Behind the Curtain (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.

Our creativity, our relationships, our mood.

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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,

let me explain a bit how to use this podcast.

When left to its own devices, your mind will wander,

rehashing and what-ifing into the wee hours.

We need to give it a soft place to land.

That's what the story is.

And once the mind settles,

your nervous system can switch over

into rest and digest mode, and you'll sleep.

All you need to do is follow along with the sound of my voice, the simple shape of the story.

I'll read the story twice,

and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, you can listen again.

Don't hesitate to turn it right back on.

Or just think your way back through any part of the story that you can remember.

Especially any details that felt particularly cozy to you.

It'll reroute your mind back to the landing spot.

And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow

feeling refreshed and rested.

Our story tonight is called Behind the Curtain.

And it's the second part of our Halloween special this season.

It's a story about two friends meeting for the first time.

It's also about a copper kettle simmering on the stove.

A gentle approach to tip people toward kindness

and cinnamon sticks and sliced apples.

It's time to turn off the light.

Set aside anything you've been working on or looking at.

Snuggle down into your sheets and get as comfortable as you can.

You are about to fall asleep

and you'll sleep deeply all night.

Whatever you have done today,

it is enough.

You've done enough and you are enough.

And nothing remains but deep, restorative sleep.

Take a slow breath in through your nose

and sigh it out of your mouth.

Again, breathe in

and out.

Good.

Behind the curtain.

I stood with my elbows on the counter

and my chin in my hands,

looking out through the shop window as the daylight faded

and the stars began to appear.

On the bricks of the building opposite,

a vast maple vine

had climbed from the street nearly to the second floor,

and its leaves were a bright ruby red

that glowed under the street lamp.

I think I should put the kettle on, I said aloud,

and heard a soft, agreeing meow

from the back room behind the curtain.

We were alone in the shop after a busy day.

It was that time of year, but I hadn't closed up yet.

And I had a feeling I knew why.

Someone was coming.

It was about to be someone's first visit to my shop.

I turned and parted the black curtain that hung behind the counter

and stepped into my workshop.

I had an old scrubbed pine table

where I mixed herb preparations and tea.

In fact, I had the regular weekly order for the tea shop wrapped up

and ready to be delivered to morrow.

Beside the table, there was a stove with a large copper kettle sat on top,

already full of water, and just waiting to be warmed.

I rubbed my hands together in front of me,

building a bit of heat between my palms,

then turned down the gas and snapped my fingers close to the burner.

A small spark jumped from my fingertips and lit the flame.

I smiled to myself

and adjusted the burner.

I'd come a long way since that day.

A few October's past

when I met my mail carrier

on the front step of my house

and been handed a package

wrapped in paper.

I remember still

the feeling of awe

and recognition

as I peeled back the wrapping

and held my grandmother's book in my hands

how she had gotten it to me

so many years after she was gone herself

I still didn't know

but her timing had been right

I was ready for it when it came

When I thought of her,

it was always with her book in her hands,

or propped up on a stand on the counter,

or set on her bedside table,

ready for her to record her dreams in when she woke.

It was a family grimoire

handed down through the generations.

It held entries from as far back as my five times great grandmother,

most of which was indecipherable to me,

though I was still very glad it was there

that same day

when I started to learn about who I was

and how to work as others had.

It wasn't just the book that had come to me.

A small gray cat had arrived at my back door

and scratched to be let in.

She both couldn't be, but definitely was

the same cat who had slept at the foot of grandmother's bed

and sunned herself among the azaleas in her garden.

Grandmother had called her cat Cinder,

and so she was still called.

She watched over me as I charted the movements of the moon

and worked my first spells.

Everyone has their own gifts,

and mine were mostly of intuition.

A sudden flash of knowing would hit me, like it had just now,

sending me to put the kettle on to boil.

Over the years, like training a muscle,

my intuition had gotten stronger,

and I found I could be in the right place at the right time

to help someone

or tip the balance toward good,

to nudge someone to check on a neighbor,

or set the wheels in motion for a dream to grow.

I was sure most of these things would have eventually happened on their own.

I thought of myself

not as pulling strings, but

just as one clearing a path,

so that the obstacles blocking most people's best instincts were lessened.

A stone with a hole in it might be left at the edge of the river

for the next person mudlarking there.

The Six of Cups, tucked into a book,

and left on a shelf in a little library,

at just the right moment to fall into just the right hands.

When Cinder brought home a little orphaned orange kitten

and set her in my lap,

I knew just the home for her,

and watched over until she was safe inside.

Most people in our little village had no idea I was here,

working quietly in the background

to make our days just a bit softer

and sweeter.

And that was just how I liked it.

I stood beside the stove

as the kettle got closer to singing

and added a touch more water

to the simmer pot beside it.

I started one each day when I opened the shop

and lately had drawn ingredients from the orchard,

fresh cut apples and cinnamon sticks and cloves.

But today I was simmering sink foil, lavender,

and rose hips.

There was a prickle at the back of my neck,

and I turned

and peeked through the curtain into the shop.

Out on the sidewalk, a woman stood,

seemingly in a trance.

A full moon was reflected in her glasses,

and I recognized her face.

She'd come close to finding us before,

but had never made it all the way to the door.

Look this way,

I said aloud,

and in that moment someone in a hurry to cross the street bumped into her

and spun her toward our sign.

Thank you, I said.

I watched her taking in the sign, the door and the front window,

freshly stocked with candles, herbs,

and a hand-me-down but valuable scrying bowl.

If my gift was intuiting

and maybe a bit of prescience,

I could feel that hers was for healing.

In a flash of understanding, I knew hers was the house in the neighborhood whose door was knocked on

when a baby squirrel fell from its nest.

She would take the box and carry it inside a nurse

till the creature was ready to venture back into the branches.

Scraped knees or broken hearts, elders who'd lost themselves, or friends worn out by the long gray days of winter.

She was the one who reached out.

She would have the gift of the cool touch of mother's hands on a hot forehead,

the soft voice that would ease another to relax.

She did all sorts of healing,

and I was already eager to meet her,

to pour her a cup of tea,

and tell her my own story, to help her realize hers.

I reached up to a top shelf

to bring down a few teacups

and sorted through the blends to find one that would open her eyes and ears even more as we talked.

Cinder wove through my ankles,

excited as well at the proximity of such warm, lovely magic.

We heard the door open and close,

and I slipped out from behind the curtain to welcome our guest.

Behind the curtain,

I stood with my elbows on the counter

and my chin in my hands,

looking out through the shop window

as the daylight faded

and the stars began to appear.

On the bricks of the building opposite,

a vast maple vine

had climbed from the street nearly to the second floor,

and its leaves were a bright ruby red

that glowed under the street lamp.

I think

I should put the kettle on,

I said aloud,

and heard a soft, agreeing meow

from the back room behind the curtain.

We were alone in the shop after a busy day.

It was that time of year, but

I hadn't closed up yet

and I had a feeling I knew why

someone was coming.

It was about to be

someone's first visit to my shop.

I turned and parted the black curtain

that hung behind the counter

and stepped into my workshop.

I had an old scrubbed pine table

where I mixed herb preparations and tea.

In fact, I had the regular weekly order for the tea shop wrapped up

and ready to be delivered to-morrow.

Beside the table,

there was a stove with a large copper kettle sat on top,

already full of water,

and just waiting to be warmed.

I rubbed my hands together in front of me,

building a bit of heat between my palms,

and then turned on the gas and snapped my fingers close to the burner.

A small spark jumped from my fingertips and lit the flame.

I smiled to myself and adjusted the burner.

I'd come a long way

since that day,

a few October's past,

when I met my mail carrier on the front step of my house

and been handed a package wrapped in in paper.

I remember still

the feeling of awe and recognition

as I peeled back the wrapping

and held my grandmother's book in my hands.

How she had gotten it to me

so many years after

she was gone herself.

I still don't know.

But her timing had been right.

I was ready for it when it came.

When I thought of her,

it was always with her book in her hands,

or propped up on a stand on the counter,

or set on her bedside table,

ready for her to record her dreams in when she woke.

It was a family grimoire

handed down through the generations.

It held entries from as far back as my five times great-grandmother,

most of which was indecipherable to me,

though I was still very glad it was there.

That same day,

when I started to learn about who I was

and how to work as others had.

It wasn't just the book that came to me.

A small grey cat had arrived at my back door

and scratched to be let in.

She both couldn't be, but

definitely was

the same cat who had slept at the foot of grandmother's bed

and sunned herself among the azaleas in her garden.

Grandmother had called her cat Cinder,

and so she was still called.

She watched over me as I charted the movements of the moon

and worked my first spells.

Everyone has their own gifts,

and mine were mostly of intuition.

A sudden flash of knowing would hit me

like it had just now,

sending me to put the kettle on to boil.

Over the years,

like training a muscle,

My intuition had gotten stronger,

and I found

I could be in the right place

at the right time

to help someone

or tip the balance toward good,

to nudge someone, to check on a neighbor,

or set the wheels in motion for a dream to grow.

I was sure most of these things would have eventually happened on their own.

I thought of myself

not as pulling strings, but

just as one clearing a path,

so that the obstacles blocking most people's best instincts were lessened.

A stone with a hole in it

might be left at the edge of the river

for the next person mudlarking there.

The Six of Cups tucked into a book

and left on the shelf of a little library at just the right moment

to fall into just the right hands.

When Cinder brought home a little orphaned orange kitten

and set her in my lap,

I knew just the home for her

and watched over until she was safe inside.

Most people in our little village had no idea I was here,

working quietly in the background

to make our days just a bit softer and sweeter.

And that was just how I liked it.

I stood beside the stove as the kettle got closer to singing

and added a touch more water

to the simmer pot beside it.

I started one each day when I opened the shop

and lately had drawn ingredients from the orchard,

fresh-cut apples and cinnamon sticks and cloves.

But today I was simmering sink foil,

lavender,

and rose hips.

There was a prickle at the back of my neck,

and I turned and peeked through the curtain into our shop.

Out on the sidewalk,

a woman stood

seemingly in a trance.

The full moon was reflected in her glasses,

and I recognized her face.

She'd come close to finding us before,

but had never

quite made it to the door.

Look this way,

I said aloud.

And in that moment, someone in a hurry to cross the street

bumped into her

and spun her toward our sign.

Well, thank you, I said.

I watched her taking in the sign,

the door,

and the front window,

freshly stocked with candles,

herbs,

and a hand-me-down

but valuable scrying bowl.

If my gift was intuiting

and

a bit of prescience,

I could feel that hers was for healing.

In a flash of understanding,

I knew

hers was the house in the neighborhood

whose door was knocked on

when a baby squirrel fell from its nest.

she would take the box

and carry it inside

and nurse till the creature was ready to venture back into the branches

scraped knees or

broken hearts,

elders who'd lost themselves

or friends worn out by the long gray days of winter.

She was the one who reached out.

She would have the gift of the cool touch of mother's hands

on a hot forehead,

the soft voice that would ease another to relax.

She did all sorts of healing,

and I was already eager to meet her,

to pour her a cup of tea,

and tell her my own story,

to help her realize hers.

I reached up to a top shelf to bring down a few teacups

and sorted through the blends to find one that would

open her eyes and ears

even more as we talked.

Cinder wove through my ankles,

excited as well at the proximity of

such warm, lovely magic.

We heard the door open and close,

and I slipped out from behind the curtain

to welcome our guest.

Sweet dreams.