Thunder and Lightning (Encore)

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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.

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I am definitely a blanket person.

I'm surrounded by them while I write and record, while I snuggle with the dogs, while I wind down at night.

But nothing compares to my Lola blanket.

The first time I opened it, I couldn't believe how soft it was.

It has this weight and stretch that just melts stress right off your shoulders.

I even sent one to a friend who just had a baby.

She told me that wrapping up in it while holding her newborn was the most comforting thing for both of them.

And that's what makes Lola special.

It's not just another blanket.

It's a little daily ritual of comfort.

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Wrap yourself in luxury with Lola blankets.

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,

here's how this works.

I'll tell you a soft, soothing story.

And just by listening, you'll shift your brain activity.

from the wandering tornado of thought

that is default mode,

to the systematic and sleep-appropriate task positive mode.

It might sound fancy or complicated, but it just means paying attention to something can help you fall asleep.

I'll tell 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 right back on.

Our story tonight is called Thunder and Lightning.

And it's a story about slowing down and getting comfortable as the rain comes down.

It's also about cinnamon and clove,

a candle's flame reflected in a window pane, a sofa turned into a nest for afternoon napping, and the calm and quiet that comes when Mother Nature takes over.

Now snuggle down, friends.

Make your own comfort a priority.

Maybe it's the first time today

that you've really had the space and the time

to notice how your body feels

and respond to its needs.

So get the right pillow in the right spot.

Let your muscles soften and relax

and draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Nice.

Again, in

and out.

Good.

Thunder and lightning

I don't like to step on a season's toes.

I try to wait for a snowy day to bake Christmas cookies.

I don't visit the pumpkin patch when it's still 80 degrees out.

And I don't plant pansies until we are fairly sure

that the hard frosts are over.

I'm not

always patient enough to wait,

especially when the pull of a new season is strong.

But when I do,

what a feeling feeling of harmony.

When my need for a day at home lines up with a street-closing snowstorm,

or my desire for full-body vitamin D replenishment

lands on a bright, cloudless day to spend sprawled at the beach.

So today,

when I found myself

overstretched from a week full of work and small talk and showing up,

when I felt a deep need to be quiet and inside myself,

and I began to hear the rain falling outside my window,

I sighed with deep, automatic relief.

I might have even whispered aloud,

thank you.

I'd been at my desk,

my planner open on the blotter in front of me,

struggling to switch between a pencil and a pen,

both clumsily held in my writing hand.

It was something I did at the end of each work week

to look over the week coming up

and lay out needful chores and goals

to pencil in some things

and ink in others.

I was just smoothing the page

and jotting down a plan for the following Wednesday

to spend the morning at the library

and the afternoon clearing out the shed at the back of the garden

when the rain began.

The window beside me was pushed as wide as it would go.

And as the drops fell,

I noticed the zing in the air of ozone,

the scent rising up from the dry grass and dying perennials in the yard.

I'd read that that lovely smell of petrichor

comes from the oils and minerals released from plants

which settle in dry times over stones and soil and pavements,

and then are dispersed into the air when struck by raindrops.

The compounds changed a bit with the seasons.

So this early autumn rain

smelled differently

from its sister in the spring.

This one was spicy and darker,

like amber and ashes and pine.

And I let it rain in on my sill for a few moments.

I slid a ribbon into my journal

and closed it for the week and set my pen and pencil down on the desk.

I stepped over to feel the breeze breeze and mist coming through.

The skies all around the house were dark grey,

like curtains pulled across a wide window.

I felt my shoulders softening away from my ears,

and my jaw relaxing.

I took a few deep breaths of the fresh, cool air

before easing the window shut

and walking through the house to close the others.

From the hall upstairs,

where I climbed into the window seat

to nudge one shut.

I looked down and spotted my next-door neighbor shaking his umbrella out on his front step

he stopped before going through the door

to take his own deep breaths

and I wondered if the whole neighborhood

the whole village was glad for this rain

By the look of the clouds,

there would be lightning and thunder soon

Games would be cancelled at the fields by the high school,

and the pond in the park at the edge of downtown

might swell and run into the walking path.

And I guessed that no one minded.

Downstairs I closed the last window and opened a cabinet

to take down a big round mug,

a kind for afternoon tea

or hot chocolate

that held enough to savour for a good long time.

In the fridge

I had a beautiful glass bottle bought at the farmer's market.

It was chai concentrate,

and when I'd sampled it,

my arms had been full of bags of tomatoes and red onions,

with an awkward stem of Brussels sprouts poking out.

I'd been on my way out,

sure that my shopping was complete.

But when I'd passed the tea stand

and smelled the cinnamon and clove

I'd shifted my shopping in my arms

and found a way to sip a sample

The man who made it

Told me it was a family recipe

One that had been handed down to him.

It was rich,

less sweet than the kind in a coffee shop,

with black pepper and cardamom,

and it warmed me through.

I'd had to have a bottle to take home.

And now I warmed it on the stove with the same amount of oat milk,

letting it steam in the quiet kitchen.

When my cup was full,

I went into the living room.

I needed maximum comfort to-day.

I needed the rest of this afternoon and well into the evening

to be full of my favorite sensations.

I already had the sound of the rain,

the smell of the chai.

Now I needed the sofa to be laid out just right.

I pushed the Ottoman up against the edge of the sofa

so that it almost made a bed,

then went to my bed because

I wanted my favorite pillows and my comforter.

I plumped them into place,

tossing the comforter out over the sofa,

found the remote,

and set it beside my cup of chai

and was just about to climb into my nest

when I saw a flash of lightning

in the backyard.

I stepped over to the windows and watched the rain barreling down now,

bringing acorns and loose leaves down from the trees to carpet the lawn.

I counted slowly,

waiting for the rumble.

When it came,

a slow crescendo of sound

rising from somewhere out there.

I was at seventeen.

I remembered to divide by five,

and estimated that that put the strike between three and four miles away.

I was glad to be safe in my house

while the storm rolled through.

I only had a few lights on.

The dark was so soothing to me right now.

I didn't want to spoil it.

But on my way back to the sofa,

I saw the reading lamp beside the bookcase flicker.

I paused mid-step,

watching the light over the stove likewise guttering.

After a moment,

everything went out,

and then,

a few moments later

came back on

and I decided that

well I really didn't mind losing power today

it might be wise to light a few candles

I took the box of green tipped strike anywheres from the drawer beside the stove

and fished a out.

I liked the feeling of the grit on the striking surface,

the smell of the antimony as it came to life.

I lit the candle on the kitchen window sill

and watched the reflection of its flame flickering in the glass.

Beside the sofa was was another.

It smelled of fallen leaves, raked into piles.

And finally,

I lit the one by my bed,

which was lavender mixed with rosemary.

Once the matches were back in the drawer,

I climbed into the soft airy that was my sofa.

I arranged my pillows,

stretched out long with my legs on the ottoman,

and pulled the blanket up to my chin.

My cup of chai

was now the perfect temperature for sipping

more lightning,

more thunder

More time curled up in this safe soft space

I had everything I wanted

Thunder and lightning

I don't like to step on a season's toes

I try to wait

for a snowy day

to bake Christmas cookies.

I don't visit the pumpkin patch when it's still 80 degrees out.

And I don't plant pansies

until we're fairly sure

that the hard frosts are over.

I'm not always patient enough to wait,

especially when the pull of a new season is strong.

But when I do,

what a feeling of harmony

when

my need for a day at home

lines up with a straight closing snowstorm,

or

my desire for full body vitamin D replenishment

lands on a bright cloudless day

to spend sprawled out at the beach.

So today,

when I found myself

overstretched

from a week full of work and small talk

and showing up,

when I felt a deep need

to be quiet

and inside myself,

and I began to hear the rain falling outside my window.

I sighed

with deep,

automatic relief.

I might have even whispered aloud,

oh, thank you.

I'd been at my desk,

my planner open on the blotter in front of me

Struggling to switch between a pencil and a pen

Both clumsily held in my writing hand

It was something I did

at the end of each work week

to look over the week coming up

and lay out

needful chores and goals,

to pencil in some things

and ink in others.

I was smoothing the page

and jotting down a plan

for the following Wednesday

to spend the morning at the library

and the afternoon clearing out the shed at the back of the garden

when the rain began.

The window beside me

was pushed as wide as it would go,

And as the drops fell

I noticed the zing

in the air

of ozone

The scent rising up

from the dry grass

and dying perennials in the yard

I'd read that that lovely smell smell of petrichor

came from the oils and minerals

released from plants

which settle in dry times

over stones and soil

and pavements

and then are dispersed into the air

when struck by raindrops.

The compounds changed a bit with the seasons.

So, this early autumn rain

smelled differently

from its sister in the spring.

This one was spicy

and darker,

like amber

and ashes

and pine

and i let it rain in on my sill for a few moments

i slid a ribbon into my journal and closed it for the week

and set my pen and pencil down on the desk

I stepped over to feel the breeze and mist coming through.

The skies all around the house

were dark grey,

like curtains pulled across a wide window.

I felt my shoulders softening away from my ears

and my jaw relaxing.

I took a few deep breaths

of the fresh, cool air

before easing the window shut

and walking through the house to close the others.

from the hall upstairs

where I climbed into the window seat

to nudge one closed,

I looked down

and spotted my next-door neighbor

shaking his umbrella out

on his front step.

He stopped before going through the door

to take his own deep breaths.

And I wondered if the whole neighborhood,

the whole village,

was glad for this rain.

By the look of the clouds,

there would be lightning and thunder soon.

Games would be canceled at the fields by the high school,

and the pond in the park

at the edge of downtown

might swell into the walking path.

And

I guessed that no one minded.

Downstairs

I closed the last window

and opened a cabinet

to take down a big round mug

The kind for afternoon tea

or hot chocolate

That held enough to savour

for a good long time.

In the fridge

I had a beautiful glass bottle

bought at the farmer's market.

It was chai concentrate

and when I'd sampled it

my arms had been full of bags of tomatoes and red onions

with an awkward stem of Brussels sprouts poking out.

I'd been on my way out,

sure that my shopping was complete.

But when I'd passed the tea stand

and smelled the cinnamon and clove,

I'd shifted the shopping in my arms

and found a way to sip a sample.

The man who made it

told me it was a family recipe,

one that had been handed down to him.

It was rich,

less sweet than the kind in a coffee shop,

with black pepper and cardamom,

and it warmed me through.

I'd had to have a bottle to take home.

But now it warmed on the stove

with the same amount of oat milk

steamed in the quiet kitchen.

When my cup was full,

I went into the living room.

I needed maximum comfort to day.

I needed the rest of this this afternoon

and well into the evening

to be full of my favorite sensations.

I already had the sound of the rain

and the smell of the chai.

Now I needed the sofa to be laid out

just right.

I pushed the Ottoman

up against the edge of the sofa

so that it almost made a bed.

Then

went to my bed

because I wanted my favorite pillows and I wanted my comforter.

I plumped them into place,

tossing the comforter

out over the sofa,

found the remote,

and set it beside my cup of chai,

and was just about to climb into my nest

when I saw a flash of lightning

in the backyard.

I stepped over to the windows

and watched the rain.

It was barreling down now,

bringing acorns and loose leaves down from the trees

to carpet the lawn.

I counted slowly,

waiting for the rumble.

When it came

a slow crescendo

of sound

rising from

somewhere out there,

I was at

seventeen.

I remembered to divide by five

and estimated

that that put the strike

between

three and four miles away.

I was glad to be safe in my house

while the storm rolled through.

I only had a few lights on.

The dark was so soothing to me right now.

I didn't want to spoil it.

But on my way back to the sofa,

I saw the reading lamp

beside the bookcase flicker.

I paused midstep,

watching the light over the stove,

likewise guttering.

After a moment,

everything

went out,

and then

a few moments later

came back on.

and I decided that

while I really

didn't mind losing power today

it might be wise

to light a few candles

I took the box

of green-tipped strike anywheres from the drawer beside the stove

and fished a match out.

I liked the feeling of the grit on the striking surface.

The smell of the antimony as it came to life.

I lit the candle on the kitchen window sill

and watched the reflection of its flame flickering in the glass.

Beside the sofa

was another.

It smelled of fallen leaves raked into piles.

Finally

I lit the one by my bed,

which was lavender

mixed with rosemary.

Once the matches were back in the drawer,

I climbed into the soft airy

that was my sofa.

I arranged my pillows,

stretched out long

with my legs on the ottoman,

and pulled the blanket up to my chin.

My cup of chai

was now the perfect temperature for sipping.

More lightning,

more thunder,

more time curled

in this safe,

soft space.

I had everything

I wanted.

Sweet dreams.