Rainy Day Rituals

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in which

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You feel good, and then you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

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Now,

I have a story to tell you.

And just by listening, we'll train your brain to respond more reliably,

to fall asleep, and to return to sleep quickly and easily.

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 restart a story.

Our story tonight is called Rainy Day Rituals.

And it's a story about small tasks attended to as a storm blows through.

It's also about a fuzzy radio playing in the background, terry cloth, and tidally folded towels, thunder and lightning, lightning, flickering lights and candle flames,

and allowing yourself to do less

and enjoy more.

So lights out,

devices down.

You have looked at a screen for the last time today.

Relax your jaw.

Soften your shoulders

and feel your whole body dropping heavy into the bed.

You are safe,

and I will be here

guarding you with my voice as you sleep.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and release from your mouth.

Do that again.

Breathe in

and sigh.

Good.

Rainy Day Rituals

It was a stormy day at the cottage,

and I didn't mind it.

The week had been hot and humid,

and I'd been soaking up as much sun as I could,

wanting to store it away in my cells to tide me over

in winter.

But I'd also been a little worn out by it.

My eyes were tired of squinting at the sun.

I was tired of sweating through my t-shirts

and wanted a day to spend inside

without feeling like I was missing out.

Of course, we are never really missing out.

Just seeing other spaces,

living different moments.

So even before I'd opened my eyes this morning,

I'd already given myself permission to spend the whole day inside,

reading books in a room with the blinds drawn, or watching movies on the sofa,

even if it was sunny and hot out,

when I'd heard the rumble of thunder

and the drumming rain on the roof.

Well,

it had made the decision all the sweeter.

I tuned the dial of the radio on the porch as I sipped my coffee,

listening in for the forecast.

Pack your umbrellas, they suggested.

A perfect day if you're a duck, they quipped.

I chuckled to myself

as I sat wrapped in my robe,

watching a stream of water pour from the gutter spout

that smell of summer rain,

especially when lightning was crackling through the sky,

petrichor

and ozone,

earthy,

sweet, and slightly crisp and metallic.

It was refreshing,

energizing.

I found that my need for a day of rest

was being replaced with a yen for a day of quiet, satisfying activity.

I strolled over the uneven floors of the old cottage,

considering what tasks might feel rewarding,

not too taxing,

and those that I might especially wish I had seen to when the heat and humidity returned.

There were just a few dishes in the sink,

and I had them washed up and drying in the rack.

The whole kitchen wiped down and returned to factory settings within a few minutes.

I moved on to the bedroom where I made the bed

and changed into soft terrycloth pants and a tee.

Something about terry cloth always reminds me of coming in from a day swimming when I was a kid.

I must have had a few matched sets back then.

I'd be tired from all my cannon balls and doggy paddling,

all my sprints up and down the break wall,

all the sunshine I'd drunk in

and I'd trade my damp swimsuit

for fresh, clean clothes,

a terry cloth set,

which would feel so good against my sun-kissed skin.

Then,

nearly without fail,

I'd fall asleep on the porch swing or sofa

and eventually be woken up when dinner was ready.

Oh, to be a child,

sitting down at the table, rubbing the sleep from your eyes,

as your plate was filled with favorite foods,

and knowing you could do it all again to morrow.

I smiled to myself as I hung my robe on the bathroom door,

thinking that the grown-up version of that might be takeout

delivered at the end of your nap.

Not a bad idea for later today.

I noticed a full laundry basket heaped with clean towels and washcloths beside the dryer.

Remembering that I'd emptied it before bed the night before,

but hadn't had the energy to fold

and put the things away.

That felt like the perfect kind of chore for me today.

And I would take my time

and fold them right,

not just shaking them out

as I stood in front of the shelf,

trying to flip them into thirds.

I carried the basket to the kitchen table,

freshly wiped down from my quick reset,

and laid the first one over the surface.

Now, I've found over the years that bath towel folding can be

highly personal.

Many of us tend to have very strong feelings about rolled versus flat,

spa style versus retail,

or even just the way my dad did it versus the way your mom did.

Luckily, I was queen of my own cupboard, and shape and stacking style were all up to me.

I'd tried the spa rolls before,

and I have to admit, they were appealing.

I loved the way they looked on the stool beside my tub when I'd stack one crossed over another,

as if my bathroom were about to be photographed for a magazine.

But they didn't stack well in the linen cupboard.

Several times I'd reached for one.

The fuzzy material caught on two others and pulled them out to land in an unrolled pile on the floor.

Since then, I'd gone to the retail fold,

one that stacked neatly and reminded me of the piles of new towels in a fancy shop.

I folded that first towel in half widthwise.

Then in thirds lengthwise,

and once more in half,

from top to bottom,

it left me with a tidy rectangle,

no tag hanging out, and flat and even for stacking.

As I worked my way through the basket,

I listened to the hum of the radio in the background,

the soft hush of steady rain,

and the occasional crackle of thunder.

Just as I was pulling the last towel from the basket, a bright branch of lightning

sliced through the sky.

And a moment later,

the lights went out around me.

I stood still,

held the towel in my hands, and waited.

I've always found this moment,

the moment when the power goes out,

just a bit exciting.

My stomach took a little flip,

and I let myself imagine an afternoon without electricity.

I'd light a few candles,

reach for the book on the top of my to be red stack

and settle in on the porch glider,

the cool, stormy air blowing through the screens,

and the quiet of the street,

like a balm on my nerves.

I'd keep the fridge closed to preserve the cold inside,

and would have no choice but to order myself my favorite meal from the restaurant on the other side of the river,

where I could see that the lights still shone.

Just then

the lights flickered and came back on,

the radio buzzing back to life,

and the oven giving a friendly beep,

as if marking itself present in class.

I shook out the towel

and laid it on the table, folding and stacking it on the others.

Ah, well, I thought,

as I carried them to the cupboard and put them away,

I can just pretend.

I flicked the light switches off as I walked through the house,

struck a match, and lit my candle,

and carried my book to the porch.

Rainy Day Rituals

It was a stormy day

at the cottage,

and I didn't mind it.

The week had been hot and humid

And I'd been soaking up as much sun as I could,

wanting to store it away in my cells

to tide me over in winter.

But I'd also been

a little worn out by it.

My eyes were tired of squinting at the sun.

I was tired of sweating through my t-shirts

and wanted a day to spend inside

without feeling like I was missing out.

And of course, we are never really missing out,

just seeing other spaces,

living different moments.

So even before I'd opened my eyes this morning,

I'd already given myself permission to spend the whole day inside,

reading books in a room with the blinds drawn,

or watching movies on the sofa.

even

if it was sunny and hot out

when I'd heard the rumble of thunder

and drumming of rain on the roof.

Well,

it had made the decision all the sweeter.

I turned the dial of the radio on the porch as I sipped my coffee,

listening in for the forecast.

Pack your umbrellas, they'd suggested.

A perfect day if you're a duck, they'd quipped.

I chuckled to myself

as I sat wrapped in my robe,

watching a stream of water

pour from the gutter spout

that smell of summer rain,

especially when lightning was crackling through the sky,

petrichor

and ozone,

earthy, sweet,

slightly crisp and metallic.

It was refreshing,

energizing,

and I found that my need for a day of rest

was being replaced

with a yen for a day of quiet, satisfying activity.

I strolled over the uneven floors

of the old cottage,

considering what tasks

might feel rewarding,

not too taxing,

and those that

I might especially wish I had seen to

when the heat and humidity returned

there were just a few dishes in the sink

and I had them washed up and drying in the rack

the whole kitchen wiped down

and returned to factory settings

within a few minutes

I moved on to the bedroom

where I made the bed

and changed into soft terry cloth pants and a tee.

Something about terry cloth

always reminds me

of coming in from a day of swimming when I was a kid.

I must have had a few matched sets back then.

I'd be very tired

from all my cannonballs

and doggy paddling,

all my sprints up and down the break wall,

all the sunshine I'd drunk in,

and I'd trade my damp swimsuit

for fresh, clean clothes,

a terrycloth set,

which would feel

so good against my sun-kissed skin.

Men,

nearly without fail,

I'd fall asleep on the porch swing or sofa

and eventually be woken up

when dinner was ready.

Oh, to be a child

sitting down at the table,

rubbing the sleep from your eyes,

as your plate was filled with favourite foods,

and knowing

you could do it all again

to morrow.

I smiled to myself

as I hung my robe on the bathroom door,

thinking that

the grown-up version of that

might be

takeout

delivered at the end of your nap.

Not a bad idea

for later today.

I noticed a full laundry basket, heaped with clean towels and washcloths, beside the dryer

remembering that I'd emptied it before bed the night before

but hadn't had the energy

to fold and put the things away

that felt like the perfect kind of chore for me today

and I would take my time

and fold them right,

not just shaking them out as I stood in front of the shelf,

trying to flip them into thirds.

I carried the basket

to the kitchen table,

freshly wiped down

from my quick reset

and laid the first one

over the surface.

Now, I've found over the years

that bath towel folding

can be

highly personal.

Many of us

tend to have very strong feelings

about

rolled

versus flat

spa style

versus retail

or even just

the way my dad did it

versus the way your mom did.

Luckily,

I was queen of my own cupboard,

and shape and stacking style

were all up to me.

I'd tried the spa rolls before,

and I have to admit, they are appealing.

I loved the way they looked on the stool beside my tub

when I'd stack one crossed over another

as if my bathroom

were about to be photographed

for a magazine.

But

they didn't stack well in the linen cupboard

Several times I'd reached for one

And the fuzzy material

caught on two others

and pulled them out to land

in an unrolled pile

on the floor

Since then

I'd gone to the retail fold

one that stacked neatly

and reminded me of the piles of new towels

in a fancy shop.

I folded that first towel

in half widthwise,

then in thirds lengthwise,

and once more in half from top to bottom.

It left me with a tidy rectangle,

no tag hanging out,

and flat,

and even for stacking.

as I worked my way through the basket,

I listened to the hum of the radio in the background,

the soft hush of steady rain,

and the occasional crackle of thunder.

Just as I was pulling the last towel from the basket,

A bright branch of lightning sliced through the sky.

And a moment later, the lights went out around me.

I stood still,

held the towel in my hands,

and waited.

I've always found

this moment,

the moment when the power goes out,

just a bit exciting.

My stomach took a little flip,

and I let myself imagine

an afternoon

without electricity.

I'd light a few candles,

reach for the book on the top of my to be read stack,

and settle on the porch glider

The cool stormy air blowing through the screens

And the quiet of the street

like a balm on my nerves,

I'd keep the fridge closed to preserve the cold inside,

and would have no choice

but to order myself my favorite meal

from the restaurant

on the other side of the river,

where I could see that lights still shone.

Just then

the lights flickered

and came back on,

the radio buzzing to life,

and the oven

giving a friendly beep,

as if marking itself present in class.

I shook out the towel

and laid it on the table,

folding and stacking it on the others.

Ah, well,

I thought,

as I carried them to the cupboard

and put them away.

I can just pretend.

I flicked the light switches off as I walked through the house,

struck a match,

and lit my candle

and carried my book to the porch.

Sweet dreams.