Autumn World
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If you've been listening to me for a while, you know how much I value rest.
Sleep is really the foundation for everything else we do.
Our creativity, our relationships, our mood.
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You know those days when your brain just won't cooperate?
When you're staring at your to-do list, hopping from call to call, and the mental fog just gets thicker?
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I like that it fits right into my wellness routine.
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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.
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And this week we are giving to Wild for Life,
a place for wildlife to heal and humans to learn.
You can find out more about them in our show notes.
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Certainly trickier than I expected.
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Here's how this works.
We're going to play a little trick on your brain.
We'll ask it to do a simple job.
And while it's doing that job,
you'll be able to quickly
and peacefully fall asleep.
That small amount of engagement slows the spinning.
And the job is even a pleasant one.
Just listen.
to the sound of my voice, the gentle shape of the story.
I'll tell it twice
and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to start the story over again.
You'll drop right back off.
Our story tonight
is called Autumn World.
And it's a story about a morning with the windows open and fresh fresh air blowing through the house.
It's also about crows cawing in a field, coffee and brown sugar, yesterday's raindrops falling from the trees, a record playing on the turntable,
and the feeling of renewal that comes as summer ends.
Lights out, campers.
That is
enough for today.
You have probably
seen and heard
and thought
a lot,
and now nothing else is needed but to soften
and relax.
I'll keep watch.
Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose
and sigh.
Nice.
Do that one more time.
Inhale
and let it go.
Good.
Autumn World.
I woke to a new world this morning.
it started in the night
with a low rumbling thunder in the distance
and the arrival a few minutes later
of a steady rain drumming on the roof
I'd been tucked into bed
flipping my pillow to the cool side between dreams when I heard it
Smiling, I sighed
and went right back to sleep.
Then today,
when I drew back the curtain and lifted the sash,
the breeze blew in fresh
and crisp air,
smelling of wood smoke and leaves.
The humidity of the last few months was completely gone.
Even the light looked different,
like it was shining through a filter,
a pie in the atmosphere.
I chuckled to myself, thinking
they call those clouds, I believe.
Indeed, rather than blinking against the summer glare,
holding my hand above my brow and squinting to see,
I could open my eyes wide
and savour everything in sight.
The silvery leaves of the paper birch on the hillside,
pots of white chrysanthemums on the neighbor's back step.
A busy chestnut brown squirrel scurrying along the roof ridge.
A hearty gust of wind blew,
carrying leftover raindrops
from the leaves in through the screen.
They fell on my face and neck,
and it reminded me of the tradition
of washing your face with morning dew on the first day of May.
This was the flip side of that.
Showering with storm water
as the autumn begins.
I think the dew in May is meant to bring beauty.
What would these drops bring?
Rainwater is rich in nutrients for the soil,
minerals and vapors
from its journey through the water cycle.
And I thought maybe
a bit of electricity
from the lightning.
I pressed closer to the screen,
letting a few more droplets land on my cheeks.
Yes,
it did feel like it had
a thimbleful
of electric charge,
enough to inspire me to wash my face
and make my bed
and consider embarking
on an autumnal adventure.
In the kitchen, I pushed more windows open
until the room was full of fresh air.
The crayon drawings on the fridge fluttered wildly in it.
But instead of closing things back up,
I just added more magnets.
The wind was charging my battery.
I hadn't known how badly I needed it until I felt it.
Now I couldn't do without it.
At my espresso machine, I stuck the porta filter
under the grinder
and watched as the fresh grounds sprinkled down into it.
I took a jar from the cupboard,
thinking of a treat I hadn't had in a while.
A brown sugar espresso.
This was just the day for it.
I spooned a layer
of the sticky molasses sweet sugar
on top of the grounds,
pressing it flat,
then,
with a bit of effort, screwed it into place.
I put my mug under the spout
and pressed the button,
watching closely,
counting in my head.
A barista friend of mine had told me once
that the time from starting the flow of water
to when the espresso emerged,
which was called
first drop,
should be right around eight seconds.
I wasn't that fussy about my coffee.
In fact, most days,
I made it with one eye open.
But today,
I was curious.
How would the sugar affect it?
Just as I was rounding the tail end of seven,
a dark chocolate-brown drop
landed in the bottom of my cup.
I took it for an omen.
Today would be a good day.
While my cup filled,
I wandered into the living room.
The floorboards were cool under my feet,
and it registered somewhere inside me
that that was a sensation I hadn't felt in quite a few months.
I lifted the lid of the turntable
and flicked through the records beside it.
Summer music has a very specific flavor,
the energy of it.
It's bright and yellow and bubbly.
It wants to be played from the car stereo
with the windows rolled down.
But today it felt right
to play some autumn music,
the kind that was a bit more atmospheric,
pensive,
moody.
If summer music made you dance,
autumn tunes had you
looking pensively
out at the falling leaves.
I pulled out an album
I'd first heard nearly twenty years before
a man's voice,
a paired down band behind him,
the songs warm and melancholy and steady.
I blew dust from the vinyl
and laid it on the player.
Looked close to set the needle in the groove without scratching it,
and sighed as the familiar notes began to play.
Back in the kitchen I wrapped my hands around my cup
and breathed in the sweet, treacly perfume.
Ah, it was delicious
And I remembered I'd bought a few muffins at the bakery the day before,
and went to sort through the white paper bag on the kitchen table.
I couldn't quite tell
what the flavor was,
just from the scent.
Something fruity
and something spicy.
But when I broke one open
and tasted it,
I recognized ginger
and pear.
The muffins were soft and tender as cake inside,
chewy on the edges, just like I liked them.
As I rinsed my cup in the sink and washed the crumbs from my fingers,
I heard crows cawing in the distance.
I pictured them laying claim to their territory
in the empty cornfield down the road,
and as their cries died out,
I noticed
how quiet the world was.
The sound of crickets
and June bugs
had been so constant
for so many weeks
that I'd stopped hearing it.
The absence of their song
felt like a relief,
Like when a squealing car alarm is suddenly quelled.
Then the wind blew again, and I listened to that.
One of my favorite sounds,
the rustling succeration of leaves and branches shifting.
From the clothes line,
a faint ringing came, came,
the end of a dangling cord
striking the metal post.
It reminded me of an afternoon I'd spent on a sailboat.
The way the wind rang through the rigging and sailcloth.
What would I do with my day
in this new autumn world?
well, I'd certainly open every window in the house that was still closed.
I'd hang sheets on the line
and let them crisp in the breeze.
I wanted to sweep the porch
and stack firewood in the shed,
fill the bird feeders, and make a pot of soup.
I could take a long walk
and listen to more records or just sit on my front steps
and watch the wind blow.
Oh, what a gift this season was.
Autumn world.
I woke to a new world this morning.
It started in the night
with a low rumbling thunder in the distance
and the arrival a few minutes later
of a steady rain
drumming on the roof.
I'd been tucked into bed,
flipping my pillow to the cool side
between dreams
when I heard it.
Smiling,
I sighed
and went
right back to sleep.
Then today,
when I drew back the curtain
and lifted the sash,
the breeze blew in, fresh, crisp air,
smelling of wood smoke and leaves.
The humidity of the last few months
was completely gone.
Even the light looked different,
like it was shining through a filter
up high in the atmosphere.
I chuckled to myself,
thinking
those are called clouds, I believe.
Indeed, rather blinking against the summer glare,
holding my hand above my brow
and squinting to see,
I could open my eyes wide
and savour everything in sight
The silvery leaves of the paper birch on the hillside
pots of white chrysanthemums
on the neighbor's backstep
A busy chestnut brown squirrel
scurrying along the roof ridge
A hearty gust of wind blew,
carrying leftover raindrops from the leaves
in through the screen.
They fell on my face and neck,
and it reminded me of the tradition
of washing your face with morning dew
on the first day of May.
This was the flip side of that
showering with storm water
as the autumn begins.
I think the dew in May
is meant to bring beauty.
What would these drops bring?
Rainwater is rich in nutrients for the soil,
minerals and vapors from its journey through the water cycle.
And I thought,
maybe a bit of electricity
from the lightning.
I pressed closer to the screen,
letting a few more droplets
land on my cheeks.
Yes,
it did feel like it had
a thimbleful
of electric charge
enough to inspire me
to wash my face
and make my bed
and consider embarking
on
an autumnal adventure.
In the kitchen, I pushed more windows open
until the room was full of fresh air.
The crayon drawings on the fridge
fluttered wildly in it.
But instead of closing things back up,
I just added more magnets.
The wind was charging my battery.
I hadn't known how badly I needed it until now.
and now I couldn't do without it.
At my espresso machine
I stuck the porta filter
under the grinder
and watched as the fresh grounds sprinkled down into it.
I took a jar from the cupboard,
thinking of a treat I hadn't had in a while,
a brown sugar espresso.
This was just the day for it.
I spooned a layer
of the sticky molasses sweet sugar
on top of the grounds,
pressing it flat,
then with a bit of effort,
screwed it into place.
I put my mug under the spout
and pressed the button,
watching closely,
counting in my head.
A barista friend of mine
had told me once
that the time from starting the flow of water
to when the espresso emerged,
which was called first drop,
should be right around
eight seconds.
I wasn't that fussy about my coffee.
In fact, most days I made it with one eye open.
But today I was curious.
How would the sugar affect it?
Just as I was rounding the tail end of seven,
a dark chocolate-brown drop
landed in the bottom of my cup.
I took it for an omen.
Today
would be a good day.
While my cup filled,
I wandered into the living room.
The floorboards were cool under my feet,
and it registered somewhere inside me
that that was a sensation I hadn't felt
in quite a few months.
I lifted the lid of the turntable
and flicked through the records beside it.
Summer music has a very specific flavor.
The energy of it.
It's bright
and yellow and bubbly.
It wants to be played from the car stereo
with the windows rolled down.
But today it felt right
to play some autumn music,
the kind that
was a bit more atmospheric,
pensive,
moody.
If summer music made you dance,
autumn tunes
had you looking pensively out
at the falling leaves.
I pulled out an album I'd first heard
nearly twenty years before
a man's voice,
a paired-down band behind him.
The songs warm and melancholy
and steady.
I blew dust from the vinyl
and laid it on the player.
Looked close
to set the needle in the groove
without scratching it,
and sighed as the familiar notes
began to play.
Back in the kitchen,
I wrapped my hands around my cup
and breathed in the sweet, trickly perfume.
Oh, it was delicious.
And I remembered
I'd bought a few muffins at the bakery the day before
and went to sort through the white paper bag on the kitchen table.
I couldn't quite tell
what the flavor was
just from the scent.
Something fruity,
something spicy.
But when I broke one open and tasted it,
I recognized ginger
and pear.
The muffins were soft
and tender as cake inside
and chewy on the edges,
just like I liked them.
As I rinsed my cup in the sink
and washed the crumbs from my fingers,
I heard crows cawing in the distance.
I pictured them claiming their territory
in the empty cornfield down the road.
And as their cries died out,
I noticed how quiet the world was.
The sound of crickets and June bugs
had been so constant
for so many weeks
that I'd stopped hearing it.
The absence of their song felt like a relief,
like when a squealing car alarm is suddenly quelled.
Then the wind blew again,
and I listened to that.
One of my favorite sounds
the rustling succeration of leaves
and branches shifting.
From the clothes line,
a faint ringing came
the end of a dangling cord
striking the metal post.
It reminded me of an afternoon I'd spent on a sailboat,
the way the wind rang through the rigging and sailcloth.
What would I do with my day
in this new autumn world?
Well,
I'd certainly open every window in the house
that was still closed.
I'd hang sheets on the line
and let them crisp in the breeze.
I wanted to sweep the porch
and stack firewood in the shed,
fill the bird feeders
and make a pot of soup.
I could take a long walk
and listen to more records
or just sit
on my front steps
and watch the wind blow.
Oh, what a gift
this season was.
Sweet dreams.