A Month of Sundays (Encore)

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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 all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

We are bringing you an encore episode tonight.

Meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.

And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.

But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly.

And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.

Now,

a mind that is gently focused rather than wandering

is not only more likely to slip into sleep,

it is naturally happier and calmer.

So think of this as a way to train your brain for bed,

but also for a better day tomorrow.

Just by listening to the sound of my voice and following along with the general shape of our story

will activate your task positive network and you

will sleep.

I'll tell the story twice

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

If you're new to this, come with some patience.

You'll want to use the stories regularly for at least a couple weeks to get the best results.

Our Our story tonight is called A Month of Sundays.

And it's a story about finding a way to make time for rest and enjoyment.

It's also about a tin box of recipe cards,

a neatly made bed with the corner folded down,

ants and idioms, porch swings and school buses,

and the delight of one of the best days of the week.

Lights out campers.

Snuggle down into your bed and get as cozy and relaxed as you can.

Wiggle one foot into the cool corner of your sheets.

Relax your jaw.

Soften any place where you are still holding.

Whatever today was like

is what today was like.

And now we're here.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Nice.

Let's do one more.

Breathe in

and out.

Good.

A month of Sundays.

There was a favorite phrase of one of my aunts.

Something I'd hear her say as she gossiped with her sisters while they sprawled across the sofa at my grandparents' house.

As in,

he couldn't win me over in a month of Sundays,

or

at the table for some holiday dinner,

she'd lean toward me and say, pass me that dish of grandma's potatoes.

I haven't had them in a month of Sundays.

I thought of her whenever I heard it, and sometimes said it as a way to invoke her

to bring her confidence and joie de vive into what I was doing or talking about

for a while like with many idioms I heard as a child

I didn't completely or correctly grasp its meaning

I tended to take those turns of phrase literally

so when someone talked about beating about the bush, I worried about the bush.

When I heard in an old black and white cops and robbers movie that somebody had better start talking turkey, I was excited for the upcoming turkey cameo

and wondered if the ones I'd seen from the car window on a long drive through the country spoke human as as well.

So likewise, I thought at some point in time

I'd flip the page on the calendar

and come across the Sunday month, a whole month of Sundays.

I'd even asked about it, when was it happening?

My mom had smiled and explained that it was just a saying, a way to say

a very long time.

A month of Sundays meant

enough weeks for 30 or even 31 Sundays to pass.

I think I'd nodded and gone away still pretty confused and a bit disappointed.

Confused that anyone would pick that way to say

a long time

and disappointed that there wasn't waiting for me

a whole month when every day would be a Sunday.

As a grown-up, I can't say that I've ever been able to clear a whole month

to spend each day doing as I pleased.

Resting, reading, baking,

gardening,

napping.

But sometimes

it's possible to fit an extra Sunday in

here and there.

Some days my to-do list would get set aside.

It would keep for a day.

And I would declare it a Sunday.

Middle of the week?

Didn't matter.

It was just Sunday yesterday, I didn't care.

It could be Sunday if I said so.

Like today.

There was a rumor going around that it was actually Tuesday, but I'd crossed that out on the calendar

and written over it in thick green marker, Sunday.

So

clearly,

the rumor mill can't be trusted.

The day had started a bit gloomy,

overcast and gray.

It had rained the night before,

and the sidewalks were still wet.

On Sundays, I usually have a slow start.

So I poured a cup of coffee, took a blanket from the back of the sofa,

and stepped out onto the front porch.

I'd spent the previous weekend

setting up the furniture out there,

wiping down the slats in the swing and chairs,

sweeping out the corners, and plumping up the cushions and pillows

after letting them freshen in the sunshine for a few hours.

It was a bit chilly on the porch as I settled on the swing and tossed the blanket over my legs.

It's a skill to drink hot coffee on a porch swing, but I was an old hand.

It was all about getting settled first,

then reaching for your cup from the side table,

and not trying to swing too vigorously until half the cup was gone.

The school bus passed as I sipped.

They only had another week or so of school before they let out for the summer.

The bus driver waved at me,

and I could see in her face that she was counting down the days as much as the kids were.

The sun began to creep out,

and I watched as the shadows the trees threw grew crisper,

their lines starker.

It seemed like we'd gone from

a few budded trees to full leaf everywhere overnight.

The bird song grew louder as they got got their dose of sunlight.

And by the time my cup was empty,

it seemed like a different day than the one I'd woken up in.

I went inside,

letting the screen door bang behind me,

and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

I opened the windows and let the fresh air in.

The bed was rumpled after a good night's sleep,

and I turned toward it and pulled back the duvet.

I always appreciate coming back to a made bed.

So most days I at least straightened the blankets, but since it was a Sunday

and I had all the time in the world,

I could do the job properly.

I smoothed the sheets,

re-tucking them so they were taut and neat.

Then each pillow got shaken, flipped and shaken again,

and placed just so on the bed.

And the duvet, also plumped and shaken,

went on,

and I folded back the corner where I would slide in to night,

or maybe this afternoon, for a nap.

It was something my mom always did when she helped me make my bed when I was little.

Turning that corner down made the bed feel

so inviting,

so cozy and welcoming.

I was already looking forward to getting back in.

Next Sunday activity.

I wanted to bake something.

In the kitchen, I thumbed through cookbooks and the handwritten cards in my recipe box.

What to make?

I closed my eyes and rested my hand on my belly.

What did I want?

What was I craving?

Oh,

carrot cake.

I smiled with my eyes still closed.

It sometimes seemed silly to make a cake just for me.

It wasn't anyone's birthday or holiday, but then I remembered it was a Sunday, and I hadn't had carrot cake

in a month of those.

So I flipped through the cards in the tin till I found a passed-down recipe written in faded pencil.

Of course,

it had come from that dear aunt.

I pushed the window open a crack over the sink

and smelled smelled lilacs on the breeze.

The sun was bright,

the day was young,

and I'd be finishing it

with a generous wedge of cake and a made bed with the corner turned down.

I smiled into the breeze.

I was happy.

A month of Sundays.

It was a favorite phrase of one of my aunts.

Something I'd hear her say as she gossiped with her sisters while they sprawled across the sofa at my grandparents' house.

As in,

he couldn't win me over in a month of Sundays,

or at the table for some holiday dinner,

she'd lean toward me and say,

Pass me that dish of grandma's potatoes.

I haven't had them in a month of Sundays.

I thought of her whenever I heard it,

and sometimes said it as a way to invoke her, to bring her confidence and joie de vivre

into what I was doing or talking about.

For a while,

like with many idioms I heard as a child,

I didn't completely or correctly grasp the meaning.

I tended to take those turns of phrase literally.

So when someone talked about beating about the bush,

I I worried about the bush

when I heard in an old black and white cops and robbers movie

that somebody had better start talking turkey.

I was excited for the upcoming turkey cameo

and wondered if the ones I'd seen from the car window on a long drive through the country spoke human as well.

So likewise,

I thought

at some point I'd flip the page on the calendar and come across

the Sunday month,

a whole month of Sundays.

I'd even asked about it.

When was it happening?

My mom had smiled

and explained that it was just a saying.

A way to say

a very long time.

A month of Sundays meant

enough weeks for thirty

or even thirty-one Sundays to pass.

I think I'd nodded

and gone away still pretty confused and a bit disappointed.

Confused that anyone would pick that way

to say a long time

and disappointed that there wasn't, waiting for me,

a whole month

when every day would be a Sunday.

As a grown-up,

I can't say that I've ever been able to

clear

a whole month

to spend each day doing as I pleased,

resting,

reading,

baking,

gardening,

napping.

But sometimes it's possible

to fit an an extra Sunday in here and there.

Some days my to-do list would get set aside.

It would keep for a day.

And I'd declare it a Sunday.

Middle of the week?

Didn't matter.

It was just Sunday yesterday?

I didn't care.

It could be Sunday if I said so.

The day had started a bit gloomy,

overcast and gray.

It had rained the night before,

and the sidewalks were still wet.

On Sundays, I usually have a slow start.

So I poured a cup of coffee,

took a blanket from the back of the sofa,

and stepped out onto the front porch.

I had spent the previous weekend

setting up the furniture out here,

wiping down the slats

in the swing and chairs,

sweeping out the corners and plumping up the cushions and pillows

after letting them freshen in the sunshine for a few hours.

It was a bit chilly on the porch as I settled on the swing

and tossed the blanket over my legs.

It's a skill to drink hot coffee on a porch swing, but I was an old hand.

It was all about getting settled first,

then reaching for your cup from the side table,

and not trying to swing too vigorously until half of it was gone.

The school bus passed as I sipped.

They only had another week or so of school

before they let out for the summer.

The bus driver waved at me,

and I could see in her face

that she was counting down the days as much as the kids were.

The sun began to creep out,

and I watched as the shadows the trees threw grew crisper,

their lines starker.

It seemed like we'd gone from a few budded trees to full leaf everywhere overnight.

The bird song grew louder as they got their dose of sunlight

and by the time my cup was empty,

it seemed like a different day

than the one I'd woken up in.

I went inside,

letting the screen door bang behind me,

and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.

I opened the windows and let the fresh air in.

The bed was rumpled after a good night's sleep,

and I turned toward it

and pulled back the duvet.

I always appreciate coming back to a made bed

so most days

I at least straightened the blankets.

But since it was a Sunday

and I had all the time in the world,

I could do the job properly.

I smoothed the sheets,

retucking them so that they were taut and neat.

Then each pillow got shaken out,

flipped, and shaken again,

and placed just so on the bed.

Then the duvet,

also plumped and shaken,

I spread it out and folded back the corner

where I would slide in to night,

or maybe this afternoon for a nap.

It was something my mom always did

when she helped me make my bed when I was little.

Turning that corner down

made the bed feel so inviting,

so cozy and welcoming.

I was already looking forward

to getting back in.

Next Sunday activity,

I wanted to bake something.

In the kitchen, I thumbed through cookbooks and the handwritten cards in my recipe box.

What

to make?

I

my eyes

and rested my hand on my belly.

What did I want?

What was I craving?

Carrot cake

I smiled with my eyes still closed.

It sometimes seemed silly

to make a cake just for me.

It wasn't a birthday

or a holiday.

But then I remembered it was a Sunday.

And I hadn't had carrot cake

in a month of those.

So I flipped through the cards in the tin

till I found a passed-down recipe

written in faded pencil.

Of course,

it had come from

that same dear aunt.

I pushed the window open a crack over the sink

and smelled lilacs on the breeze.

The sun was bright

The day was young

And I'd be finishing it

With a generous wedge of cake

and a made bed

With the corner turned down

I smiled into the breeze

I was happy

sweet dreams.