Dandelions and Moss

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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'll hear on Nothing Much Happens

with Audio Engineering by Bob Wittersheim.

We give to a different charity each week.

And this week we are giving to the Upper Michigan Brain Tumor Center, working to empower patients and families through advocacy, education, treatment, and research.

You can learn more about them in our show notes.

Remember that you can have a completely ad-free Nothing Much experience for just 10 cents a day and sleep easy knowing that you are helping us to continue to bring you new episodes on a weekly basis.

Find the link in our notes or just go to nothingmuchhappens.com.

Now,

I have a story to tell you.

It was written with care.

It'll be read with calm and steadiness.

And just by listening, we will shift your brain from its default mode to its task positive mode, where sleep is much more accessible.

With practice, it will become practically instant.

Sleep can be something you rely on and no longer worry over.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second second time through.

If you wake again in the night, you can think through any part of the story that you remember, or just push play on another episode.

Our story tonight is called Dandelions

and Moss.

And it's a story about a craft project made from things gathered in the yard.

It's also about wishes and wire,

memories of schoolyard games, making something with your hands at the picnic table in the afternoon sun, and the magic of a moment preserved under glass.

If you'd like to try the craft in this story for yourself, I've put a link to the lovely video and maker that inspired it in our notes.

I was a full-time yoga teacher for over 20 years, and I know the power of intentional breathing.

It's why our two deep breaths have been part of our bedtime routine since episode one.

And that's why I want to introduce you to Moonbird.

Moonbird is a handheld breathing device.

designed to comfortably fit in the palm of your hand.

When you shake it, it will start inflating and deflating.

So in your hand, it will feel like you're holding a little bird that is breathing in

and out.

The only thing you need to do is breathe along with it.

When moon bird inflates, you breathe in.

When moon bird deflates, you breathe out.

Simple, intuitive.

It takes all the effort and thinking out of your breathing exercises.

It's the perfect companion to your bedtime ritual.

Or use it when you're meditating, when you're stuck in traffic, anytime you need an assist in feeling calm and focused.

Listen, I know how to breathe to feel better, but still I use Moonbird.

Because when my mind is racing or wandering, I need a little guidance.

And it makes my deep breathing more effective.

So when you wake in the middle of the night, don't reach for your phone unless it's to restart your bedtime story.

That's fine.

Reach for Moonbird.

Visit moonbird.life slash nothing much happens to save 20%.

We've got it linked in our show notes.

Okay,

it's time.

Slide down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can.

There is nothing left to do today.

You did enough.

Feel your body

getting heavy.

Your eyes relaxing

and closing.

Feel calm settle over you.

Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose

and release through your mouth

one more time, nice and deep.

Let it all out.

Good.

Dandelions and moss.

The backyard was dotted with yellow-headed flowers sitting among the green blades.

I'd never bought into the idea

that they were weeds.

I remembered picking handfuls of them when I was a child

and proudly handing them over to a grown-up,

thinking they might go in a vase

and onto the kitchen table,

only to see them dropped onto the compost pile.

I'd felt a bit bad for the grown-ups then.

How did they not see that something with a stem

and pretty petals was clearly a flower,

not a weed?

And they were like a a magic flower

that could overnight turn into a snowball

an orb of fluff to make a wish on

even now as a grown-up

I admired dandelions

and left them to bloom in my yard

to feed the pollinators as they were the first meal many ate after their winter naps.

Today I would, yes, be plucking a few from the ground,

but truly just a few.

And they wouldn't end up in the compost bin.

They would be preserved.

Their fluff seen as the work of art that it was.

I'd read about a craft project in one of my magazines,

and it was calling my name today.

A simple undertaking that only required a few supplies

I already happened to have.

I'd read the article in the magazine several times,

pressing down on the crease between the pages

to get a good look at the pictures that went along with it.

And now

it

and my supplies

sat on my picnic table, waiting for the star ingredient.

The article suggested waiting till the afternoon to pick my dandelions,

to let the the sun dry them out as much as possible.

And now the sun was behind the trees in the west,

and the dew had long evaporated from the yard.

I was looking for two or three dandelions

that were still closed up and green,

with just a smidge of white fluff poking through the end of their bud.

As I walked slowly through the yard,

I realized that dandelions

were a bit like caterpillars.

They had to go through some time,

closed up,

away from the world,

to make their final transition.

The flowers opened to show their yellow petals,

but then closed again

before they revealed their fluffy seeds ready to fly on the wind.

It seemed obvious to me now,

but I'd never considered it before

how many grand moments were preceded by periods in the dark,

In the sunniest sections of the yard,

most of them had already shed their seeds,

and in the shadier spots

several hadn't opened for the first time yet.

But around the edges of the raised bed in the back,

I found what I was looking for.

I took time inspecting them to be sure.

Dry to the touch.

Closed and green on the outside of the bud,

with a bit of white showing through at the tips.

I'd meant to bring the kitchen scissors, but had forgotten.

Still the stems broke easily with a bit of pressure from my thumbnail.

I picked two.

While I was out there,

I hunted for a couple of twigs.

I wanted old, dried-out bits of bark, or woody sprigs that were coated with lichen or moss.

I found several and soon became entranced.

Twigs led me to noticing root systems

around the old trees in the back corner along the fence.

There were several kinds of moss growing around and on the roots,

and more in the crooks of bark and on the fence itself.

I carefully plucked some of it away from the wood,

a few strands of moss that

looked like tiny ferns,

and some shaggy, waving-looking tufts of what I thought might be rock-capped moss.

I carried all my goodies

over to the picnic table

and laid them out on an old pale tablecloth.

Besides the things I'd I'd gathered from the yard,

I had a few pieces of thin wire,

a pair of pliers,

and a small stand with a clear domed top.

I started with the wire and the two dandelions.

I measured out the wire to the length of each stem, plus a few inches,

and began to carefully feed it up and through the flower stem.

I had a sudden memory

of picking dandelions in the schoolyard when I was in first or second grade.

There was

something about holding a dandelion under your chin.

If the yellow glow reflected on your skin,

it meant you liked butter?

I laughed out loud, thinking of it.

I had to stop working for a moment as my body shook.

What had that been about?

Who needed to diagnose their interest in butter in that way?

A series of playground rituals came back to me.

We made wishes on dandelion fluff,

hunted for four leaf clovers,

found signs in the clouds,

jumped over cracks in the sidewalk,

and blew kisses at ladybugs,

trying to figure out the world

through the lore handed down by kids just a year or two older.

While it didn't make sense,

we hadn't needed it to.

We were just playing at life.

I still was,

though in a quieter way.

My flowers stood tall,

with the wire threaded through them.

and I wound the ends of it around a sturdy twig.

I set the twig and flowers

on the small stand

and laid in a few bits of the moss I'd gathered.

The stand had come from a special cupcake a friend had brought me on my birthday,

a small single cake on a stand with a clear dome over it.

It had felt very fancy indeed.

So I kept these pieces

after the treat was gone,

and this was the perfect use for them.

I slid the dome over my little craft

and pressed it into place with a click.

In a day or two

these flowers would open up,

and that moment would be preserved.

The perfect downy blooms would last for years,

like a seed caught in a drop of amber,

like the memory of those schoolyard games

pressed between the pages of a book,

faded a bit around the edges,

but still holding their shape

Dandelions

and Moss.

The backyard was dotted with yellow-headed flowers

sitting among the green blades.

I'd never bought into the idea

that they were weeds.

I remembered picking handfuls of them when I was a child

and proudly handing them over to a grown-up,

expecting they might go into a vase

and onto the kitchen table,

only to see them dropped

onto the compost pile.

I'd felt a bit bad for the grown-ups then.

How did they not see

that something with a stem

and pretty petals

was clearly a flower,

not a weed?

And they were like a magic flower

that could, overnight,

turn into a snowball,

an orb of fluff

to make a wish on.

Even now as a grown-up

I admired dandelions

and left them to bloom in my yard

To feed the pollinators

As they were the first meal

many ate

after their winter naps

Today

I would,

yes, be plucking a few from the ground,

but truly just a few,

and they wouldn't end up in the compost.

They would be preserved,

their fluff seen as the work of art that it was.

I'd read about a craft project

in one of my magazines

and it was calling my name today

a simple undertaking

that only required a few supplies

I happened to already have.

I'd read the article in the magazine several times,

pressing down on the crease

between the pages

to get a good look at the pictures that went along with it.

And now

it

and my supplies

sat on my picnic table,

waiting for the star ingredient.

The article suggested waiting till the afternoon

to pick my dandelions

to let the sun dry them out as much as possible.

And now the sun was behind the trees in the west,

and the dew

had long evaporated from the yard.

I was looking for two

or three dandelions

that were still closed up and green,

with just a smidge of white fluff

poking through the end of their bud.

As I walked slowly through the yard, yard,

I realized that dandelions

were a bit like caterpillars.

They had to go through some time,

closed up,

away from the world,

to make their final transition.

The flowers opened to show their yellow petals,

but then closed again

before they revealed fluffy seeds

ready to fly on the wind.

It seemed obvious to me now,

but I'd never considered it before

how many grand moments

were preceded

by periods in the dark

In the sunniest sections of the yard

most of them had already shed their seeds

and in the shadier spots

several hadn't even opened

for the first time yet.

But around the edges of the raised bed in the back,

I found what I was looking for.

I took time inspecting them to be sure.

Dry to the touch,

closed and green on the outside of the bud,

with a bit of white showing through at the tips.

I'd meant to bring the kitchen scissors,

but had forgotten.

Still the stems broke easily

with a bit of pressure from my thumbnail.

I picked two

while I was out there.

I hunted for a couple of twigs.

I wanted old, dried-out bits of bark

or woody sprigs

that were coated with lichen or moss.

I found several

and soon became entranced.

Twigs led me to noticing root systems around the old trees

in the back corner along the fence.

There were several kinds of moss growing around

and on the roots,

and more in the crooks of bark

and on the fence itself.

I carefully plucked some of it away from the wood,

a few strands of moss

that looked like tiny ferns,

and some shaggy, wavy-looking tufts

of what I thought might be rock-cap moss.

I carried all of my goodies

over to the picnic table

and laid them out

on an old pale tablecloth.

Besides the things I'd gathered from the yard,

I had a few pieces of thin wire,

a pair of pliers,

and a small stand

with a clear dome top.

I started with the wire

and the two dandelions.

I measured out the wire

to the length of each stem

plus a few inches

and began to carefully feed it up

and through the flower stem.

I had a sudden memory

of picking dandelions in the schoolyard

when I was in first or second grade.

There was some game about holding a dandelion

under your chin.

If the yellow glow reflected on your skin,

It meant you liked butter.

I laughed out loud,

thinking of it.

Had to stop working for a moment

as my body shook.

What had that been about?

Who needed to diagnose their interest in butter

in such a way.

A series of playground rituals came back to me.

We made wishes on dandelion fluff,

hunted for four-leaf clovers,

found signs in the clouds,

jumped over cracks in the sidewalk,

and blew kisses at ladybugs,

trying to figure out the world

through the lore handed down

by kids just a year or two older.

While it didn't make sense,

we hadn't needed it to.

We were just playing at life

And I still was

though in a quieter way

My flowers stood tall

with the wire threaded through them

And I wound the ends of it around a sturdy twig.

I set the twig and flowers

on the small stand

and laid in a few bits of the moss I'd gathered.

The stand had come from a special cupcake

a friend had brought me on my birthday,

a single small cake

on a stand with a clear dome over it.

It had felt very fancy indeed.

So I kept these pieces after the treat was gone.

And this was the perfect use for them.

I slid the dome over my little craft

and pressed it into place with a click.

In a day or two,

these flowers would open up,

and that moment would be preserved.

The perfect downy blooms

would last for years,

like a seed caught in a drop of amber,

like the memory of those schoolyard games

pressed between the pages of a book,

faded a bit

around the edges,

but still holding their shape.

Sweet dreams.