oak tree.

The wind blew,

and a few leftover raindrops

that had been clinging to its leaves

fell to my face and arms.

I sipped at my tea,

tart and floral.

I thought it had been

elderberry

or

huckleberry lemon.

Either way,

it was delicious.

And I caught myself feeling truly happy

and contented.

I'd realized these moments

flicker through my days

all of the time,

like sunlight filtering down to the sidewalk

through the leaves.

And I'd been trying to pay more attention to them,

to let them

take up more space in my mind

by simply witnessing them

with my eyes wide open,

my senses alert.

It was as if

I was marking them down

like a hatchmark,

chalked onto a wall,

an accounting

of the goodness in my days.

A small, murky pool had formed from the rain

around a stand of birch trees,

and as I passed it, a sudden movement caught my eye.

It was immediately followed by a plop,

and I realized I'd startled a frog.

I stopped to wait for him to surface.

Sure enough,

a few seconds later,

a tiny curved head

and two round, blinking eyes peered up at me.

I could just see his limbs floating beneath the waterline

as ripples streamed away

in concentric circles.

I thought of a haiku

I'd read in the books on my bedside table

The Old Pond

A Frog Jumps In

The Sound of Water

It had been written by a poet

named Matsuo Basho

who died three hundred years before I'd been born

and lived in a land six thousand miles away.

Yet

we'd both noted

the same moment.

He'd described exactly how it felt

to be here

right now.

I smiled at the frog,

finding the continuity

from Basho to me

a comfort

and a joy.

The path took me out of the cops of trees

and into an orderly garden

full of lavender,

delphinium,

and foxglove.

There were neat boxwoods

and topiaries carved

into cones,

spirals

and giant toadstools.

What a difference from the wild

I just stepped out of.

I almost expected

to see the Queen of Hearts

marching toward me.

I looked down at the path

and saw that someone must have had the same thought.

There was a white rabbit

sketched with sidewalk chalk on the pavement.

Beside it was a pocket watch

on a gold chain

and a teapot.

All of the drawings

were a bit faded,

and I guessed they'd been made

just before the rain had fallen.

I paused,

wondering if I'd dropped out of the poetry

of Basho

and down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.

I remembered a flyer I'd seen at the coffee shop

while waiting for my drink order,

a program run by the library.

What had it said?

Something like

stories and sidewalk chalk.

I'd been skimming it when they called my name

and hadn't picked up much of what it was about.

But clearly, it was

just like it sounded.

I imagined a librarian

telling about Alice

and the Cheshire Cat,

drawing out bottles with tags attached

and playing cards,

and felt a bit disappointed

that I'd missed it.

Grown ups like stories too.

In the next section of pavement

the kids must have been encouraged

to draw characters from the story.

And I spotted what I thought

might have been the mad hatter

and

the caterpillar.

There was also a dinosaur, Bingo,

and what I was pretty sure was Cookie Monster.

So they'd added a bit of their own favorites.

At the edge of the flower garden

was a small wooden box on a stand,

sort of like the little libraries in my own neighborhood

where you could borrow and lend books

but this one was full to bursting

with colored chalk

dusty cylinders

and shades of pink and green and yellow yellow,

some fresh and unused,

others smaller and broken,

gathered in an old coffee cup.

Chalked on the pavement below the box were the simple words

express yourself.

What a delightful invitation

I sorted through the clinking pieces

and sat down on the path

I drew a bit

a tree,

a bluebird,

a rainbow with fluffy white clouds on either end.

I drew the frog floating in the pool,

and the chipmunk with his stuffed cheeks.

I went back to the faded images drawn by the storyteller,

and did my best to color them back in,

retracing so that they would last

for a few more days.

I thought about the poem

in the woods,

the story in the garden,

and the attempt I had been making

to witness more of the good things

that happened in my orbit.

I took a blue stick of chalk

back to the edge of the tree line.

There was another line of poetry

that had been drifting through my mind

a line by the profound and beautiful Mary Oliver.

I sketched it out on the path,

hoping the next person who saw it

would be likewise inspired.

I stood back

and whispered her instructions for living a life.

She wrote,

Pay attention,

be amazed,

tell about it,

sweet dreams.