Out Like a Lamb (Encore)

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Charlie Sheen is an icon of decadence.

I lit the fuse, and my life turns into everything it wasn't supposed to be.

He's going the distance.

He was the highest-paid TV star of all time.

When it started to change, it was quick.

He kept saying, no, no, no, I'm in the hospital now, but next week I'll be ready for the show.

Now, Charlie's sober.

He's going to tell you the truth.

How do I present this with any class?

I think we're past that, Charlie.

We're past that, yeah.

Somebody call action.

AKA Charlie Sheen, only on Netflix, September 10th.

When I first started this podcast, I thought I had to figure it all out by myself.

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Every time I crossed one thing off my list, two more things popped up.

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much.

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 Wittercheim.

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,

I have a story to tell you.

It is sort of like a lullaby.

And if you let it, it will rock your thinking mind to sleep.

The story is simple,

not much happens in it, and that is the idea.

Just by listening, we'll be able to shift some activity in your brain from the static background noise of your default mode

to the soothing focus of task positive mode.

And that's where sleep can happen.

I'll tell the story twice

and I'll go a little slower.

the second time through.

If you wake in the night and feel your brain start to kick back on, don't hesitate to start the story again.

The effects of this conditioning will improve with practice.

So be patient if you're new to it.

Our story tonight is called

Out Like a Lamb.

And it's a story about the changeable month of March and a day spent enjoying a bit of both winter and spring.

It's also about a book read in the bath, the luxury of a slow start to the day,

sunlight warming the floorboards, a pot of pansies dusted with snow, and making peace with a bit of chaos inside and out.

If we can make the things that are good for us more of a treat and less of a chore, It makes adopting healthy habits a lot easier.

This, as you may have guessed, is a big part of our philosophy.

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Smart thinking.

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Now

switch off your light

and slide down into your sheets.

Anything that feels good in this moment,

please notice it.

Please let it sink in.

You are in your bed.

You are about to have a great night's sleep.

And when you wake tomorrow, you'll feel rested and ready.

Let's take a deep breath in through the nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Do that one more time.

Inhale.

and let it out.

Good.

Out like a lamb.

March is wild and ever-changing.

Sweet, mild spring one hour,

a howling gale of snow and ice the next.

I liked her unpredictability,

how unapologetic she was when she turned on a dime and changed herself completely in an afternoon.

I'd heard once that each person is a string of DNA

that would take over a century to recite.

So I imagine that if we feel complicated at times,

like we hold zones of temperate and inclement weather within ourselves,

that they sometimes overlap and emerge on their own schedule.

Well,

that adds up.

The morning had come in like a lion.

When I'd pushed aside the curtains in my bedroom,

I'd found a few inches of fresh snow spread over the yard,

and more falling fast behind it.

The winter aconite,

with its tiny yellow flowers that had appeared a week before,

around the roots of the pine trees, were covered with white.

While they had been beautiful, I had to admit this snowfall was as well.

It slowed me down.

In a real, literal way, I stopped and breathed,

spent time just looking.

I'd had a plan in the back of my mind to dress and head into town,

to spend the morning running errands but

suddenly

none of that sounded pressing or appealing

and if the roads were slick

it seemed a silly risk to take

in order to return some library books

and stand in line at the post office

no

I should stay tucked in at home,

bundle up and enjoy watching the snow come down.

It hadn't really taken much time to convince myself of this.

I was still standing in front of the window,

with the curtain in my hand.

A gust of wind blew a thick wave of flakes against the panes,

and I could feel the chill of it on my skin.

I could get back into bed.

That was always a lovely option.

But I thought about another

that I rarely took,

but would feel so good right now.

A morning bath.

Oh,

a morning bath.

It sets the perfect tone for a day when you don't have to rush off to anything.

It says,

Today

we are going slow.

I stepped into the bathroom

and opened the tap over the tub.

In the cabinet, I looked through the bottles and jars.

I had some Epsom salts,

good for soaking when my body was achy,

as well as a jar a friend had gifted me with rose petals

and grains of lavender mixed into the salts.

It smelled wonderful, but last time I used it,

I'd been picking the lavender out of my hair for a few days.

Instead, I reached for the bottle of pearly bubble bath

and trickled a stream of it

into the steaming water.

As the tub filled, I got a fresh towel and washcloth from the linen closet,

my book from the bedside table, and a tall glass of water from the kitchen.

It's strange what feels indulgent to you at different stages in your life.

When I was younger,

I wouldn't have been staying home to take a bath on a Saturday morning,

but here I was.

Maybe it is a gift of aging,

a growing understanding of

what is enough

and a capacity to enjoy it when you have it.

In that first minute in the hot water, my mind went peacefully quiet.

I wasn't thinking much of anything,

just feeling the heat

and the relaxation in my muscles.

I stretched out in the tub.

I closed my eyes.

I could hear the wind blowing around the house,

and I thought about the squirrels and rabbits digging deeper into their dens,

curling around one another for warmth.

I picked up my book and read.

When the water started to feel a little cool,

I just turned the hot tap back on and let it run till it was piping again.

I sipped water,

soaked up my washcloth and scrubbed, and eventually

felt ready to get out.

As I reached for my giant bath towel

and wrapped it around me,

I had a memory of being helped out of the tub as a child,

being wrapped in a warm towel,

and how safe and happy it had made me feel.

I smiled at myself in the steamy mirror.

I'd taken over that job

of being the steward of my own happiness and safety.

And while I hadn't been very good at it at the beginning,

it had taken practice and unlearning some things along the way.

I was now adept.

I protected me.

I was safe with me.

I was happy with me.

I pulled on a robe

and stepped back into the bedroom to peer out of the window.

To my surprise, the sun was shining,

and the wind had dropped to nothing.

The trees stood still,

dripping in the sunlight, and the sidewalks were already free of snow.

I cracked the window and leaned down to the sill to breathe in the air.

It wasn't warm exactly, but

I thought I could smell the sunlight in it,

and it was inviting.

As I dressed and combed my hair,

the sunlight grew brighter, cutting into my rooms and warming my wood floors with its rays.

By the time I was pulling on my shoes and thinking about an early lunch,

all the morning snow was gone,

and when I opened up my front door, bird song rang from the treetops in my yard.

I chuckled at March

and her changeable ways,

zipped up my jacket,

and set out in search of something tasty.

I'd been so ready to spend the day curled up at home, but

now I wanted to be out in the world,

enjoying the warmth till March took another left turn.

There was a cafe on the corner,

built into a little brick building,

and their pots of pansies were still dusted with snow as I walked up and pulled pulled open their door.

They made excellent sandwiches and soup,

and there were always a few empty tables and booths to slide into.

I found one near the front window and sat down,

unzipping my jacket,

letting the sun shine on my face.

On special they had a roasted cauliflower sandwich with avocado and tahini sauce served on toasted marble rye with housemade chips and ginger iced tea.

It had my name all over it.

And after I ordered it, I sat back

and watched people walking out on the street.

By tonight,

the winter could be back in full force, icy with fresh snow,

or we may be headed into a few days of sun and warmth.

I guess in some ways

it didn't really matter.

I could find ways to enjoy whatever came.

Out like a lamb

March is wild

and ever-changing

Sweet, mild spring one hour,

a howling gale of snow and ice the next

I liked her unpredictability

how unapologetic she was

when she turned on a dime and changed herself completely

in an afternoon.

I'd heard once that each person

is a string of DNA

that would take over a century to recite.

So I imagine that if we feel complicated at times,

like we hold zones of temperate and inclement weather within ourselves,

that they sometimes overlap and emerge on their own schedule.

Well,

that adds up.

The morning had come in like a lion.

When I'd pushed aside the curtains in my bedroom,

I'd found a few inches of fresh snow spread over the yard,

and more falling fast behind it.

The winter aconite,

with its tiny yellow flowers, that had appeared a week before

around the roots of pine trees

were covered with white,

and while they had been beautiful,

I had to admit that this snowfall was as well.

It slowed me down

in a real

literal way.

I stopped,

breathed,

spent time just looking.

I'd had a plan in the back of my mind

to dress and head into town,

to spend the morning running errands.

But suddenly, none of that sounded pressing

or appealing.

And

if the roads were slick, it seemed a silly risk to take

in order to return some library books and stand in line at the post office.

No, I should stay tucked in at home,

bundle up and enjoy watching the snow come down.

It hadn't really taken much time to convince myself of this.

I was still standing in front of the window

with the curtain in my hand.

A gust of wind blew a thick wave of flakes against the panes,

and I could feel the chill of it on my skin.

I could get back into bed.

That was always a lovely option, but

I thought about another one that I rarely took, but would feel so good right now:

a morning bath.

Oh, a morning bath

It sets the perfect tone for a day when you don't have to rush off to anything

It says Today

we are going slow

I stepped into the bathroom

and opened the tap over the tub

In the cabinet, I looked through the bottles and jars.

I had some Epsom salts,

good for soaking when my body was achy,

as well as a jar a friend had gifted me

with rose petals,

grains of lavender mixed into the salts.

It smelled wonderful,

but

last time I'd used it,

I'd been picking the lavender out of my hair for a few days.

Instead,

I reached for a bottle of pearly bubble bath

and trickled a stream of it into the steaming water.

As the tub filled, I got a fresh towel and washcloth from the linen closet,

my book from the bedside table,

and a tall glass of water from the kitchen.

It's strange what feels indulgent to you at different stages in your life.

When I was younger, it wouldn't have been staying home to take a bath on a Saturday morning.

But here I was.

Maybe it is a gift of aging,

a growing understanding of

what was enough,

and a capacity to enjoy it when you have it.

In that first minute in the hot water,

my mind went peacefully quiet.

I wasn't thinking

much of anything,

just feeling the heat

and the relaxation in my muscles.

I stretched out in the tub

and closed my eyes.

I could hear the wind blowing around the house,

and I thought about the squirrels and rabbits digging deeper into their dens,

curling around one another for warmth.

I picked up my book

and read.

When the water started to feel a little cool,

I just turned the hot tap back on

and let it run till it was piping again.

I sipped water,

soaked up my washcloth,

and scrubbed,

and eventually felt ready to get out.

As I reached for my giant bath towel

and wrapped it around me,

I had a memory of being helped out of the tub as a child,

being wrapped in a warm towel,

and how safe and happy it had made me feel.

I smiled at myself in the steamy mirror.

I'd taken over that job

of being the steward of my own happiness and safety.

And while I hadn't been very good at it at the beginning,

it had taken practice

and unlearning some things along the way.

I was now

adept.

I protected me.

I was safe with me.

I was happy with me.

I pulled on a robe and stepped back into the bedroom to peer out of the window.

To my surprise,

the sun was shining,

and the wind had dropped to nothing.

nothing.

The trees stood still,

dripping in the sunlight,

and the sidewalks were already free of snow.

I cracked the window

and leaned down to the sill to breathe in the air.

It wasn't warm exactly,

but I thought I could smell the sunlight in it,

and it was inviting.

As I dressed and combed my hair,

the sunlight grew brighter,

cutting into my rooms and warming my wood floors with its rays.

By the time I was pulling on my shoes and thinking about an early lunch,

all the morning snow was gone,

and when I opened up my front door,

bird song rang from the treetops in my yard.

I chuckled at March

and her changeable ways,

zipped up my jacket

and set out

in search of something tasty.

I'd been

so ready to spend the day curled up at home.

But now

I wanted to be out in the world,

enjoying the warmth till March took another left turn.

There was a cafe on the corner built into a little brick building,

and their pots of pansies were still dusted with snow as I walked up

and pulled open their door.

They made excellent sandwiches and soups,

and there were always a few empty tables and booths to slide into.

I found one near the front window and sat down,

unzipping my jacket

and feeling the sunshine on my face.

On special

they had a roasted cauliflower sandwich with avocado and tahini sauce,

served on marble rye with housemade chips and ginger iced tea.

It had my name all over it.

And after I ordered it,

I sat back,

watched people walking on the street.

By tonight,

the winter could be back in full force,

icy with fresh snow,

or we may be headed

into a few days of sun and warmth.

I guess in some ways

it didn't really matter.

I could find ways to enjoy whatever came.

Sweet dreams.