The Librarian (Encore)

Get more, nothing much happens, with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love.

Subscribe now.

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.

And like you, I've had stretches where sleep just didn't come easily.

And that's why I want to share something that's made a difference for me.

CBN nightcaps from Cured Nutrition.

These capsules are formulated with 30 milligrams of CBD and 5 milligrams of CBN, two cannabinoids that work together to support deep restorative rest.

What I've noticed is that I fall asleep really quickly and I stay asleep longer.

And maybe most importantly, I wake up without feeling heavy or groggy.

Instead, I just feel rested and clear.

There's no psychoactive effect, just a gentle calm that helps my body and mind unwind.

For me, taking one an hour before bed has become part of my wind down ritual, right alongside tea and a book.

It feels natural.

not forced, and that's why it works.

Cured Nutrition is offering my listeners an exclusive 20% discount so you can try nightcaps for yourself.

Just visit curednutrition.com slash nothing much and use code nothing much at checkout.

That's cur ed

nutrition.com slash nothing much coupon code nothing much.

Transform your nights and your days with CBN nightcaps because when you sleep well, you show up better in every area of your life.

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,

let me say a little about how to use this podcast.

I've got a bedtime story for you.

And just like the stories you heard when you were little,

It's meant to ease you into peaceful sleep.

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

The story is like a cozy nest for your mind, a soft place for it to focus on,

so that the thoughts and worries of the day can lose their grip on you.

If you wake in the middle of the night, don't hesitate to start the story again.

You're training your brain to respond to this particular stimulus.

And over time, it will become more and more automatic and your sleep will improve.

Our story tonight is called The Librarian

and it's a story about the quiet of the closed-up library at the end of the day.

It's also about the books that sometimes get overlooked on the top shelf.

A string of lights glowing over an outdoor table,

and knowing what your next book will be.

Okay,

lights out, campers.

It's time to set everything down

and get as comfortable as you can.

Snuggle into your favorite sleep position

and let your your body go heavy into the sheets.

You have done enough for today.

Truly, it is enough.

Nothing remains but rest.

Let's take a slow, deep breath in through the nose

and out through the mouth.

Do that one more time.

Breathe in.

And out.

Good.

The librarian.

Some days I worked the mornings at the library.

And it would be my key turning in the lock at the beginning of the day.

My job to switch on lights and power up the computers in the lab

and set out fresh markers on the sills of the whiteboards in the study rooms.

But I preferred to close up,

to work in the afternoon and evening,

and and be there to lock the doors

after the last patron had left.

Something about ending the day in the stacks

felt restful and satisfying.

Reshelving happened throughout the day.

But there were always a handful of books set on the cart or piled inside the return slot when I locked up.

And I liked to put those back in their places before I went home.

It just felt good to see that everything was where it was supposed to be,

reset for the next day.

So tonight, Once the doors were locked

and I had a few books tucked into my elbow.

I began to wind through the rooms.

Someone had asked me once how many books were in our library.

And the number itself is hard to conceptualize.

It may not mean much,

just as it is.

So I like to put it in proportion to the residents of our village.

Lots of libraries carry around the same number of books as the population they serve.

But,

and I was very proud of this,

we had two and a half books for each person,

grown or young, in our community.

So we had a lot

and you could feel it especially when the library was empty.

So many books,

so many shelves and topics and stories.

The first book in my stack was one I reshelved a lot.

It was a classic,

but

thick as a loaf of bread, and

if I had to be honest, about as dry as one.

Sometimes readers feel the need to check certain books off their list,

to say they have read them.

But the actual reading becomes tedious,

And after a good college try,

they give it up.

And back the book comes.

I'd been a librarian for long enough to have abandoned the idea

that there were certain books that everyone should read.

Read what you like.

That was my motto.

Read what interests you,

knowing that your interests will change at times.

And when they do, you can let go of the books that don't fit

and find new ones that do.

I walked along a row and squatted down to scan the spines of a dozen books

until I found the spot for the one in my hand.

When I did, I slid it into place

and then switched around three others

that were out of order.

I disked quietly in the empty room and muttered,

Leave it to the professionals, please,

and pushed myself back up

to see where I was headed next.

This cover was another

that I was very familiar with.

It was a favorite, in fact,

a book that had showed up a few times in my life,

and each time I'd read it a little differently,

understood it differently,

but needed it the same.

I patted the cover in a friendly way,

glad that it had showed up for one of our patrons,

and headed through the quiet aisles toward its shelf.

It was getting dark outside.

The sun was setting sooner,

and I stopped at a window

and looked out at the edge of the park and into downtown.

The cafe on the corner had strung lights up over the outdoor tables,

and they gave off an orange glow

that was inviting in the dusk.

Maybe I'd walk down for dinner after I was finished.

Sometimes there was live music there in the evenings.

And even when there wasn't, I loved sitting at one of the sidewalk tables

and listening to scraps of conversation and bicycle bells

and the breeze coming down the alley.

I remembered the book in my hand, and I turned back toward the shelves.

The spot for this one was way up high on the top shelf,

and I stood on my tiptoes to push it into place.

I would

never intentionally

misshelve a book.

The thought of it prickled uncomfortably in my brain.

But sometimes I felt a bit bad for the books that were up high

or down below hip height.

Most readers,

at least when they're browsing,

looked at the shelves that were within clear sight and easy reach.

And a lot of good books got dusty, waiting to be checked out.

Well, not literally dusty.

We obviously did not let that happen, but

metaphorically dusty.

The next two books in my hand looked like they had been returned together.

They were children's picture books, and the back cover of one was tucked inside the front cover of the other.

I liked to imagine the little reader who had jumbled them up together to get them into the return slot.

They were both excellent books.

Books I always enjoyed reading when it was my turn to lead story time in the reading circle.

Stepping into the children's section

always felt like

landing in Oz.

The rest of the library was not only quiet.

It was designed to be unobtrusive.

The colors were muted.

The study tables were bare.

The surroundings were meant to fade into the background and let the books step forward.

In the children's section, we did it all the other way around.

Bright colors and textures were there to engage you.

We took all the best ideas in the books and represented them with toys and plushes and coloring pages

and spread them out over the shelves and tables.

I shelved the two books and pushed a few of the tiny chairs into place around the tables.

We had a big autumn display going up.

A tall paper tree was taped up against one wall.

And as kids read books through the next few months, they could write their name across a leaf and stick it up onto the branches.

We'd set up a station for decorating them.

And one of the local farmers had brought in a big bin of acorns for the kids to glue on.

What they really liked to do was dip their hands into the bins up to their elbows and then drop the acorns on the floor and step on them to hear the satisfying crunch of the shell cracking.

I knew I'd be finding acorns under shelves for a few months.

And I didn't mind at all.

I carried my last book through the non-fiction room

and over to a shelf of memoirs and took a moment to read the description

before setting it into place.

I liked just collecting information.

After all,

that was what we did.

I was behind the front desk, pushing an arm through the sleeve of my sweater, when I heard the thunk of another book dropping into the return box.

I could leave it for my colleagues to collect tomorrow,

but

well, I didn't mind shelving one more.

When I pulled open the panel and reached down for it,

I realized it was the sequel to a book I'd read the summer before and adored.

I actually gasped.

How did I not know this book existed?

I rushed back to the desk and scanned it back into the collection.

checking to see if it was on any waiting lists.

And when it wasn't,

I excitedly checked it out on my own library card.

Now, I would have this wonderful unknown story to keep me company over dinner.

The librarian

Some days I worked the mornings at the library,

and it would be my key turning in the lock at the beginning of the day.

My job to switch on the lights

and power up the computers in the lab

and set out fresh markers on the sills of the whiteboards in the study room.

But I preferred to close up

to work in the afternoon and evening

and be there to lock the doors after the last patron had left.

Something about ending the day in the stacks felt restful

and satisfying.

reshelving happened throughout the day

but there were always a handful of books set on the cart

or piled inside the return slot when I locked up

And I liked to put those back in their places before I went home.

It felt good to see that everything was where it was supposed to be

reset for the next day.

So tonight,

once the doors were locked

and I had a few books tucked into my elbow,

I began to wind through the rooms.

Someone had asked me once

how many books were in our library.

The number itself is often hard to conceptualize.

It may not mean much,

just as it is.

So I like to put it in proportion to the residence of our village.

Lots of libraries carry

around the same number of books as the population they serve.

But,

and I was very proud of this,

we had two and a half books for each person,

grown or young, in our community.

So

we had a lot,

and you could feel it,

especially when the library was empty.

So many books,

so many shelves, and topics, and stories.

The first book in my stack

was one I reshelved a lot.

It was a classic,

but

thick as a loaf of bread.

And if I had to be honest,

about as dry as one.

Sometimes readers feel the need to check certain books off their list

to say that they have read them.

But the actual reading becomes tedious,

and after a good college try,

they give it up,

and back the book comes.

I'd been a librarian for long enough

to have abandoned the idea that there were certain books

that everyone should read.

Read what you like.

That was my motto.

Read what interests you,

knowing that your interests will change at times.

And when they do, you can let go of the books that don't fit

and find new ones that do.

I walked along a row and squatted down to scan the spines of a dozen books until I found the spot for the one in my hand.

When I did,

I slid it into place

and then switched around three others that were

out of order.

I tisked quietly in the empty room and muttered,

Leave it to the professionals, please,

and pushed myself back up

to see where I was headed next.

The next cover was another

that I was very familiar with.

It was a favorite, in fact,

a book that had showed up a few times in my life,

and each time

I'd read it a little differently,

understood it differently,

but needed it the same.

I patted the cover in a friendly way,

glad that it had showed up for one of our patrons,

and headed through the quiet aisles toward its shelf.

It was getting dark outside.

The sun was setting sooner,

and I stopped at a window

and looked out at the edge of the park

and into downtown.

The cafe on the corner had strung lights up

over the outdoor tables.

They gave off an orange glow

that was inviting in the dusk.

Maybe I'd walk down for dinner after I was finished.

Sometimes there was live music there in the evenings.

And even when there wasn't,

I loved sitting at one of the sidewalk tables

and listening to scraps of conversation

and bicycle bells

and the breeze coming down the alley.

I remembered the book in my hand and turned back toward the shelves.

The spot for this one

was way up high on the top shelf,

and I stood on my tiptoes

to push it into place.

Now, I would never intentionally

misshelve a book.

The thought of it prickled uncomfortably in my brain.

But sometimes I felt a bit bad for the books that were up high

or down below hip height.

Most readers,

at least when they're browsing,

looked at the shelves that were within clear sight and easy reach.

And a lot of good books got dusty, waiting to be checked out.

Well,

not literally dusty.

We obviously didn't let that happen,

but metaphorically dusty.

The next two books in my hands

looked like they had been returned together.

They were children's picture books,

and the back cover of one was tucked inside the front cover of the other.

I liked to imagine the little reader who had jumbled them up together

to get them into the return slot.

They were both excellent books,

books I always enjoyed reading

when it was my turn to lead story time

in our reading circle.

Stepping into the children's section

always felt like landing in Oz.

The rest of the library was not only quiet,

it was designed to be unobtrusive.

The colors were muted.

The study tables were bare.

The surroundings were meant to fade into the background

and let the books step forward.

In the children's section,

we did it all the other way around.

Bright colors,

textures were there to engage you.

We took all the best ideas in the books

and represented them

with toys and plushes and coloring pages

and spread them out over the shelves and tables.

I shelved the two books

and pushed a few of the tiny chairs into place around the tables.

We had a big autumn display going up.

A tall paper tree was taped up against one wall.

And as kids read books through the next few months,

They could write their names across a leaf

and stick it up onto the branches.

We'd set up a station for decorating them,

and one of the local farmers

had brought in a big bin of acorns for the kids to glue on.

What they really liked to do was just dip their hands into the bins up to their elbows

and then drop the acorns onto the floor and step on them

to hear the satisfying crunch of the shell cracking.

I knew I'd be finding acorns under shelves for a few months

and didn't mind at all.

I carried my last book through the non-fiction room

and over to a shelf of memoirs and took a moment to read the description

before pushing it into place.

I liked just

collecting information.

After all, it was what we did.

I was behind the front desk,

pushing an arm through the sleeve of my sweater,

when I heard the thunk of another book dropping into the return box.

I could leave it for my colleagues to collect tomorrow,

But

well, I didn't mind shelving one more.

When I pulled open the panel and reached down for it,

I realized it was the sequel to a book I'd read the summer before and adored.

I actually gasped.

How did I not know this book existed?

I rushed back to the desk

and scanned it back into the collection,

checking to see if it was on any waiting lists.

And when it wasn't,

I excitedly checked it out on my own library card.

Now I would have this wonderful unknown story

to keep me company over dinner.

Sweet dreams.