Sleeping Weather (Encore)

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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 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,

I'm about to tell you a bedtime story.

to help you relax and drift off to sleep.

The story is simple and not much happens in it.

And that's kind of the idea.

It's just a cozy place to rest your mind.

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

If you find yourself still awake at the end of the second telling,

don't worry.

That's how it goes sometimes.

Relax.

Walk yourself back through whatever bits of the story you can remember.

Lean into them.

And before you know it,

you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling refreshed and calm.

This is a kind of brain training.

We're training your brain to follow along with the shape of the story, like an upturned leaf floats along on the surface of a river.

Each time you use a story to settle your mind, it will happen more quickly and with more ease.

So have some patience if you're new to this.

Our story tonight is called Sleeping Weather.

And it's a story about a break from the heat and humidity.

It's also about about the view from the porch swing at night.

Deer walking quietly through the cornfields

and clearing your mind with paper and pen at the end of the day.

Now,

it's time to settle in.

Turn off your light,

put down all of your devices,

stretch deep into your sheets and settle yourself into your favorite sleeping position.

I'll be here reading even after you've fallen asleep,

and I'll keep watch all night.

You are done for today.

You have done everything that you needed to.

And now

it's time for sleep.

Take a slow breath in through your nose

and sigh it out of your mouth.

Nice.

Let's do that again.

Deep breath in

out with sound.

Good

Sleeping weather.

The last few nights were stuffy.

Even with the windows open

and the curtains drawn back,

it was as if I couldn't convince any of the cool night air to push its way through the screens.

The overhead fan helped a bit,

but I tossed and turned,

kicking the sheets off when the heat overwhelmed me,

and then reaching for them ten minutes later, when

I hadn't exactly cooled down, but wanted their comfort.

After a dozen years or so

of living in this old farmhouse,

I'd been through plenty of sultry summers,

and I knew how to navigate the warm days.

Early in the morning, I'd open everything up.

While my coffee was brewing, I'd climb the creaky front staircase to the bedrooms

and open each window,

then do the same in the lower level.

I'd prop open the big front door with the crumbling brick I'd dug out of the garden a few years ago.

The mornings out here tended to be cool,

the dew not burning off until late morning.

So I'd air the house out while I ate breakfast and did the first of my morning chores.

Then, when the sun rose high enough

to shine on the kitchen windows,

I'd diligently go room to room

and close it all up again.

I'd pull down the blinds and draw the curtains tight

in any spots where I knew the sunlight would be able to work through the leafy canopy of tree branches above us.

And for the most part,

the house would stay cool all day.

I might get a little warm if I made dinner on the stove or heated up the oven,

which meant I cooked out as much as I could.

Before bed, I'd step out onto the wide front porch in my pajamas

and sit on the swing.

Before I'd moved to this house,

I'd spent most of my life in a city,

and I guess I'd expected the countryside to be quiet in comparison.

But I often laughed at just how loud it was out on the porch.

I mean,

a good kind of loud, but loud.

Crickets, june bugs, bullfrogs,

songbirds, and ducks.

And when a storm blew through,

the open fields gave it nothing to buffer against,

and the winds were electrifyingly strong and loud.

The rain came down heavy,

and thunder echoed for miles.

All of that drew me out to the porch swing each night.

I'd sit back

and press my toes against the wooden floorboards

and swing

and listen.

Sometimes I brought my book,

though I often found myself distracted

by the changing color of the sky

at sunset,

or skeins of geese crossing the horizon.

In fact, porch time was perfect for picture books or recipe books.

Books I could look at for a few moments,

then rest my finger on the page

and get lost in the view of the meadow for a while.

The corn out in the far field was so high

that sometimes I could only make out the points of antlers in the dusk

moving above the silk of the cobs,

and I would try to imagine how many were in the herd.

A few does brought their babies to sit in shady spots in my flower garden during the day,

and they had grown used to me.

I chatted to them while I pulled weeds and watched as they grew over the summer.

They might be out there now,

picking through the fields

and getting ready for autumn.

The last few nights,

even when the temperature dropped in the evening,

the humidity had stayed,

and the house had been stuffy and hot.

And I'd woken again and again,

But to night was shaping up to be altogether different.

The humidity was dropping.

The stickiness that had made my limbs feel heavy and weary

was gone.

The air was light and cool.

It had been the talk of the countryside, in fact.

We all read our farmers' almanacs diligently,

watched the weather veins on our roof ridges,

and checked our barometers at least twice a day.

It was just part of living out in the open farmland

And twice to day, once at the mailbox, as a neighbor pulled up beside me to chat,

and once at the feed store,

a few of us gathered around the checkout desk,

I'd heard the same words

Good sleeping weather.

Yes,

we all agreed.

To night we would have good sleeping weather.

And tonight, out on the porch,

as the sun was setting and the dusk getting thicker,

I brought my journal out to the swing.

I struck a match

and lit the candle and the glass lantern on the table beside me.

I would set myself up for the the best night of sleep I could.

And I often found that

if I wrote in my journal for a few minutes,

I could

offload a lot of pesky, unimportant thoughts

that might otherwise weigh on my mind.

It was a habit I'd started years ago,

Often before a big moment,

I'd write first,

before a big test, a phone call,

when I had a decision to make,

or even just something pure to enjoy.

It gave me space.

I wouldn't allow my mind to edit at all.

Any thought thought that flickered through my neurons

just went through the pen and onto the page,

and a lot of it came out as utter nonsense.

Stream of consciousness boulder dash,

strange intrusive thoughts,

worries about things that never in a million years would happen,

Ideas I didn't even recognize or understand

myself.

But

that's okay.

That was the point, actually

to clear the static that wasn't me

and leave space for what was.

At first I'd been embarrassed of the pages,

even though no one ever saw them,

and I would rip them up and throw them away,

or in my dramatic younger years, burn them on a bonfire.

I was more comfortable now with my own strangeness,

as years had taught me that we are all strange,

every one of us.

So then,

I guess none of us are.

Now I just closed the book when I felt like I had drained the reservoir.

I'd never even considered going back to look at what I'd written the day before.

I wrote beside the lantern,

the fields thrumming with insects and breeze.

And when I was done, I clicked my pen decisively closed,

shut the book, and stood.

I stretched my back

and took a few deep breaths,

then leant over to blow out the candle.

Inside, I pulled the door shut and locked it behind me,

then walked through the dark house.

I knew every inch of it by now,

and could feel my way easily up the stairs to my room.

Tonight I would sleep the sleep I'd been craving for days,

that thick,

dreamless sleep

that lasts the whole night.

Sleeping weather

The last few nights were stuffy,

even with the windows open

and the curtains drawn back.

It was as if I couldn't convince any of the cool night air

to push its way through the screens.

The overhead fan helped a bit,

but

I'd tossed and turned,

kicking the sheets off when the heat overwhelmed me,

and then reaching for them ten minutes later,

when I hadn't exactly cooled down,

but wanted their comfort

after a dozen years or so

of living in this old farmhouse,

I'd been through plenty of sultry summers,

and I knew how to navigate the warm days.

Early in the morning

I'd open

everything up

while my coffee was brewing.

I'd climb the creaky front staircase to the bedrooms

and open each window.

Then do the same in the lower level.

I'd prop open the big front door

with the crumbling brick I'd dug out of the garden a few years ago.

The mornings out here

tended to be cool,

the dew not burning off

until late morning.

So I'd air the house out

while I ate breakfast

and did the first of my morning chores.

Then

when the sun rose high enough to shine on the kitchen windows,

I'd diligently go room to room

and close it all up again.

I'd pull down the blinds

and draw the curtains tight

in any spot where I knew the sunlight

would be able to work through the leafy canopy

of tree branches above us,

and for the most part,

the house would stay cool all day.

It might get a little warm if I made dinner on the stove

or heated up the oven,

which meant I cooked out as much as I could.

Before bed,

I'd step out onto the wide front porch

in my pajamas

and sit on the swing.

Before I'd moved to this house,

I'd spent most of my life

in a city

and I guess I'd expected the countryside

to be quiet in comparison.

But I often laughed at just how loud it was out on the porch.

I mean

a good kind of loud

but loud

crickets,

june bugs,

bullfrogs,

songbirds, and ducks

And when a storm blew through

the open fields gave it nothing to buffer against

And the winds were electrifyingly strong

and loud.

The rain came down heavy,

and thunder echoed for miles.

All of that drew me out to the porch swing each night.

I'd sit back

and press my toes against the wooden floorboards

and swing

and listen.

Sometimes I brought my book,

though I often found myself distracted

by the changing color of the sky at sunset,

or skeins of geese crossing the horizon.

In fact, porch time

was perfect for picture books

or recipe books

books I could look at for a few moments,

then rest my finger on the page,

and get lost in the view of the meadow for a while.

The corn out in the far field was so high that

sometimes I could only make out the points of antlers in the dusk

moving above the silk of the cobs

and I would try to imagine

how many were in the herd.

A few does

brought their babies to sit

in shady spots in my flower garden during the day,

when they had grown used to me,

I chatted to them while I pulled weeds

and watched as they grew over the summer.

They might be out there now,

picking through the fields

and getting ready for autumn.

The last few nights,

even when the temperature dropped in the evening,

the humidity had stayed,

and the house had been stuffy

and hot,

and I'd woken again and again.

But tonight

was shaping up to be

altogether different.

The humidity was dropping.

The stickiness that had made my limbs feel heavy

and weary

was gone.

The air was light and cool.

It had been the talk of the countryside, in fact.

We all read our farmers' almanacs diligently,

watched the weather veins on our roof ridges,

and checked our barometers at least twice a day.

It was just part of living

in the open farmland.

And twice today,

once at the mailbox,

as a neighbor pulled up beside me to chat,

and once at the feed store,

a few of us gathered around the checkout desk.

I'd heard the same words.

Good sleeping weather.

Yes,

we all agreed.

Tonight,

we would have good sleeping weather.

Out on the porch,

as the sun was setting,

and the dusk getting thicker,

I brought my journal out to the swing.

I struck a match

and lit the candle and the glass lantern on the table beside me.

I would set myself up

for the best night of sleep I could.

And I often found

that

if I wrote in my journal

for a few minutes,

I could offload a lot of pesky, unimportant thoughts

that might otherwise

weigh on my mind.

It was a habit I'd started years ago

before

any big moment.

I'd write first,

before a big test, or a phone call,

when I had a decision to make,

or even just

something pure

to enjoy

it gave me space

I wouldn't allow my mind to edit at all

any thought that flickered through my neurons

just went through the pen

and onto the page

And a lot of it came out as

utter nonsense.

Stream of consciousness boulder dash.

Strange, intrusive thoughts.

Worries about things that

never in a million years would happen.

Ideas I didn't even recognize or understand myself.

But

that's okay.

That was the point,

actually.

To clear the static that wasn't me

and leave space for what was.

At first I'd been embarrassed of the pages,

even though no one ever saw them,

and I would rip them up

and throw them away,

or,

in my dramatic younger years,

burn them on a bonfire.

I was more comfortable now

with my own strangeness,

as years had taught me that we are all strange,

every one of us.

So then, I guess

none of us are.

Now I would just close the book when I felt like I had drained the reservoir

and never even considered

going back

to look at what I'd written the day before.

I wrote beside the lantern,

the fields thrumming with insects and breeze.

And when I was done,

I clicked my pen decisively closed,

shut the book, and stood.

I stretched my back

and took a few deep breaths,

then leant over to blow out the candle.

Inside, I pulled the door shut

and locked it behind me,

then walked through the dark house.

I knew every inch of it by now,

and could feel my way

easily up the stairs to my room.

Tonight I would sleep the sleep I'd been craving for days.

That thick, dreamless sleep

that lasts the whole night.

Sweet dreams.