The Cabin in Summer

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Let's take a deep breath together.

In through the nose

and out through the mouth.

It feels good to breathe deeply.

And the air we breathe, especially at night, matters more than we might think.

While we sleep, our bodies are hard at work,

restoring, repairing, and recharging.

But that work can be quietly disrupted by what's floating in the air.

Things like dust, pollen, and other allergens.

I didn't used to think much about indoor air quality.

But once I did, I realized, if we care about what we eat and drink, why not care just as much about what we breathe?

That's why I sleep with a Jasper air scrubber in my room.

It has no annoying lights and doubles as a gentle white noise machine that's become essential to my bedtime rhythm.

But more than anything, it's turned my bedroom into a sleep sanctuary.

A space where the air helps me sleep deeply and peacefully.

I can't recommend Jasper enough.

You can learn more at jasper.co.

And if you use the code SLEEP, you'll get $300 off.

That's J-A-S-P-R.co.

Use code SLEAP for $300 off.

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

with Audio Engineering by Bob Wittersheim.

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Now,

I'm going to tell you a bedtime story.

And it will occupy your mind enough to keep it from wandering, but not so much that it will keep you up.

All you have to do is listen.

I'll tell the story twice.

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

This is a kind of brain training, So know that it will get better and better with time.

Our story tonight

is called

The Cabin in Summer.

And it's a story about days spent in the sunny garden and the shaded forest.

It's also about lemon balm and raspberries.

The cool water of the creek running over your ankles.

mushroom hunting and threshold sweeping,

and the wisdom of wild places handed down from one generation to the next.

So lights out,

devices down.

You have looked at a screen for the last time to day.

You are about to fall asleep, and you will sleep deeply all night.

Draw a deep breath in through the nose.

Let it out with a sigh.

Nice.

Once more, breathe in.

Let it all go.

Good.

The cabin in summer

Thank goodness for old trees

All around the cabin they stood tall and covered us in shade

Even on the warmest days of summer they kept us cool

We could retreat inside after hours in the garden

or long walks on the trails.

And we'd instantly feel the relief

of the dim rooms

and the fresher air.

And the summer was proving to be a warm one for sure.

Our gardens were thriving from from the sunny days.

Our tomatoes particularly

loved the high heat and abundant light.

We'd planted basil around and among the tomato cages,

and every day I pinched them back

to keep flowers away

and more leafy growth coming.

The zucchini and peppers were growing fast,

and the pumpkin patch was promising an exciting jack-o'-lantern carving season to come.

Along the split-rail fence at the garden's back,

vines of wild raspberries grew,

and most days I picked enough to fill a mug from the cupboard.

Entwined with the vine,

and growing in low mounds along the fence-posts, was lemon balm,

which I hadn't planted, but had somehow found its way here.

Lemon balm reminded me a bit of mint,

in the shape of its leaves,

and even slightly in its fragrance.

The leaves were crinkly

and heart-shaped,

and when I bruised them gently,

they gave off the scent,

yes, of lemon,

but something softer,

like lemon zest,

and grass and mint altogether.

I'd been picking stems of it along with the raspberries,

sometimes just to tuck behind my ear and smell as I worked,

and sometimes to add to my iced tea.

But also,

because for me,

it figured into a good night's sleep

and plenty of traditions.

lemon balm was thought to lift hearts,

to sweeten thoughts,

and even dreams.

So, returning to the cool rooms of the cabin with my raspberries

and my posy of herbs,

I cut a few stems

and tucked them into a little satchel.

Nothing fancy.

It could be a bit of cheesecloth,

an old handkerchief, or a scrap of pillowcase.

I'd tie it shut with a bit of twine

and tuck it under our pillows

to ward off nightmares

and bring us sweet dreams.

Every few days I refreshed the herbs,

and I found the ritual soothing,

even if it wasn't exactly rational.

I didn't need it to be.

Work in a garden long enough,

and you'll learn there are rhythms we hardly tap into,

patterns unseen by most

that there are more things in garden and woods than are dreamt of in most philosophy

and it made me happy to do something small

to take care of us it made me smile and maybe that was the magic of it

in the same vein I'd set out two raspberries

and a thimble full of water

on the windowsill at night

for the fairies, of course.

And most mornings, the berries would be gone.

The thimble tipped over and dry, except for the dew that had settled on it.

I was betting I was making some starling or warbler happy with my evening traditions.

But after all, birds are a sort of fairy, aren't they?

There was also the creek to pay regular visits to.

Sometimes we went all together,

the dog as well.

We'd walk the trails after dinner

and hunt mushrooms that grew from the tree trunks,

chaga and wood ears,

and hen of the woods, or hens of the wood

we weren't sure which.

But often I went by myself.

I loved listening to the babble of the water,

watching it as it rushed over rocks

or spiraled in eddies,

stepping into it on a hot day with my bare feet,

feeling feeling the cool water

rising up over my ankles.

It was a heavenly feeling

and one that washed most thoughts from my head.

There is a saying

that a person can't step into the same river twice,

for the river has changed, and so has the person.

And that did feel true each trip out,

even when the summer days repeated themselves with familiar actions, meals, and rhythms.

I was different,

and so was the water.

And it made me think of another bit of folklore.

I must have learned it when I learned to use lemon balm and feed the fairies.

The advice was that trees are keepers,

and rivers are carriers.

So tell the trees the things you need held,

your secrets and memories,

the puzzles you haven't worked out yet,

and the wishes that weren't quite fully formed

they would hold them for you.

But tell the water what you wanted carried away,

their worries and cares,

things you were done with,

and didn't serve you any longer,

in the evenings when the dishes were drying on the drain board,

and the fireflies were beginning to shimmer in the yard

before I set out the berries

or we laid our heads down on our lemon-scented pillows.

I'd do one last bit of housekeeping

one more traditional practice that had been handed down to me

when we were done reading reading our books on the porch,

and the dog had made his last trip out into the grass,

I'd be the last to go in.

I kept a broom in the corner of the porch,

and I took a moment to sweep the steps and the threshold.

I swept in counterclockwise circles,

a a pattern called Wittershins

And as I went

I cleared the day out of my mind

I swept out the cobwebs

and spare used up thoughts

any unkindness

or uncharitable thinking

And once the threshold was clean

I turned the broom over so its bristles faced up

and propped it back in the corner.

The upturned broom was meant to protect us from any unwelcome visitors in the night

and was a habit I'd learned directly from my grandmother.

She'd even used it when she was ready for a house guest be on their way.

She'd send me into her cleaning cupboard to stand the broom up on its end.

And within ten minutes, sure enough,

we would have the house to ourselves again.

I often thought of her as I stepped inside and closed the door on the night.

Grateful for the wise women who passed down

ways to send worries into water,

wishes into action,

and to build a safe place

to lay your head

and dream in peace.

The cabin in summer

Thank goodness for old trees

all around the cabin

they stood tall

and covered us in shade

Even on the warmest days of summer

they kept us cool

We could retreat inside

After hours in the garden

or long walks on the trails,

and we'd instantly feel the relief

of the dim rooms,

the fresher air.

And this summer was proving to be a warm one, for sure.

Our gardens were thriving from the sunny days.

Our tomatoes, particularly, loved the high heat

and abundant light.

We'd planted basil

around and among the tomato cages,

and every day I pinched them back

to keep their flowers away,

and more leafy growth coming.

The zucchini and peppers

were growing fast,

and the pumpkin patch was promising

an exciting jack-o'-lantern carving season to come

Along the split rail fence,

at the garden's back,

vines of wild raspberries grew,

and most days I picked enough to fill a mug from the cupboard,

entwined with the vine,

and growing in low mounds along the fence posts was lemon balm,

which I hadn't planted,

but had somehow found its way here.

Lemon balm reminded me a bit of mint

in the shape of its leaves,

and even slightly in its fragrance.

the leaves were crinkly

and heart-shaped

and when i bruised them gently

they gave off the scent

yes of lemon

but something softer

like

lemon zest

and grass

and mint all together

I'd been picking stems of it

along with the raspberries,

sometimes just to tuck behind my ear

and smell as I worked,

and sometimes to add to my iced tea.

But also because,

for me,

it figured into a good night's sleep

and plenty of traditions.

Lemon balm was thought to lift hearts,

to sweeten thoughts, and even dreams.

So returning to the cool rooms of the cabin with my raspberries

and my posy of herbs,

I'd cut a few stems

and tuck them into a little satchel.

Nothing fancy.

It could be a bit of cheesecloth,

an old kerchief,

or scrap of pillowcase.

I'd tie it shut with a bit of twine

and tuck it under our pillows to ward off nightmares

and bring us sweet dreams.

Every few days I refreshed the herbs,

and I found the ritual soothing,

even if it wasn't exactly rational.

I didn't didn't need it to be.

Work in a garden long enough,

and you'll learn

there are rhythms we hardly tap into,

patterns unseen by most.

There are more things in garden and woods

than are dreamt of in most philosophy.

And it made me happy

to do something small to take care of us.

It made me smile,

and maybe that was the magic of it.

In the same vein,

I'd set out two raspberries

and a thimble full of water on the windowsill at night.

For the fairies, of course.

And most mornings the berries would be gone,

the thimble tipped over and dry,

except for the dew that settled on it.

I was betting I was making some starling or warbler

happy with my evening tradition.

But after all,

birds are a sort of fairy, aren't they?

There was also the creek to pay regular visits to.

Sometimes we all went together,

the dog as well.

We'd walk the trails after dinner and hunt mushrooms that grew from tree trunks,

chaga

and wood ears,

and hen of the woods,

or

hens of the wood.

We weren't sure which.

But often I went by myself.

I loved listening to the babble of the water,

watching it as it rushed over rocks or spiraled in eddies,

stepping into it on a hot day with my bare feet,

feeling the cool water

rising up over my ankles.

It was a heavenly feeling,

and one that washed most thoughts from my head.

There is that saying

that a person

can't step into the same river twice,

for the river has changed,

and so has the person.

And that did feel true

each trip out,

even when the summer days repeated themselves with familiar actions, meals, and rhythms.

I was different,

and so was the water.

It made me think of another bit of folklore.

I must have learned it when I learned to use lemon balm and to feed the fairies.

The advice was that trees are keepers

and rivers are carriers.

So tell the trees the things you need held,

your secrets and memories,

the puzzles you haven't worked out yet,

And the wishes that weren't quite fully formed

They would hold them for you

But tell the water what you wanted carried away

Your worries and your cares

The things you were done with

and didn't serve you any longer.

In the evenings,

when the dishes were drying on the drain board,

and the fireflies were beginning to shimmer in the yard,

before I set out the fairy's meal,

or we laid our heads down

on lemon-scented pillows,

I'd do one last bit of housekeeping,

one more traditional practice

that had been handed down to me

When we were done reading our books on the porch

And the dog had made his last trip out

into the grass

I'd be the last to go in.

I kept a broom in the corner of the porch,

and I took a moment to sweep the steps and the threshold.

I swept in counterclockwise circles,

a pattern called Wittershins.

and as I went I cleared the day out of my mind

I swept out the cobwebs

and spare

mused up thoughts

any unkindness

or uncharitable thinking

And once the threshold was clean

I turned the broom over

so its bristles faced up,

and propped it back in the corner.

The upturned broom was meant to protect us

from any unwelcome visitors in the night,

and was a habit I'd learned directly from my grandmother.

She'd even used it

when she was ready

for a house guest to be on their way.

She'd send me into her cleaning cupboard

to stand the broom up on its end.

And within ten minutes,

sure enough,

we'd have the house to ourselves again.

I often thought of her

as I stepped inside

and closed the door on the night,

grateful for the wise women

who passed down ways to send worries

into water,

wishes into action,

and to build a safe place

to lay your head

and dream in peace,

sweet dreams.