Dandelions and Mayapples (Encore)

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I am so excited for this spa day.

Candles lit, music on.

Hot tub warm and ready.

And then my chronic hives come back.

Again, in the middle of my spa day.

What a wet blanket.

Looks like another spell of itchy red skin.

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Hives during my next spa day?

Not if I can help it.

Learn more at treatmyhives.com.

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,

here is how this podcast works.

I'm going to tell you a story.

And it has just enough in it to catch your busy mind

and hold it still for a bit

so that you can peacefully fall asleep.

All you need to do is listen.

I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second telling.

If you wake later in the night,

don't hesitate to start the story over

we are training your brain to fall asleep and return to sleep quickly

and with a bit of practice it'll begin to happen within seconds

our story tonight is called dandelions and mayapples

And it's a story about a trip down to the creek on a spring afternoon.

It's also about a bench on the bank where the sound of the water echoes,

rhododendrons and stone steps,

and giving yourself grace to ebb and flow.

Now, switch off your light,

snuggle down into your favorite sleeping position,

and let your whole body soften.

You are being held by the earth right now.

And you are safe.

And I am here to watch over until you wake.

Take a deep breath in through your nose

and let it out with a soft sigh.

One more, please, in

and out.

Good

dandelions

and may apples

a week or two ago.

I'd spotted them down by the creek,

their yellow heads visible among the bright green new grass,

even from a ways away.

On the day I'd seen them,

it had snowed again.

Just a flurry of flakes

that seemed to melt

before they made it all the way to the ground.

But among the budding trees and for Scythia branches,

it had felt like a prank, a cruel joke,

after warm days in which

we'd all cautiously started to believe

that winter was finally over.

And I guess it was.

Not just because

the sun had come out the very next day,

and the warmth and sweet air along with it.

But because nature and the seasons,

just like most everything else,

don't go in a straight line.

Just because spring had pivoted on her heel for a moment,

I didn't mean anything wasn't as it should be.

Spring has a bit of winter in her, after all.

I think of this a lot,

of how nature spirals,

pivots,

retreats, and begins again,

and how often we forget

that we are meant to do the same.

How we would never look at the sky or

at a formation of rock and earth and think,

well, that's not right.

It just is.

And so am I.

And so are you.

So when the clouds had finished dropping their last snowflakes,

at least for a while,

and the sun was out again,

I peered through the window in my room at the top of the house

and spied the dandelions

still yellow

and blooming beside the creek.

I have a lovely view from this window,

and it was changing, seemingly, by the minute

as the trees budded and flowers emerged.

I pushed it up by the sash,

and the air that rolled in was warm and fresh-smelling.

What was I doing up here?

I asked myself.

I could be

out there.

So I raced down the stairs

until I was at the back door,

stepping into my shoes

and onto the patio.

I hadn't planted anything yet,

besides one small pot of pansies

that stood beside the door,

and I stopped to admire them.

Purple and yellow and white with green leaves.

I picked up the watering can

where I had left it a day or two ago

and gave them a quick drink.

On the patio stones were long black marks,

and I remembered watching a deer from my window

scraping her hooves along the stones.

I imagined her using them as I used an emery board on my nails.

I was glad the doe had gotten some self-care Sunday,

I thought with a chuckle.

Beyond the edge of the patio

were stairs made of flat stones wedged into the earth,

and I stepped onto them cautiously.

They felt solid and secure.

But I hadn't climbed them since last autumn.

So I I went slowly,

checking that each one

was without wiggle as I went.

When we'd first moved in,

these steps weren't even visible from the house,

and I could only guess how old they were.

It had been such a treat to find

when we were exploring the yard that first summer.

We'd cleared out some brush

and cut away an invasive vine

to find

what had felt like a secret garden.

Beyond the steps was another surprise.

A bench,

cast iron, and still with a few flakes of white paint clinging to its seat and back.

I remembered finding it that day

and going to sit on it.

It was in the shade of a giant maple

and near enough the creek to enjoy the sound

But far back enough that when she overran her banks each spring

Your toes wouldn't get wet

Sitting there I'd been struck with the thought

Of someone sitting in the exact same spot

Many

many years before

Having their picture taken,

shading their eyes

against the bright glint of the sunshine,

and smiling at the camera.

Had I just stepped into someone else's memory,

or was it just a fanciful thought

born of the romance of the spot

and the warm air.

I hadn't known, but hoped that

somewhere up in my attic,

I'd one day find an old box

with the photo I'd just imagined waiting inside it.

The sound of the creek pulled me over,

and I peered down into it.

it.

Clear water flowed over stones,

and a sandy bottom scored with ripples.

Upstream, the creek curved, and the water rushed and ran.

And I walked closer, wanting to bottle the sound of it,

and to carry it around with me in my pocket.

I stood there for a bit,

just watching it flow,

thinking about

how the stones in the creek bed

were sometimes exposed

when the water was low,

and how you could use them as a bridge to step across.

But now they were submerged,

and though I knew they didn't, I imagined them

sighing as the cool water flowed over them.

I kept walking,

following the creek upstream.

The trees were only just budding out.

So even in the deeper woods,

the light was bright.

Along with the dandelions growing from every patch of green were daffodils,

some

all yellow,

and others with a yellow cup of petals inside

and an outer ring of bright white petals around them.

On the far side of the creek

was a rhododendron with long, shiny leaves.

It was a giant ranging along the water for yards

and up toward the thick branch of a beech tree almost as far.

It must have been planted a hundred years ago to grow this big,

and around its roots were dozens of maya apples.

I recognized them by their shape.

They were tiny,

only five or six inches tall,

but shaped like little umbrellas.

As they grew over the summer, the umbrellas would open up,

and their leaves would stand out rather than droop down.

Eventually,

they would grow small, green, lemon-shaped fruits, which were edible but

didn't have much flavor.

Luckily,

wildlife, turtles, and others liked them just fine.

And they would make for good meals when the time was right.

On my way back toward home, toward the stone steps and the patio,

I reached out and touched trees along the path.

I bent down near the stream and let my fingers trail through the cold water.

The dandelions were all yellow.

None None had turned to fluff yet,

ready for a wish to be made.

But mine had already been granted.

The static in my head had quieted,

replaced by the sound of the creek.

I was calm

and happy

and restored.

Dandelions

and Mayapples.

A week or two ago,

I'd spotted them down by the creek,

their yellow heads visible

among the bright green new grass,

even from a ways away.

On the day I'd seen them,

it had had snowed again.

Just a flurry of flakes

that seemed to melt

before they made it all the way to the ground.

But among the budding trees and forsythia branches,

it had felt like a prank,

a cruel joke after warm days,

in which we'd all cautiously started to believe

that winter was fully over.

And I guess it was

not

just because the sun had come out the very next day,

and the warmth and sweet air along with it.

But because nature and the seasons,

just like most everything else,

don't go in a straight line.

Just because spring had pivoted on her heel for a moment,

I didn't mean anything wasn't as it should be.

Spring has a bit of winter in her, after all.

I think of this a lot,

of how nature spirals,

pivots,

retreats, and begins again,

and how often we forget that we are meant to do the same.

How we would never look at the sky or

at a formation of rock and earth and think,

Well, that's not right.

It just is.

And so am I.

And so are you.

So when the clouds had finished dropping

their last snowflakes for a while at least,

and the sun was out again.

I peered through the window

in my room at the top of the house,

and spied the dandelions,

still yellow

and blooming beside the creek.

I have a lovely view from my window,

and it was changing seemingly by the minute

as the trees budded

and flowers emerged.

I pushed it up by the sash,

and the air that rolled in

was warm and fresh-smelling.

What was I doing up here?

I asked myself.

I could be

out there.

So I raced down the stairs

until I was at the back door,

stepping into my shoes

and onto the patio.

I hadn't planted anything yet,

besides one small pot of pansies

that stood beside the door,

and I stopped to admire them.

Purple and yellow and white

with green leaves.

I picked up the watering can where I had left it

a day or two ago

and gave them a quick drink

on the patio stones

were long black marks

and I remembered watching a deer from my window

scraping her hooves along the stones

I imagined her using them as I used an emery board on my nails.

Glad the doe had gotten her own self-care Sunday,

I thought with a chuckle.

Beyond the edge of the patio

were stairs made of flat stones,

wedged into the earth,

and I stepped onto them cautiously.

They felt solid and secure.

But I hadn't climbed them since last autumn.

So I went slowly,

checking that each one

was without wiggle as I went.

When we'd first moved in,

these steps weren't even visible from the house.

And I could only guess how old they were.

It had been such a treat

to find them

when we were exploring the yard

that first summer.

We'd cleared out some brush

and cut away an invasive vine

to find

what had felt like a secret garden.

Beyond the steps was another surprise.

A bench,

cast iron,

and still with a few flakes of white paint clinging to its seat and back.

I remembered finding it that day

and going to sit on it.

It was in the shade of a giant maple

and near enough the creek

to enjoy the sound.

But far back enough

that when she overran her banks each spring

your toes wouldn't get wet

sitting there i'd been struck with the thought

of someone else sitting in the exact same spot

many many years before

having their picture taken

shading their eyes

against the bright glint of the sunshine

And smiling at the camera

Had I just stepped into someone else's memory?

Or was it just a fanciful thought

Born of the romance of the spot

and the warm air.

I hadn't known,

but hoped that somewhere

up in my attic,

I'd one day find an old box with the photo I'd just imagined waiting inside it.

The sound of the creak pulled me over,

and I peered down into it.

Clear water flowed over stones,

and a sandy bottom scored with ripples.

Upstream, the creek curved,

and the water rushed and ran.

And I walked closer,

wanting to bottle the sound of it,

and to carry it around with me in my pocket.

I stood there for a bit,

just watching it flow,

thinking about how the stones in the creek bed

were sometimes exposed when the water was low

and how you could use them as a bridge to step across.

But now they were submerged.

Though I know they didn't,

I imagined them sighing

as the cool water flowed over them.

I kept walking, following the creek upstream.

The trees were only just budding out.

So even in the deeper woods, the light was bright.

Along with the dandelions growing from every patch of green,

were daffodils,

some

all yellow,

and others

with a yellow cup of petals inside,

and an outer ring of bright white petals around them.

On the far side of the creek was a rhododendron

with long shiny leaves.

It was a giant

ranging along the water water for yards

and up toward the thick branch of a beech tree nearly as far.

It must have been planted a hundred years ago

to grow this big

and around its roots were dozens

of may apples

I recognized them by their shape.

They were tiny,

only five or six inches tall,

but shaped like little umbrellas.

As they grew over the summer,

the umbrellas would open up

and their leaves would stand out

rather than droop down.

Eventually,

they would grow small, green,

lemon-shaped fruits,

which were edible,

but didn't have much flavor.

Luckily,

wildlife, turtles and others,

liked them just fine,

and they would make for good meals when the time was right.

On my way back toward home,

toward the stone steps and the patio,

I reached out and touched touched trees along the path.

I bent down near the stream

and let my fingers

trail through the cold water.

The dandelions were all yellow.

None had turned to fluff yet,

ready for a wish

to be made.

But mine had already been granted.

The static in my head had quieted,

replaced by the sound of the creek.

I was calm

and happy

and restored.

sweet dreams.