Color Walk
world on a spring day. It’s also about a box of crayons in the desk drawer, a thin jacket, a cool
breeze, storefronts and shop windows, and elevating the every day with calm attention.
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I care about your sleep.
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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.
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And this week we are giving to White Rock Bear Sanctuary, whose simple but noble purpose is to rescue and rehabilitate bears.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
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or be reminded of promo codes for our lovely sponsors, head to our show notes.
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It's a sweet story called Family Meal, and it takes place in a favorite village bistro before the doors open.
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for just about a dime a day.
Now,
I'm going going to tell you a bedtime story.
It's a soft, simple place to rest your mind, a way to keep you from wandering.
And just by listening, I'll train your brain to respond in kind, more 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,
turn an episode right back on.
You'll be back to sleep before you know it.
Our story tonight is called Color Walk.
And it's a story about a soft way
to move through the world on a spring day.
It's also about a box of crayons in the desk drawer, a thin jacket, a cool breeze,
storefronts and shop windows, and elevating the everyday
with calm attention.
Lights out, friends.
Get snuggled down into your sheets and get your favorite pillow in just the right spot.
Let's do a quick muscle release tonight.
And we'll pair it with your deep breaths.
We're gonna do three tonight.
I know we're getting wild over here.
I want you to breathe in
and squeeze all the muscles in your lower body.
Squeeze your legs, your glutes, even your toes, hold it, and then sigh it out.
Breathe in,
squeeze everything in your upper body, arms and fists.
Hold it and let it go.
Okay, one more.
Breathe in
and just squeeze everything, temples to toes.
Squeeze and hold one more second and
feel the release of the tension in your body.
Good.
Color walk.
From the kitchen table,
I could see the treetops moving in the breeze.
It didn't look too strong.
Not even a wind.
Just a zephyr.
that stirred the new buds as they grew.
My mug was nearly empty
But it still felt warm and comforting in my hands
And I savored the last sips
My gaze fell onto my plate
Empty but for a few crumbs and a smear of raspberry jam from the English muffin I'd just enjoyed.
I traced my finger along the plate's edge.
It was plain white porcelain,
but with a rim of deep blue,
and it reminded me of the thin-stemmed grape hyacinths
that were popping up in the flower bed beside my front door.
I smiled into the dregs of my tea as an idea occurred to me
a way to spend the rest of the morning,
sparked by the blues of the plate
and the matching flowers.
I hadn't gone on one in an age,
but spring was the perfect time
to revisit a favorite pastime.
Yes, today
was made
for a color walk.
The idea was simple.
Choose a color
and then go for a walk.
Noticing all the places that color showed up.
Each instance
would become become like a mooring post for a wandering mind.
A color walk could be a solemn, moving meditation,
or a jolly game of eye spy.
Moment to moment, it could be both.
And in the spring,
as the world leapt into color,
opportunities to notice,
to pay calm attention,
would abound.
I set my plate and cup in the sink
and went to a drawer in my desk with an idea.
I wanted a way to pick a color for today
without getting caught in an internal debate
about which would be best.
Sometimes,
even when a decision
didn't really matter,
I could slip into a loop of comparing and rethinking.
This walk was meant to be a way to rest that part of myself.
So I needed to do something like
flip a coin or roll a color die.
From my drawer,
I took out a familiar yellow and green box,
the big one with a sharpener on the back, that I'd treated myself to
on my last trip to the stationery store.
I closed my eyes
and flipped the top open,
letting my fingers trail over the waxy tips of the crayons.
They'd come organized, of course.
But I was in the habit of pulling them out by the handful as I used them and sticking them back in willy-nilly.
So I truly had no idea,
even what family of color, I might pull.
My finger stopped on one,
and I slid it from the pack.
I paused to feel
where the wax met the paper.
How it was peeled back a bit
from when I'd sharpened it last.
I wondered if it would be a yellow,
which I would spot in every daffodil and yield sign,
or a shade of blue,
like the sky today.
But when I finally blinked my eyes open,
I saw I'd drawn good old burnt sienna.
Huh, I said aloud.
Didn't see that coming.
This was a color that had
helped me draw many tree trunks and brick house fronts
since my first pack of crayons
big enough to include it in grade school.
It was a utilitarian stronghold of a color.
Not one I'd have picked myself
for a whimsical stroll in the spring, and that made it perfect for today.
I tucked the crayon into my pocket,
for some reason, wanting to bring it along,
I went to the door
to step into my shoes and take a thin jacket from the hook.
Outside,
I paused to zip up my jacket
and feel the air on my skin.
It was one of those spring days when the sky was full of puffy clouds.
So, minute to minute,
you might be dazzled by sunlight or shrouded in shade
and with each shift you'd likely be pushing back the sleeves of your jacket
or tugging them back down
still
just now
the sun shone on my face
And the air smelled of fresh grass
and last night's rain.
I was just about to start off
when I looked down and spotted a penny on the sidewalk.
I smiled.
We were off to a good start already.
I squatted down to pick it up
and turned it over in my palm.
The ruddy copper color was tarnished
and dark
and was my first color spotting.
As I stood,
I saw that it was minted the year I was born.
I tucked it into my pocket beside the crayon
and began to walk.
Now,
with lots of practices like this
designed to help us be a bit more present,
there's a chance to take it so far that you drive yourself crazy,
that you try too hard
and somehow feel you failed, even though you actually can't.
I reminded myself that my job wasn't to find absolutely everything
that was dark brown or a deep clay red.
I didn't really have a job at all.
I was just walking
and letting things be gently highlighted by my attention.
I noticed last year's leaves caught around the post of a fence.
The old maples
faded to paler versions of themselves.
A child on a bike whizzed past me when I saw their sweater was the same mahogany as my crayon.
A neighbor was spreading mulch in their garden beds,
and each handful was a rich reddish-brown.
In a backyard,
an old potting shed was shingled and sun-baked, stained wood slats,
and on porch steps, terracotta pots
held blooming daffodils and johnny jump-ups.
The rust on an old mailbox caught my eye,
and the ruddy chest of a robin flying past.
As I turned down Main Street and made my way into downtown,
I spotted two people chatting outside the bakery,
each with a dog on a leash.
One was a puppy, much less than a year old, her fur
a deep russet red,
and the other dog was full grown,
but half her size,
his fur many shades of brown,
sticking out all over,
like he'd been hit with a dose of static electricity.
As they chased around each other,
playbowing and jumping,
their fur blended together
and made
exactly the shade of red-brown I was looking for today.
In the window of the bookshop,
I took a moment to look at each cover on display.
One featured the face of a man with deep brown eyes.
Another a mysterious looking brick house shrouded in fog.
There was an aged bronze plaque in the alley, marking the oldest building in town,
a ring in the window of the jewelry shop, shop
with a big, tawny brown stone set in it.
A flyer for piano lessons
with a drawing of an upright made of shiny chestnut wood.
On my way back home,
as the clouds shifted and the sun warmed my back,
I felt the crayon and the coin in my pocket,
textures and colors,
sun and shadows,
steps and slow breaths.
I was grateful for this soft start
to my day.
Color walk
From the kitchen table,
I could see the tree tops moving in the breeze.
It didn't look too strong,
not even a wind,
just a zephyr
that stirred the new buds as they grew.
My mug was nearly empty,
but it still felt warm
and comforting in my hands.
I savoured the last sips.
My gaze fell onto my plate,
empty,
but for a few crumbs
and a smear of raspberry jam from the English muffin I'd just enjoyed.
I traced my finger along the plate's edge.
It was plain white porcelain,
but rimmed in a deep blue.
And it reminded me of the thin-stemmed grape hyacinths
that were were popping up
in the flower bed
beside my front door.
I smiled into the dregs of my tea
as
an idea occurred to me
a way to spend the rest of the morning
sparked by the blue
of the plate
and the matching flowers.
I hadn't gone on one
in an age.
But spring was the perfect time
to revisit a favorite pastime.
Yes, today
was made
for a color walk.
The idea was simple.
Choose a color
and then go for a walk,
noticing all the places that color showed up.
Each instance would become like a mooring post
for a wandering mind.
A color walk could be a solemn, moving meditation
or a jolly game of I spy.
Moment to moment,
it could be both.
And in the spring,
as the world leapt into color,
opportunities to notice,
to pay calm attention, would abound.
I set my plate and cup in the sink
and went to a drawer in my desk
with an idea.
I wanted a way to pick a color for today
without getting caught
in an internal debate
about which would be best.
Sometimes,
even when a decision didn't really matter,
I could slip into a loop of comparing and rethinking.
This walk was meant to be a way to rest that part of myself.
So I needed to do something
like flip a coin
or roll a color die.
From my drawer,
I took out a familiar yellow and green box,
the big one with the sharpener on the back
that I'd treated myself to
on my last trip to the stationery store.
I closed my eyes
and flipped the top open,
letting my fingers trail over the waxy tips of the crayons.
They'd come organized, of course,
but I was in the habit of pulling them out by the handful as I used them,
and sticking them back in
willy nilly.
So I truly had no idea,
even what family of color I might pull.
My finger stopped on one,
and I slid it from the pack.
I paused to feel
where the wax met the paper,
how it was peeled back a bit
from when I'd sharpened it last
I wondered if it would be a yellow
which I would spot in every daffodil and yield sign
or a shade of blue
like the sky today
but when I finally blinked my eyes open
I saw I'd drawn good old burnt sienna
huh
I said aloud
didn't see that coming
This was a color that had helped me draw many tree trunks
and brick house fronts since my first pack of crayons
big enough to include it in grade school
it was a utilitarian stronghold of a color
not one I'd have picked myself
for a whimsical stroll in the spring
and that made it perfect for for today.
I tucked the crayon
into my pocket,
for some reason wanting to bring it along,
and went to the door to step into my shoes
and take a thin jacket from the hook.
Outside,
I paused to zip up my jacket
and feel the air on my skin.
It was one of those spring days
when the sky is full of puffy clouds.
So minute to minute
you might be dazzled by sunlight
or shrouded in shade
And with each shift
you'd likely be pushing back the sleeves of your jacket
or tugging them back down.
Still,
just now
the sun shone on my face
and the air smelled of fresh grass
and last night's rain.
I was just about to start off
when I looked down
and spotted a penny on the sidewalk.
I smiled.
We were off to a good start already.
I squatted down to pick it up
and turned it over in my palm.
The ruddy copra color
was tarnished and dark,
and it was my first color spotting.
As I stood
I saw that it was minted
in the year I was born.
I tucked it into my pocket
beside the crayon
and began to walk.
Now, with lots of practices like this
designed to help us be a bit more present,
there's a chance to take it
so far that you drive yourself crazy,
that you try too hard
and somehow feel you've failed
Even though
you actually can't
I reminded myself
That my job wasn't to find
absolutely everything
that was dark brown or deep clay red
I didn't really have a job at all.
I was just walking
and letting things be gently highlighted by my attention.
I noticed last year's leaves
caught around the post of a fence.
The old maples
faded to paler versions of themselves.
A child on a bike
whizzed past me,
and I saw their sweater
was the same mahogany as my crayon.
A neighbor was spreading mulch in their garden beds,
and each handful
was a rich
reddish brown.
In a backyard,
an old potting shed
was shingled in sun-baked, stained wood slats,
and on porch steps, terracotta pots
held blooming daffodils and johnny jump-ups.
The rust
on an old mail box caught my eye
and the ruddy chest of a robin flying past.
As I turned down Main Street
and made my way into downtown,
I spotted two people chatting outside the bakery,
each with a dog on a leash.
One was a puppy,
much less than a year old,
her fur
deep russet red,
and the other dog was full grown,
but half her size,
his fur many shades of brown,
and sticking out all over,
like he'd been hit with a dose of static electricity
as they chased around each other,
playbowing and jumping,
their fur blended together and made
exactly the shade of red-brown I was looking for today.
In the window of the bookshop,
I took a moment to look at each cover on display.
One featured the face of a man with deep brown eyes,
another
a mysterious looking brick house shrouded in fog.
There was an aged bronze plaque in the alley,
marking the oldest building in town
A ring in the window of the jewelry shop
with a big tawny brown stone set in it
A flyer for piano lessons
With a drawing of an upright
Made of shiny chestnut wood
On my way back home,
as the clouds shifted
and the sun warmed my back,
I felt the crayon
and the coin in my pocket,
textures and color,
sun
and shadows,
steps and slow breaths.
I was grateful
for this soft start
to my day.
Sweet dreams.