transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:01] Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which Nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Now, just as you might have had done for you when you were a child, I'm going to tuck you in and tell you a soft, cozy story to carry you to dreamland. And there are neuroscience-y reasons why it works, and why it improves with regular use. But, no, all you need to do is listen. Follow along with my voice and the gentle shape of the tale, and before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling refreshed and replenished. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, don't hesitate to turn the show right back on. Our story tonight is called Crayons and Grains of Sand, and it's a story about a quiet morning at home on the cusp of a new season. It's also about a warm patch of sunlight on the wood floor, a clementine peeled in one long curling piece, a full box of crayons, and building peace inside as things change. So settle in and feel how good it is to be in bed. Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to all day, and now it is here. Let yourself feel it. And I'll be here taking the next watch while you rest. Draw a slow breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Let's do one more. Breathe in. And sigh. He was driving in the middle of the road, and he was driving in the middle of the road, and he was driving in the middle of the road, and he was driving in the middle of the road, and he was driving in the middle of the road, and he was driving in the middle of the road, and he was driving in the middle of the road, and he was driving in the middle of the road. I was waiting to see what color the sky would be when the sun was fully risen. It had started in smeary trails of pink and orange, and I imagined far away fingers, tracing lazy lines through our sky, like a child might do at the edge of a slow-moving creek. Someone had told me once that lines traced on the water disappear the instant that they are created, and that this was a helpful way to think about my own worries, to trace them in the water, rather than carve them into stone. Looking up at the sky now, I watched the lines blur and fade, until they too had dissolved into the dim, gray, blue atmosphere. Still undecided, I said to the weather. She didn't answer. At least not right away. I thought that if Mother Nature wasn't sure what she wanted to do for the day, maybe I didn't need to be sure either. I wouldn't make a plan for today. I'd just follow it, moment by moment, and see where it took me. My stomach grumbled, and I decided that the next place it would take me was my kitchen. I had a huge ceramic bowl in the center of the kitchen table, filled with grapefruits and clementines and satsumas with their papery green leaves still attached. I'd had a craving lately for fresh tart flavors and so had stocked up on these lovely citrus fruits. I picked up one of the clementines and held it close to my nose. It smelled sweet and sour and like it would wake me up a bit. Its peel came off in one piece, and I slowly broke off one section at a time and ate them, enjoying the way the tiny packets of juice burst in my mouth. Next, I picked up a grapefruit. Its skin was an orangey-yellow with a bloom of pinkish-red. This one I sectioned carefully with a knife, dropping the half-moon slices into a bowl. I sprinkled on a bit of dried ginger and cinnamon and got a spoon from the drawer. I ate slowly. The flavors were so bright and delicious, I didn't want to miss a bit of it. When I'd set my plate in the sink, I washed the last bit of stickiness from my fingers. I noticed the kitchen was scented with the fresh smell of the fruit. It reminded me of a day in science class in high school, when my teacher had sat at her desk and peeled an orange in silence. We'd all watched, wondering if the lesson had started or if she was just catching up on her breakfast. From my seat at the side of the room, I'd spoken up, saying how good it smelled. I was rewarded with a smile from my teacher, who said we'd be studying how molecules diffuse through air today. Just like the scent of the fruit had traveled across the room to my nose. Looking into the living room, I noticed that the sun had come out, and a slant of bright light was cutting across the floor. I thought again of those molecules floating as I watched tiny specks of dust spinning in the sunlight. I went to stand in it for a moment, letting it warm first my toes and then my face. The bright sun and the bright smell of the grapefruit reminded me of a page in my coloring book I'd seen a few days before. I sat at my desk and pulled it toward me. When I was a preschooler, I hadn't enjoyed coloring at all. It seemed like something I couldn't sit still long enough to do well, and every page turned into a scribble. As I, like a little hummingbird, flew from one place to another, now I found it quite relaxing. There was a calming kind of solace about slowly filling the shapes with color, and watching the scene on the page before me change. I turned to the page I'd thought of. It was a detailed round shape with symmetrical designs circling through it. There were things like feathers and curly cues and petals. And I guessed that it had reminded me a bit of the bowl on my table. The satsumas with their leaves attached, The round clementines and grapefruit. I opened my big box of crayons and pulled an old coffee mug full of colored pencils closer. I ran my hand over the paper, smoothing it, and considering where I wanted to start. Since orange and pink had so far been the colors of the day, I started there. I carefully filled in the designs on the outer edges, alternating between the colors. Making something like a bright morning sun. This shape was called a mandala. And the book had some that were more intricate, others that were quite plain. Some looked like they were teaching new mathematics. With their geometrical designs. Others, like a kaleidoscope of nature. Blossoms and buds refracted and repeated in the circle. I'd had an aunt, a great aunt, actually, who'd worked for many years in a prestigious museum, in a big city's downtown. And she told me a story about a group of monks who'd come to create a mandala on the floor of one of their galleries. She'd described the patient way they'd placed the sand, almost one grain at a time, to create a rich, elaborate design. When they'd completed it, after days on hands and knees working, someone had kicked through it, sending the sand in every direction. My aunt, my great aunt, turned to look at the monk who directed the work. She said it took him a moment, just a moment, and that she could see the calm resolve return almost instantly to his face. And then he'd simply said, It will take us a little bit longer to finish our mandala. The slant of sunlight had faded, and I heard a far away rumble of thunder. Mother Nature was changing directions again. The room was darkening, and I switched on a lamp. I reached for new colors, blues and purples and grays and blacks. I thought of that monk and his way of shifting along with the tides. I thought of the times when I'd seen my own best laid plans be kicked apart. I thought of the lines drawn on the water and floating molecules and altering skies. There was a commonality here, something to do with peace and patience around change. I reached for more crayons, deep browns and grassy greens, and thought I'd keep taking my cues from Mother Nature, who hadn't yet made up her mind, but was creating all the same. Crayons and grains of sand. The weather hadn't been able to make up its mind lately. There'd been a string of days with bright sun and warm temperatures. And then a few with driving cold winds and rain that had turned into a dusting of snow. I'd wake in the mornings, unsure if I should be layering on thick socks and sweaters, or switching them for t-shirts and sandals. Today, I stood for a while, and just watched the morning light change, waiting to see what color the sky would be when the sun was fully risen. It had started in smeary trails of pink and orange, and I imagined far away fingers, tracing lazy lines through our sky, like a child might do, at the edge of a slow moving creek. Someone had told me once that lines traced on the water disappear the instant that they are created, and that this was a helpful way to think about my own worries, to trace them in the water, rather than to carve them into stone. Looking up at the sky now, I watched the lines blur and fade, until they too had dissolved into the dim gray-blue atmosphere. Still undecided, hmm? I said to the weather. She didn't answer, at least not right away. I thought that if Mother Nature wasn't sure what she wanted to do for the day, maybe I didn't need to be either. I wouldn't make a plan for today. Just follow it, moment by moment, and see where it took me. My stomach grumbled, and I decided that the next place it would take me was my kitchen. I had a huge ceramic bowl in the center of the kitchen table, filled with grapefruits and clementines. And satsumas with their papery green leaves still attached. I'd had a craving lately for fresh tart flavors, and so had stocked up on all these lovely citrus fruits. I picked up one of the clementines and held it close to my nose. It smelled sweet and sour and like it would wake me up a bit. Its peel came off in one piece, and I slowly broke off one section at a time and ate them. Enjoying the way the tiny packets of juice burst in my mouth. Next, I picked up a grapefruit. Its skin was an orangey-yellow with a bloom of pinkish-red. This one, I sectioned carefully with a knife, dropping the half-moon slices into a bowl. I sprinkled on a bit of dried ginger and cinnamon. I got a spoon from the drawer. I ate slowly. The flavors were so bright and delicious, I didn't want to miss a bit of it. When I'd set my plate in the sink, and washed the last bit of stickiness from my fingers, I noticed the kitchen was scented with the fresh smell of the fruit. It reminded me of a day in science class in high school, when my teacher had sat at her desk and peeled an orange in silence. We'd all watched, wondering if the lesson had started, or if she was just catching up on her breakfast. From my seat at the side of the room, I'd spoken up, saying how good it smelled. I was rewarded with a smile from my teacher, who said we'd be studying how molecules diffuse through the air today. Just like the scent of the fruit had traveled across the room to my nose, looking into the living room, I noticed that the sun had come out, and a slant of bright light was cutting across the floor. I thought again of those molecules floating as I watched tiny specks of dust spinning in the sunlight. I went to stand in it for a moment, letting it warm first my toes and then my face. The bright sun and the bright smell of the grapefruit reminded me of a page in my coloring book I'd seen a few days before. I sat at my desk and pulled it toward me. When I was a preschooler, I hadn't enjoyed coloring at all. It seemed like something I couldn't sit still long enough to do well, and every page turned into a scribble, as I, like a little hummingbird, flew from one place to another. Now I found it quite relaxing. There was a calming kind of solace about slowly filling the shapes with color and watching the scene on the page before me change. I turned to the page I'd thought of. It was a detailed, round shape with symmetrical designs circling through it. There were things like feathers and curly cues and petals. And I guessed that it had reminded me a bit of the bowl on my table. The satsumas with their leaves attached. The round clementines and grapefruits. I opened my big box of crayons and pulled an old coffee mug full of colored pencils closer. I ran my hand over the paper, smoothing it. And considering where I wanted to start. Since orange and pink had so far been the colors of the day, I started there. I carefully filled in the designs on the outer edges, alternating between the colors, making something like a bright morning sun. The shape was called a mandala, and the book had some that were more intricate and others that were quite plain. Some looked like they were teaching you mathematics with their geometrical designs. Others looked like a kaleidoscope of nature. Blossoms and buds refracted and repeated in the circle. I'd had an aunt, a great aunt actually, who had worked for many years in a prestigious museum, in a big city's downtown. And she told me a story about a group of monks who'd come to create a mandala on the floor of one of their galleries. She described the patient way they'd placed the sand. Almost one grain at a time. To create a rich, elaborate design. When they'd nearly completed it. After days on hands and knees working. Someone had kicked through it. Sending sand in every direction. My aunt, my great aunt, turned to look at the monk who directed the work. She said it took him a moment, just a moment. And that she could see the calm resolve almost instantly return to his face. And then he'd simply said, It will take us a little longer to finish our mandala. The slant of sun light had faded, and I heard a far away rumble of thunder. Mother Nature was changing directions again. The room was darkening, and I switched on the lamp. I reached for new colors, blues and purples, grays and blacks. I thought of that monk and his way of shifting along with the tides. I thought of times when I'd seen my own best laid plans be kicked apart. I thought of the lines drawn on the water, floating molecules, and altering skies. There was a commonality here, something to do with peace and patience around change. I reached for more crayons, deep browns, and grassy greens, and thought I'd keep taking my cues from Mother Nature, who hadn't yet made up her mind, but was creating all the same. Sweet dreams.