New Path

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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 Nicolai.

I write and read all the stories you'll hear on Nothing Much Happens.

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Now.

This process

of listening to a bedtime story to wind down and fall asleep.

It works by giving your brain a small job to do.

Your brain needs a bit of gentle engagement to move out of default mode

and into task positive mode where sleep is possible.

All you need to do is listen.

With time and regular use, the conditioned effect will become more and more reliable.

I'll read the story twice,

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

If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode back on.

Our story tonight is called New Path.

And it's a story about a late summer stroll through high grasses and shaded glens.

It's also about cone flowers and crushed stone,

lifting the hair from the back of your neck to feel the breeze,

an eagle's nest lined with moss,

a cool creek to wash your hands in,

and feeling welcomed and at home in the wild.

So lights out,

devices down.

down.

Find your favorite sleeping position and snuggle into it.

The day is over now.

Whatever happened

is what happened.

And now we are here

with nothing to do but rest.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh it out.

out.

Nice.

Again, breathe in

and let it go.

Good.

New path.

I wasn't sure I had the energy today.

We were at the tail end of summer,

and the heat was wearing me down.

The wide open sky,

as beautiful and blue as she was,

felt overexposed and bleached out.

And I almost ended my walk as soon as I'd started it.

But then I saw a post at the corner,

the one across from the coffee cart on the south side of town,

a post with a small sign beside a gravel path,

and my curiosity got the better of me.

What does that sign say?

Where does that path go?

A million adventures have started this way.

So I turned my weary feet toward it

and shaded my eyes with my hand to read.

It was just a marker

with an arrow pointing down the trail.

Garden Path One, it said.

Well,

that begged the question,

what would I find at Garden Path 2?

And off I went.

Down a small hill,

and curving to the left,

I followed along

at a slow, ambling pace.

I kept to one edge of the path

where there was a bit of shade from a line of long,

slim-trunked red-bud trees.

Their heart-shaped leaves were still deep green,

and I wanted to come back in a month to see them then

on a breezy, crisp day

when the cicadas had quieted down,

and the air smelled of dry grass.

All around me were wild, growing switchgrass,

and purple cone flowers.

The milkweed had begun to dry and crack open,

and the thin flowers of the coriopsis waved in the wind

that was barely there.

Every so often I came upon another post,

marking garden paths two,

three,

and four.

I liked that they called what grew wild

and native to the soil, a garden,

and that while the signs didn't give much in the way of information,

they did reassure me

that I was going the right way.

I was still on the path.

The path curved now to the right

and climbed slowly up toward a line of thick woods.

I always like this moment.

Not that it's one you get every day.

Out on a walk somewhere you haven't been before.

When you can't,

from where you stand,

quite make out where the path is taking you.

What lies ahead.

Was I headed into the woods?

Or would it skirt the tree line

and take me into a neighborhood

or even a dead end

where I'd have nothing to do

but turn about

and retrace my steps.

I could feel the heat on the back of my neck as I made my way up the rise.

My hair had come loose,

and I caught it up,

twisting it into a knot

and clipping it in place on top of my head.

The sudden coolness on my shoulders felt good.

A boost

to make it the last few paces to the top.

Another post and sign.

Another arrow.

Forest one.

Ah,

so I was headed in

under a canopy of a million leaves

where the sound of chirping bugs suddenly disappeared

and I only heard my footsteps

now on wood chips

rather than crushed stone.

The smell of cedar and pine rushed at me

and I thought of all the sap and needles,

cones and seed pods quietly working through

this shady network,

dispersing

and protecting genes and chromosomes,

drinking from the soil

and waving in the wind.

Had I truly

nearly missed taking this walk?

My steps weren't draining my cup.

They were filling it.

I looked for bird nests in the branches.

They were hard to spot,

camouflaged by leaves.

And it reminded me of an eagle's nest I'd seen on the beach a few weeks before.

There was a stand of birch trees up on the cliff,

pale and papery,

above a lonely stretch of sand

And in one

was a nest as big around as my kitchen table.

I gaped at it,

then,

even more agog,

spotted the eagle,

talons wrapped powerfully

around a long branch,

surveying the shoreline.

I dread that Aries like this

could weigh up to a ton

that they were built with branches as big around as a forearm,

and were lined with moss and corn

If I were an eagle,

that would be the coziest place I could imagine.

After a few minutes, the eagle had tipped from the branch,

spreading his wings to catch the updraft and soaring away.

I wondered if that felt like riding down a hill on your bicycle.

The rush of air around you on a clear head.

In the dark of the woods,

the white sign on the post stood out

and I could see a patch of waving high grass

through the tree trunks as I came closer.

The patch was a wide, open field.

And suddenly I wanted to be right in the middle of it.

I raced down the path, into the meadow,

and opened my arms,

spinning in circles,

and drinking in the joy I felt just being there.

How had nearly the whole summer gone by

without me finding myself

out in a field,

ringed by trees,

breathing in

the sweet,

sun-dried, weedy smell.

The sun was tilting toward the horizon,

and a shaft of light cut through the crown of trees

to light up a single corner of the field.

The path came close to it,

but never quite

crossed into it

And I loved the perspective it it gave me

as I walked in the shade.

The tall foxtail barley was ripe.

The green of the stems

had been replaced with a golden shade,

shot through with a bit of silver,

and the light struck it

like in an art-house movie.

Garden, forest,

field.

What else can a person need?

When I heard the trickle,

I smiled.

Of course.

A bit of water, please.

That would be the wax seal

on this perfect walk.

A thin creek,

just wide enough to be crossed in two strides,

wound through the meadow.

The sound was like rain on cobblestones,

but so quiet I could barely hear it

over the rippling grasses.

I followed followed the water,

watching where it washed over rocks and roots,

and where the last post was driven into the ground,

pointing me back to garden path one,

back to where I started.

I squatted down beside it.

I slipped my ring from my finger and into my pocket

and plunged both hands into the water.

I'd read somewhere

that you can cool yourself quickly

by running cold water over your wrists

since the veins there are close to the surface

they can carry the coolness into your body.

I didn't know if there was any truth to it,

but it felt

absolutely heavenly.

I washed my hands in the running water,

gliding them over one another,

washing water up my forearms, and pressing my cool palms against the back of my neck.

A few drops ran down my back, and I shivered

and chuckled to myself.

We marvel sometimes

at how perfectly the world suits us,

how the design on the moth's wings

matches exactly

some flower in its rainforest,

how webs of life

fit like puzzle pieces

in their environments and among each other,

how an hour with trees and grass and water

can reset

the human heart.

But of course it does.

We've all grown up together here.

We are family.

New path.

I wasn't sure I had the energy today.

We were at the tail end of summer,

and the heat was wearing me down.

The wide open sky,

as beautiful and blue as she was,

felt overexposed

and bleached out,

and I almost ended my walk

as soon as I'd started it.

But then

I saw a post at the corner,

the one across from the coffee cart

on the south side of town,

a post with a small sign beside a gravel path

And my curiosity

got the better of me

What does that sign say?

Where does that path go?

A million adventures have started this way

So I turned my weary feet toward it

and shaded my eyes

with my hand to read.

It was just a marker

with an arrow pointing down the trail.

Garden Path One,

it said.

Well

that begged the question

What would I find

at Garden Path Two?

And off I went

Down a small hill

and curving to the left

I followed along

at a slow,

ambling pace.

I kept to one edge of the path

where there was a bit of shade

from a line of young, slim-trunked

red-bud trees.

Their heart-shaped leaves were still deep green,

and I wanted to come back in a month

to see them then

on a breezy, cool day

when the cicadas

had quieted down

and the air smelled of dry grass.

All around me

were wild growing switchgrass

and purple cone flowers.

The milkweed had begun to dry

and crack open,

and the thin flowers of the coriopsis waved in the wind

that was barely there.

Every so often

I came upon another post

marking garden paths two,

three,

and four.

I liked that they called what grew wild and native

to the soil

a garden,

and

that

while the signs didn't give much

in the way of information,

they did reassure me

that I was going the right way.

I was still on the path.

It curved now to the right

and climbed slowly up

toward a line of thick woods.

I always like this moment.

Not that it's one you get every day.

out on a walk somewhere you haven't been before

when you can't

from where you stand

quite make out

where the path is taking you

what lies ahead

was I headed into the woods

Or would it skirt the tree line

and take me into a neighborhood

or even

a dead end

where I'd have nothing to do

but turn about

and retrace my steps.

I could feel the heat on the back of my neck

as I made my way

up the rise.

My hair had come loose,

and I caught it up,

twisting it into a knot,

unclipping it in place

on top of my head.

The sudden coolness on my shoulders felt good.

A boost

to make it the last few paces to the top.

Another post and sign.

Another arrow.

Forest one.

So

I was headed in

under a canopy

of a million leaves

Where the sound of chirping bugs

suddenly disappeared

And I only heard my footsteps

now on wood chips

rather than crushed stone.

The smell of cedar

and pine

rushed at me,

and I thought of all the sap

and needles,

cones and seed pods

quietly working

through this

shady network,

dispersing

and protecting genes

and chromosomes,

drinking from the soil

and waving in the wind.

Had I truly

nearly missed taking this walk?

My steps weren't draining my cup.

They were filling it.

I looked for birds' nests

in the branches.

They were hard to spot,

camouflaged by leaves

And it reminded me of an eagle's nest

I'd seen on the beach

a few weeks before.

There was a stand of birch trees

up on a cliff,

pale and papery

above a lonely stretch of sand

and in one

was a nest

as big around

as my kitchen table.

I gaped at it

then

even more agog,

spotted the eagle

talons wrapped powerfully

around a long branch,

surveying the shoreline.

I'd read that Aries like this one

could weigh

up to a ton,

that they were built with branches

as big around as a forearm

and were lined with moss

and corn stalks.

If I were an eagle,

that would be the coziest place

I could imagine.

After a few minutes,

the eagle had tipped from the branch,

spreading his wings

to catch the updraft

and soaring away

I wondered if that felt like riding downhill

on your bicycle

The rush of air around you

And a clear head

In the dark of the woods

The white sign on the post

stood out,

and I could see a patch

of waving high grass

through the tree trunks

as I came closer.

The patch was a wide open field.

And suddenly

I wanted to be right in the middle of it.

I raced down the path

into the meadow

and opened my arms,

spinning in circles,

and and drinking in the joy I felt

just being there

How had nearly the whole summer gone by

without me finding myself

out in a field

ringed by trees

Breathing in

the sweet,

sun-dried,

weedy smell.

The sun was tilting toward the horizon,

and a shaft of light

cut through the crown of trees

to light up a single corner of the field.

The path came close to it,

but never quite crossed into it.

And I loved the perspective it gave me

as I walked in the shade.

The tall foxtail barley

was ripe.

The green of the stems

had been replaced with a golden shade,

shot through

with a bit of silver,

and the light struck it

like in an art house movie.

Garden,

forest,

field.

What else could a person need?

When I heard the trickle,

I smiled.

Of course,

a bit of water, please.

That would be the wax seal

on this perfect walk,

a thin creek,

just wide enough to be crossed

in two strides,

wound through the meadow.

The sound was like rain on cobblestones,

but so quiet

I could barely hear it

over the rippling grasses.

I followed the water,

watching where it washed

over rocks and roots,

and where the last post

was driven into the ground,

pointing me back

to Garden Path One

Back to where I started.

I squatted down beside it.

I slipped my ring from my finger

and into my pocket

and plunged both hands

into the water.

I'd read somewhere that you can cool yourself quickly

by running cold water over your wrists,

since the veins there

are close to the surface

and they carry the coolness

into your body.

I didn't know if there was any truth to it,

but it felt absolutely heavenly.

I washed my hands in the running water,

gliding them over one another,

washing the water

up my forearms

and pressing my cool palms

against the back of my neck.

A few drops

ran down my back,

and I shivered

and chuckled to myself

we marvel sometimes

at how perfectly the world suits us

how the design on the moth's wings

matches exactly

some flower in its rainforest

How webs of life

fit like puzzle pieces

in their environments and among each other.

How an hour with trees and grass and water

can reset the human heart.

But

of course it does.

We've all grown up together here.

We are family.

Sweet dreams.