Sunny Skies

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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 Katherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear, and Much Happens, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Voices for Children.
Their center serves as a voice and advocate for children throughout Genesee and Shiawassee counties in Michigan. Learn more in our show notes.
If you aren't a premium subscriber, you might notice a few more ads on the show. They run before the show and right before I tuck you in, and we take our deep breaths.
And if you'd rather not hear them, premium access is about a dime a day. Learn more in our show notes or at nothingmuchhappens.com.
A busy mind can keep you up or make returning to sleep in the middle of the night really difficult. So let's try some positive distraction therapy.
I'll tell you a sweet, simple story. In fact, I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
Just follow along with the sound of my voice, and that will slow your busy brain, and sleep will come. Know that this is brain training.
Regular use improves results. So have some patience if you are new here.
Our story tonight is called Sunny Skies, and it's a story about our little village of nothing much, stepping back into the light after a long winter storm. It's also about small changes adding up over time, candle ice and frost flowers, letting the sun bathe your face after several gray days, and a small adventure to keep you going till spring.
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Okay. Lights out, friend.
The day is done. whatever happened today is what happened today and now it is time for sleep let everything relax unlock your jaw soften your shoulders and notice how good it feels to be safe in bed.
Draw a slow, deep breath in and sigh it out. One more time.
Fill your lungs.

And empty. Good.
Sunny skies. After weeks of snow and ice, today dawned with a different feeling.
I'd been noticing the extra minute of daylight in the morning and at night. It still felt like it didn't add up to much.
But I remembered what one of my yoga teachers used to say about small steps. One percent today, one percent tomorrow.
And this morning, that 1% change was tangible.

There was a different scent in the air,

a different texture of light as the sun cut across the horizon.

It wasn't spring, I knew that.

But it was a reminder that winter wasn't just one thing. It has shades.
It is a spectrum of experiences. I'd noticed it when I stepped outside to get the newspaper.
Something I've done lately in the gloom with my face wrapped up in a muffler, shuffling in my boots and reaching with damp mittens into the snowbank at the edge of the driveway. But today, the air felt different.
It was softer. The crisp edge of it had been smoothed into something that was easy to breathe and had a slight sweet scent like rain on pavement.

The bracing cold

was suddenly less bracing.

Instead of rounding my shoulders

and hunching over

to keep any warmth in, I stood tall and lifted my face to the open sky. I let my scarf fall away from my neck and took slow, deep breaths.
The sun made me blink. When I had seen it last, which now felt like weeks ago, it was a bright white, appearing rarely, and between snow showers.
now it had a rich honey yellow color and it felt like pure energy pouring into my system. I closed my eyes and let it bathe my face.
Gosh, I'd forgotten how good this feels. I started down the porch steps and noticed the icicles dripping from the eaves.
I realized, in fact,

that there were dripping from the eaves. I realized, in fact,

that there were lots of sounds to tune into this morning.

Squirrels and some of the hardier birds

who stayed through the winter,

moving along tree branches,

where snow was quickly disappearing. I heard dogs barking in the distance, garage doors going up, cars on the next street over.
Activity.

It was inspiring.

I loved this stretch of time when winter slowed us to a stop.

When everything was paused

and I'd been able to retreat into my cozy house, stay in my favorite jammies all day, watch movies and make soup. But now it felt like a nice change of pace to do something else.

And the day seemed to be encouraging just that.

At the bottom of the steps, I reached down for the newspaper,

thankfully well-wrapped and protected from all this melting snow. I tucked it under one arm and went farther down the drive to the sidewalk, then followed that to the corner a few houses down.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for. Just wanted to see more, I guess.
To see what we were all getting up to. If others could feel the change that I could.
Across the street, I saw a man walking a dog. He waved at me, and even the dog seemed to be smiling.
Yes, I think they could feel it too I crossed the street and went another block over I passed a frozen pond one sunny morning hadn't done anything to its inches of frozen ice,

and I stopped a moment to look at the way the light caught the angles of its surface.

It wasn't even and flat.

The wind must have been blowing hard as the crystals came together. I'd seen pictures before of frozen waves on the Great Lakes.
I'd heard of candle ice that made a beautiful ringing sound as millions of thin straws of frozen water dumped into each other. And once I'd held a frost flower in my hand, a kind of ice that came from a freezing fog.
This was just a small pond with a slightly bumpy surface. But still, I felt like I'd stumbled upon something miraculous.
I squatted down to look more closely

and noticed that in the bright sun,

the snow and ice

sparkled like glitter

with a rainbow of colors

that I could only catch when the light hit just right.

I stood up tall, tossing the dangling end of my scarf back over my shoulder.

I remembered I had the newspaper under my arm, and while I did have my boots

and coat on, I was still dressed in my pajamas under it all, and maybe I should regroup

before continuing any adventures. Making my way back across the street and up the block to my house, I found myself taking one deep breath after another,

drawing this new energy deep inside to fill my cup.

At my house, I dropped the newspaper on the kitchen table.

I would read it later,

and went to change into jeans and a sweater. I felt the urge to open a window, but I knew I was getting well ahead of myself.
I remembered an early spring day, years before,

when I had my first apartment,

and how desperate I had been to let warm air in on a sunny day.

I'd opened all the windows and gone out with friends for lunch our outing had lasted longer than I'd planned and by the time I'd made it back home my little flat was cold and drafty it had chased all the warmth right out of me, and after I'd closed up the windows, I'd had to layer two pairs of sweatpants on to sleep in.

Older and wiser, I opened the curtains rather than the windows themselves, and sunlight filled my rooms. I got dressed excitedly, still dressing warmly, but choosing a thinner sweater and just regular socks rather than the double thick ones, which barely squeezed into my shoes.
Back downstairs, I donned my coat and boots and was out the door again. I still didn't know where I was going but I felt the urge to go to see to be out in the world.
On the road as my car warmed up me, I figured a coffee from the coffee shop, a bun from the bakery, and then a long drive out on the state road would be perfect. I'd stop at that bridge that crosses the river

and get out and listen to the ice. I'd stop at that bridge that crosses the river

and get out and listen to the ice breaking up.

Reaching into my bag,

I found my sunglasses.

I hadn't needed them in quite a while,

and I slipped them on and turned on the radio. I smiled into the sun.
Sunny skies. After weeks of snow and ice, today dawned with a different feeling.
I'd been noticing the extra minute of daylight in the morning and at night. It still felt like it didn't add up to much, but I remembered what one of my yoga teachers used to say about small steps.
One percent today. One percent tomorrow.
And this morning, that 1% change was tangible.

There was a different scent in the air, a different texture of light as the sun cut across the horizon.

It wasn't spring, I knew that, but it was a reminder that winter wasn't just one thing. It has shades.
It is a spectrum of experiences. I'd noticed when I stepped outside to get the newspaper something I've done lately in the gloom with my face wrapped up in a muffler, shuffling in my boots, and reaching with damp mittens into the snowbank at the edge of the driveway.
But today, the air felt different.

It was softer.

the crisp edge of it

had been smoothed into something

that was easy to breathe

and had a slight sweet scent

like rain on pavement. The bracing cold was suddenly less bracing.
Instead of rounding my shoulders

and hunching over

to keep any warmth in,

I stood tall

and lifted my face

to the open sky.

I let my scarf

fall away from my neck

Thank you. to the open sky.
I let my scarf fall away from my neck and took slow, deep breaths. The sun made me blink.
When I had seen it last, which now felt like weeks ago, it was a bright white, appearing rarely, and between snow showers., it had a rich honey yellow color, and it felt like pure energy pouring into my system. I closed my eyes and let it bathe my face.
Gosh, I'd forgotten how good that feels. I'd started

down the porch steps and noticed the icicles dripping from the eaves. I realized, in fact, that there were lots of sounds to tune into this morning.
Squirrels and some of the hardier birds who stayed through the winter, moving along tree branches, where snow was quickly disappearing. I heard dogs barking in the distance.

Garage doors going up. Cars on the next street over.
Activity. It was inspiring.
I'd loved this stretch of time when winter slowed us to a stop, when everything was paused, and I'd been able to retreat into my cozy house, stay in my favorite jammies all day, watch movies, and make soup. But now, it felt like a nice change of pace to do something else.
And the day seemed to be encouraging. Just that.
At the bottom of the steps, I reached down for the newspaper. Thankfully, well-wrapped and protected from all this melting snow.

I tucked it under one arm and went further down the drive

to the sidewalk,

then followed that

to the corner a few houses down.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for.

Just wanted to see more, I guess.

To see what we were all getting up to.

If others could feel the change that I could.

Across the street,

I saw a man walking a dog.

He waved at me,

and even the dog seemed to be smiling. Yes, I think they could feel it too.
I crossed the street

and went another block over.

I passed a frozen pond.

One sunny morning

hadn't done anything

to its inches of frozen ice.

And I stopped a moment to look at the way

the light caught the angles of its surface.

It wasn't even and flat. The wind must have been blowing hard as the crystals came together.
I'd seen pictures before of frozen waves on the Great Lakes.

I'd heard of candle ice that made a beautiful ringing sound

as millions of thin straws of frozen water

bumped into each other.

And once, I'd held a frost flower in my hand,

a kind of ice that came from a freezing fog.

This was just a small pond with a slightly bumpy surface,

but still I felt like I'd stumbled upon something miraculous.

I squatted down to look more closely and noticed that, in the bright sun, the snow and ice sparkled like glitter,

with a rainbow of colors that I could only catch when the light hit just right. I stood up, tossing the dangling end of my scarf back over my shoulder.

I remembered that I had the newspaper under my arm and that while I did have my boots and coat on

I was still dressed in my pajamas under it all, and maybe I should regroup before continuing any adventures. making my way

back continuing any adventures. Making my way back across the street and up the block to my house, I found myself taking one deep breath after another, drawing this new energy deep inside to fill my cup.
At my house, I dropped the newspaper on the kitchen table to read later

and went to change into jeans and a sweater. I felt the urge

to open a window

but I knew I was getting well ahead of myself. I remembered an early spring day years before, when I'd had my first apartment, and how desperate I had been to let warm air in on a sunny day.
I'd opened all the windows

and gone out with friends for lunch our outing had lasted longer than I'd planned and by the time I'd made it back home, my little flat was cold and drafty. It had chased all the warmth right out of me, and after I'd closed up the windows, I'd had to layer two pairs of sweatpants on to sleep in.
Older and wiser, I opened the curtains rather than the windows themselves. When sunlight filled my rooms, I got dressed excitedly.

Still dressing warmly, but choosing a thinner sweater,

and just regular socks, rather than the double thick ones,

which I knew barely squeezed into my shoes. Back downstairs, I donned my coat and boots and was out the door again.
I still didn't know where I was going,

but I felt the urge to go,

to see,

to be out in the world.

On the road, as my car warmed up around me,

I figured a coffee from the coffee shop.

A bun from the bakery,

and then a long drive out on the state road would be perfect.

I'd stop at that bridge

that crosses the river

and get out

and listen to the ice breaking up.

Reaching into my bag,

I found my sunglasses.

I hadn't needed them in quite a while,

and I slipped them on and turned on the radio.

I smiled into the sun.

Sweet dreams.