transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:01] Get more Nothing much happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. Hi, I'm Kathryn Nicolai. And if you're looking for something gentle to listen to, that isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. Stories from the Village of Nothing Much is like easy listening, but for fiction. Cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting without being cheesy. Relaxing without putting you to sleep. And just dreamy enough to remind you that there's still sweetness in everyday life. Perfect for your commute while you're tidying up, or when you want a little escape that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the Village of Nothing Much wherever you listen. You know that feeling when you've made too many decisions in a day? Even the small things start to feel heavier than they should. I've been using Brain Edge from Nature's Sunshine on days like that, and it helps things feel clearer and more manageable. Nature's Sunshine Brain Edge combines hand-harvested Yerba mate with powerful nootropics to support focus, memory, and cognitive performance without the crash. It helps you stay sharp and focused, supports memory with Bacopa and Ginkgo, and gives smooth, sustained energy without the jitters or crash. I reach for it when I've got a full day of calls or a long to-do list, and I want to stay steady and think clearly all the way through. Don't fight through feeling foggy and lethargic. Ignite your mental performance with Brain Edge. Nature's Sunshine is offering 20% off your first order plus free shipping. Go to naturesunshine.com and use code nothingmuch at checkout. That's code nothingmuch at naturesunshine.com. 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, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the Painted Turtle. The Painted Turtle is more than a camp. It's a place where children with serious medical conditions can just be kids, totally free of charge. Learn more about them in our show notes. We are celebrating eight years of Sweet Dreams, and if we have been of use to you, if you want to make sure we can continue to be here for years to come, consider becoming a premium subscriber. You'll get our complete catalog, ad free, tons of bonus episodes, and extra long episodes, when it comes out to be just a dime a day. I was just trying to think of something you can buy for a dime, and I can't. Subscribe now, nothingmuchhappens.com. Now, here is how this works. Your mind needs to be gently shepherded toward the land of Nod. Else, it might spiral and race and keep you up. Likely, you already know that. Storytelling is an ancient technology for this. Just by following along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the story I have for you, you'll unwind, settle, and with time, train your brain and body to sleep when you need them to. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to just press play again. Our story tonight is called Connect the Dots, and it's a story about a moment carved out of the afternoon and a method to reorder a busy mind. It's also about raindrops and a birdbath, a clear spot at the kitchen table with enough light to see by, dots and lines and not having to decide. Lights out, my dears. Slip down into your sheets and feel how good it is to put a period at the end of this day. You are in bed, safe and with nothing more needed from you. So let everything soften and relax. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. Connect the dots. I didn't mind the rain today. It felt full of promise, for grass that could turn green overnight, for tulips and crocus that would stretch themselves from the soil, and for that washed clean feeling that came with the noticeable arrival of spring. And even with the slow, rolling clouds masking much of the sun, it was light enough at the kitchen table to sit down with my sketchbook for a few minutes. I did this most days, found a few minutes to turn to a blank page and pull a pen from my bag and watch ink spread over the paper. It had become a ritual, one that left my mind and even my kitchen a bit more ordered. First, I cleared the table, marveling at how quickly things can accumulate, even when I tried my best to not put them down, but put them away. There was a pair of reading glasses, not mine, by the way, which I folded and slipped into the drawer beside the fridge. Then a plate with the peel from a clementine, impressively coiled, still in one piece. A pine cone, I suppose because it was pretty, and a paperback, opened at about two-thirds through, and lain face down, the cracks in the spine, showing where passages were broken up. I found a birthday card, still standing open on the window sill, a month after the day it had celebrated. It had been a particularly good one, and tucked it into the pages of the book, so it could live a second life as a bookmark. Once everything had been relocated, if not to their proper places, then at least where they weren't in my way, I wiped the table with a warm cloth from the sink, and noticed the way the film of water dried over the grain of the wood. Why that patch before this one? I wondered. I filled the tea kettle and set it on the stove, twisted the knob and watched the blue flames swell outward, then shrink back and settle. While I waited for the whistle, I took down a mug from the shelf and dropped a tea bag in, a leftover flavor from the holidays, something with ginger and pear, but tasty in any season. I cracked the kitchen door open and let the fresh, cool air swirl through the room. I'd scrubbed and filled the birdbath the weekend before, hoping very much that the stray April snowstorms, which are rare but real, wouldn't come this year. I didn't think they would. Spring felt established. Rain was sprinkling over the surface of the water in the bath, creating circular ripples that were then disrupted by the next handful of drops. I watched for a while, hearing the hiss of the kettle rise slowly behind me. When it finally went from rolling to whistling, I turned away from the door and clicked off the burner. Pouring water into my cup made a soft galloping sound, and I thought about how we can hear the difference between hot and cold water, how this sounded round while cold water sounded pointy. I carried my cup to the table and opened my book. It was small and square, a dark blue cover with a thick cloth weave. I liked the size of it. It fit well in my hand, and though I had a serious collection of blank books, journals, and sketch pads, this was the one that most frequently went with me to the coffee shop or the bench in the park or just on to my bedside table. It had an elastic strap dyed the same color as the cover, so it could be secured shut. And, though it didn't have any loose pages or sticky notes floating through it, I still used it every time. I pretended that otherwise my doodles might escape from the pages. The first twenty pages or so were full, and I took a moment to turn through them and look at the designs on each one. This book, this time, was dedicated to making patterns, rather than sketching freehand. And not having to decide what to draw, to find a subject, an advantage point, and so on, was the point. More about process than product. This was a way to order my mind by following a pattern from start to finish across the page. And the first step I took each time was the most simple. I placed a dot in each of the four corners of the page, pressing the tip of the fine line marker and watching a miniscule halo of ink spread from the mark. Then, turning the book as I went, I connected one dot to another till I had a frame for the pattern. I often took a breath there, just giving my thoughts a nudge. Stay outside of the line for a while. I'll be in here, you be out there. They didn't always follow my suggestion, but even a little space was better than none. The ripples on the surface of the birdbath had reminded me of a pattern I hadn't made in a while. I drew a slow curve that wound back and forth on the page, like a river on its way to becoming an oxbow lake, then slowly and methodically traced lines around it, each one following close to the one before, as the shape spread out, like ripples on a pond. The paper was just a bit rough, and as I drew the marker over it, it rumbled up into my hand with soft vibrations. That made it feel like a conversation I was having with the book. It, talking back to me as I dragged the nib over the paper's tooth. My breath slowed. My focus gathered. Not all at once, like it sometimes did when everything felt like an emergency. But in a soft, magnetic pull toward what I was doing, the repetition of this line and then this one and another of the same shape felt safe and predetermined, like a math equation which had been solved before I even sat down. The wind must have picked up while I'd been drawing. I'd been so absorbed in the ink on the page that I hadn't noticed until the cracked door swung on its creaky hinge and gave a soft bump against the cupboard. I went to close it and saw the trees bending and swaying in the rising breeze. This, like the rain, was full of promise. That last autumn's dried leaves would be swept from under the bushes. That the mud and soggy patch at the edge of the garden would dry up and be walkable again. I shut the door, pushing one hip into it till the latch clicked. I reached for my teacup and felt just a remnant of warmth still in the ceramic. I disappeared into the lines of my drawing and forgotten to drink it. Ah well, the kettle could soon be boiling again. I might turn the page in my book and draw a bit longer. Connect the Dots I didn't mind the rain today. It felt full of promise for grass that could turn green overnight, for tulips and crocus that would stretch themselves from the soil, and for that washed clean feeling that came with the noticeable arrival of spring, and even with the slow rolling clouds masking much of the sun. It was light enough at the kitchen table to sit down with my sketchbook for a few minutes. I did this most days, found a few minutes to turn to a blank page and pull a pen from my bag and watch ink spread over the paper. It had become a bit of a ritual, one that left my mind and even my kitchen a bit more ordered. First, I cleared the table, marvelling at how quickly things can accumulate. Even when I tried my best to not put them down, but put them away, there was a pair of reading glasses, not mine, by the way, which I folded, and slipped into the drawer beside the fridge. Then a plate, with the peel from a clementine, impressively coiled, still in one piece. A pine cone, I suppose, because it was pretty, and a paperback, opened at about two-thirds through, and lain face down, the cracks in the spine, showing where passages were broken up. I found a birthday card, still standing open on the window sill, a month after the day it celebrated. It had been a particularly good one. I tucked it into the pages of the book, so it could live a second life as a bookmark. Once everything had been relocated, if not to their proper places, then at least to where they were not in my way. I wiped the tabletop with a warm cloth from the sink, and noticed the way the film of water dried over the grain of the wood. Why that patch, before this one? I wondered. I filled the tea kettle and set it on the stove, twisted the knob, and watched the blue flames swell outward, then shrink back and settle. While I waited for the whistle, I took down a mug from the shelf, and dropped a tea bag in, some leftover flavor from the holidays, with ginger and pear, but tasty in any season. I cracked the kitchen door open and let the fresh, cool air swirl through the room. I'd scrubbed and filled the birdbath the weekend before, hoping very much that the stray April snowstorms, which are rare but real, wouldn't come this year. I didn't think they would. Spring felt established. Rain was sprinkling over the surface of the water in the bath, creating circular ripples that were disrupted with the next handful of drops. I watched for a while, hearing the hiss of the kettle rise slowly behind me. When it finally went from rolling to whistling, I turned away from the door and clicked off the burner. Pouring water into my cup made a soft, galloping sound. And I thought about how we can hear the difference between hot and cold water. How this sounded round, while cold water sounded pointy. I carried my cup to the table and opened my book. It was small and square, a dark blue cover, with a thick cloth weave. I liked the size of it. It fit well in my hand. And though I had a serious collection of blank books, journals, and sketch pads, this was the one that most frequently went with me to the coffee shop or the bench in the park or just onto my bedside table. It had an elastic strap, dyed the same color as the cover, so it could be secured shut. And though it didn't have any loose pages or sticky notes floating through it, I still used it every time. I pretended that otherwise my doodles might escape from the pages. The first twenty pages or so were full, and I took a moment to turn through them, and look at the designs on each one. This book, this time, was dedicated to making patterns, rather than sketching freehand. And not having to decide what to draw, to find a subject, an advantage point, and so on, was the point. More about process than product. This was a way to order my mind. By following a pattern from start to finish, across the page. And the first step I took each time was the most simple. I placed a dot in each of the four corners of the page, pressing the tip of the fine line marker in, and watching a miniscule halo of ink spread from the mark. Then turning the book as I went, I connected one dot to another till I had a frame for the pattern. I often took a breath there, just giving my thoughts a nudge. Stay outside of the line for a while. I'll be in here. You be out there. They didn't always follow my suggestion, but even a little space was better than none. The ripples on the surface of the birdbath had reminded me of a pattern I hadn't made in a while. I drew a slow curve that wound back and forth on the page, like a river on its way to becoming an oxbow lake. Then slowly and methodically traced lines around it, each one following close to the one before. As the shape spread out, like the ripples on a pond, the paper was just a bit rough. And as I drew the marker over it, it rumbled up into my hand with soft vibrations. That made it feel like a conversation I was having with the book. It, talking back to me, as I dragged the nib over the paper's tooth, my breath slowed. My focus gathered, not all at once, like it sometimes did when everything felt like an emergency, but in a soft, magnetic pull toward what I was doing. The repetition of this line, and then this one, and another of the same shape, felt safe and predetermined, like a math equation which had been solved before I even sat down. The wind must have picked up while I'd been drawing. I'd been so absorbed in the ink on the page that I hadn't noticed until the cracked door swung on its creaky hinge and gave a soft bump against the cupboard. I went to close it and saw the trees bending and swaying in the rising breeze. This, like the rain, was full of promise. That last autumn's dried leaves would be swept from under the bushes. That the mud on the soggy patch at the edge of the garden would dry up and be walkable again. I shut the door, pushing one hip into it till the latch clicked. When I returned to the table, I reached for my tea cup and felt just a remnant of warmth, still in the ceramic. I disappeared into the lines of my drawing and forgotten to drink it. Ah well, the kettle could soon be boiling again. I might turn the page in my book. And draw. Sweet dreams.