May 16, 2024 • 37 mins
Our story tonight is called "Petrichor," and it’s a story about things getting greener as the spring rain falls. It’s also about a record player with a favorite album on the turntable, deer dozing in the grass and making a habit out of enjoying yourself.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
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 Catherine Nikolay.
I read and write all the stories you hear on
(00:25):
Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Today
marks six years of telling you bedtime stories, which has
become the most exciting gentle adventure of my life. And
(00:48):
it seems fitting that today I can share something I've
been working on for quite a while, something created just
for you, bring a piece of the village into your
homes and to guide you into healthy wind down routines
that will feel so good. This month, we are releasing
(01:14):
but Nothing Much Happens wind Down Box, a wellness box
of hand selected products that I personally use and that
I love, along with a few exclusive stories to round
out your cozy routines. Each box features products specially selected
(01:39):
for your relaxation, from Everescio Wellness's Chill Now, a high
potency organic certified Raschi mushroom extract to nutri Champs tart
cherry gummies great for sleep and reducing inflammation, and they
taste great. There's a lavender candle to mark your moment
(02:04):
of calm from our favorite small batch candle maker's Vella box.
A meditative activity for you by way of a Brighter
Year's mini coloring book, a fantastic way to disconnect from
your screen and tap into your creative self before bed.
(02:29):
Then more mushrooms, this time in chocolate specially formulated for sleep,
from the lovely team behind Alice Mushrooms. And some delicious
essential oils to rub on your wrists and neck from
our friends at Woolsey's. And of course some melotonin for
(02:49):
those who need an extra helping hand to rest by
way of new strips. Place it on your tongue and
it dissolves in seconds. Like everything in this village, we
took our time to create this for you. It's such
a pleasure to be able to help so many of you,
(03:13):
to tuck you in at night and to keep watched
till the morning. And I'm excited to help create comfort
in new ways with our first ever wind down box.
Head over to Nothing Much Happens dot Com for more information.
(03:34):
I have a tried and true method for quieting down
your brain and easing you into sleep. I'll tell you
a bedtime story. It's simple and soothing and I'll tell
it twice, going a little slower on the second read through.
(03:56):
All you have to do is listen, let your mind
follow along with the shape of the story and the
sound of my voice, and before you know it, you'll
be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and ready for another day.
(04:18):
If you wake in the middle of the night, you
could always listen again, or just think back through any
bits of the story that you can remember. Over time,
you will create a go to response that will make
falling asleep and returning to sleep easier and easier. Our
(04:42):
story to night is called Petrokore, and it's a story
about things getting greener as the spring rain falls. It's
also about a record player with a favorite album on
the turn table, deer dozing in the grass, and making
(05:06):
a habit of enjoying yourself. Now turn everything off, slide
down into your sheets, and get your favorite pillow in
just the right spot. The day is over. I'll be
(05:32):
here watching over with my voice, so you can really
let go. Take a slow, deep breath in through your
nose and out through your mouth. Nice, do that one
(05:58):
more time. Breathe in and out. Good Petrocore from the
window in the highest room of my house, I could
(06:21):
look down into the gully where the river was running
fast and high. It always did at this time of year.
The snow and ice melting in rivers far north of
(06:42):
here fed it, and often it overflowed its banks and
made a little pond around the roots of the maple
and elm trees, where migrating ducks stopped for a flow.
(07:03):
I could just see them if I squinted, and I
imagined their feet kicking through the cold water as they
groomed their feathers with their beaks. It was raining, and
it had been for a day or two, and even
(07:28):
in the dim light, you could see the landscape changing
almost by the hour. Everything was turning green. There were
daffodils and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees,
(07:51):
and there was sort of an emerald sheen, like a
color filter on a photograph. Wherever you looked, it was
buds and branches and the first blades of grass. There
was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail
(08:17):
barely a foot wide, where generations of bucks and does
and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place
to another. I often saw a wrangle of doze clustered
(08:38):
on a dry patch. In the afternoons, Some would sleep,
while others ate lazily or just rested and gazed into
the distance. I called them my ladies who lunch, and
(09:01):
looked out for them every day, and felt sort of
honored that they came to my yard, for there are
in are. There was rain, but no wind, which meant
that the drops were falling straight down, and I eased
(09:23):
the old window open a few inches. The air that
rolled in was cool, but brought with it the pure
sweet smell of spring rain. Gosh, there really is nothing
(09:47):
like that smell after the winter, all those frozen still days,
then the melt and days of drying winds and warmer air,
and then this rain. It was like a perfectly formulated
(10:14):
recipe to evoke the most pleasing scent. And I liked
thinking that my ancestors would have smelled the same thing
after their own long winters. Some things are universal, some
(10:37):
things you can count on, and this was one of them.
I stepped back from the window and looked around the room.
It was only early afternoon, but the room was full
(10:59):
of shadows. I had a row of candles on a desk,
and I struck a match and lit them one by
one and set them around the room till the space
(11:19):
felt cozy and welcoming. I had a little warm light,
the scent of petrocore of rain after dry weather. Now
I needed music. I flipped through the records on my shelf.
(11:46):
I'd had the same album on my turn table for
the last two weeks, summer time music that felt like
driving around with your windows down and long evenings where
the sun didn't set till very late. It had been
(12:09):
perfect while everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers.
But now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious,
maybe a little soulful. I reached for the albums that
(12:33):
my folks listened to when I was a kid, singer
songwriters whose music I had heard on car trips to
the cottage and that had played in the kitchen while
dinner was cooked. I tipped one of the records out
(12:54):
of its sleeve and carefully caught it by its edges.
I set it on the turntable and turned it on.
I remember as a kid when we'd upgraded our stereo
(13:16):
and suddenly had a record player that, at the flick
of a switch would lift the arm and set the
needle on the record. We'd all watched it in action
the first time. Wowed by such automaticity. I must have
(13:41):
reached more than once to help it into place, probably
wanting to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how
it worked, because I'd been told to keep my hands
to myself enough times, but even now I had an
(14:08):
impulse to put them in my pockets and step back.
I smiled at the urge as the first guitar chords
played from the speakers. I hummed along, sometimes slipping into
(14:28):
song with the woman on the record. I knew all
the words. Now I had music to go along with
the scent of spring rain, the glow of the candles.
What else could make this moment really enjoyable? It was
(14:55):
something I was practicing lately, reminding myself that I was
meant to enjoy my life. I'd been quite good for
many years at making other people comfortable, helping others to
(15:18):
enjoy when there was nothing wrong with that. To see
my loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made,
or feeling at home in the space I created. It
was all its own kind of satisfaction. But I'd forgotten
(15:44):
about me along the way, and now I was in
the business of reminding myself daily to make a priority
of the things I enjoyed. So I stood a minute
(16:06):
in my little room at the top of the house
and closed my eyes and sort of scanned through my body,
looking for an answer as to what I wanted next.
(16:26):
What would feel good? Was it a snack, a nap
to get out my drawing pencils. I remembered turning the
last page of a book the night before, closing it
(16:49):
with a sigh, and sliding it onto my bedside table,
wondering which of the books from my to be read
stack would come next. So that's what I wanted, to
start a new book, to get lost in a new story.
(17:18):
I went over to my bookshelves and squatted down to
look at the spines in my stack. I was frugal
about some things, but not books. I bought them generously,
shared them, gifted them, borrowed them, kept them too long
(17:44):
without any guilt. I like to know as little about
a book as possible before I started it. I didn't
want to know any of the twists or turn turns
until I was actually taking them, so I relied on
(18:07):
my bookseller my librarian and friends. If one of them
said I think you would like I cut them off
right there. I just said yes please. It rarely failed me.
(18:30):
So as I picked up each book and turned it
over in my hands, I was going on instinct, reacting
to the title, to the cover art, the font, and
the way that it felt. There was one with a
(18:54):
cover the color of poppies, title that sounded like an
I had always known but just never actually heard, and
the solid weight of many hours of reading in it.
(19:14):
I carried it to the chaise long by the window
and climbed in. The room was a little cool with
the fresh air coming in, so I tossed a throw
over my legs and settled back as comfortable and happy
(19:38):
as I could be. I took a slow breath and
let it out, and started with chapter one Petrokore. From
(20:00):
the window in the highest room of my house, I
could look down into the gully where the river was
running fast and high. It always did at this time
(20:22):
of year. The snow an ice melting in rivers far
north of here fed it when often it overflowed its
banks and made a little pond around the roots of
(20:46):
the maple and elm trees where migrating ducks stopped for afloat.
I could just see them if I squinted, when I
(21:07):
imagined their feet kicking through the cold water as they
groomed their feathers with their beaks. It was raining, and
it had been for a day or two, and even
(21:32):
in the dim light, you could see the landscape changing
almost by the hour. Everything was turning green. There were
(21:53):
daffodils and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees
when there was a sort of emerald sheen, like a
color filter on a photograph. Wherever you looked, it was
(22:18):
buds and branches on the first blades of grass. There
was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail
barely a foot wide, where generations of bucks and does
(22:45):
and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place
to another. I often saw a wrangle of dough clustered
on a dry patch in the afternoon. Some would sleep,
(23:12):
while others ate lazily or just rested gazed into the distance.
I called them my ladies who lunch and looked out
for them every day, and felt sort of honored that
(23:39):
they came to my yard, For there are and r
there was rain, but no wind, which meant the drops
were falling straight down, and I eased the old window
(24:02):
up a few inches. The air that rolled in was cool,
but brought with it the pure sweet smell of spring rain. Gosh,
(24:26):
there really is nothing like that smell after the winter,
all those frozen still days. Then the melt and a
(24:48):
few days of drying winds and warmer air, and then
the rain. It was like a perfectly formulated recipe to
evoke the most pleasing scent. And I liked thinking that
(25:16):
my ancestors would have smelled the same thing after their
own long winters. Some things are universal, some things you
(25:38):
can count on, and this was one of them. I
stepped back from the window and looked round the room.
It was only early afternoon, but the room was full
(26:02):
of shadows. I had a row of candles on a desk,
and I struck a match and lit them one by one,
(26:22):
then set them around the room till the space felt
cozy and weelcoming. I had a little warm light, the
scent of Petrokore of rain after dry weather. Now I
(26:46):
needed music. I flipped through the records on my shelf.
I'd had the same album on my turntable for the
last two weeks. Summertime music that felt like driving around
(27:15):
with your windows down, and long evenings where the sun
didn't set till very late. That had been perfect while
everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers. But
(27:42):
now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious, maybe
a little soulful. I reached for the Elbow that my
folks listened to when I was a kid, singer songwriters
(28:10):
whose music I had heard on car trips to the
cottage and that had played in the kitchen while dinner
was cooked. I tipped one of the records out of
its sleeve and carefully caught it by its edges. I
(28:40):
set it on the turntable and turned it on. I
remember as a kid when we'd upgraded our stereo and
suddenly had a record player that, at the flick of
(29:03):
a switch would lift the arm and set the needle
on the record. We'd all watched it in action the
first time, Wowed by such automaticity. I must have reached
(29:31):
more than once to help it into place, probably wanting
to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how it
worked because I'd been told to keep my hands to
myself enough times that even now I had an impulse
(29:58):
to put them in my pocket and step back. I
smiled at the urge. As the first guitar chords played
from the speakers. I hummed along, sometimes slipping into song
(30:22):
with a woman on the record. I knew all the words.
Now I had music to go along with the scent
of the spring rain, the glow of the candles. What
(30:45):
else could make this moment really enjoyable? It was something
I was practicing lately, reminding myself that I was meant
to enjoy my life. I'd been quite good for many
(31:14):
years at making other people comfortable, helping others to enjoy,
and there was nothing wrong with that. To see my
loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made,
(31:38):
or feeling at home and the space I created, it
was its own kind of satisfaction. But I'd forgotten about
me along the way. I was in the business of
(32:04):
reminding myself daily to make a priority of the things
I enjoyed. So I stood a minute in my little
room at the top of the house and closed my
(32:28):
eyes and sort of scanned through my body, looking for
an answer as to what I wanted next. What would
(32:48):
feel good. Was it a snack a nap to get
out my drawing pencils. I remembered turning the last page
(33:09):
of a book the night before, closing it with a sigh,
and sliding it onto my bedside table, wondering which of
the books from my to be read stack would come next.
(33:37):
So that's what I wanted to start, a new book,
to get lost in a new story. I went over
to my bookshelves and squatted down to look at the
(33:58):
spines in my stack. I was frugal about some things,
but not books. I bought them, generously, shared them, gifted them,
(34:19):
borrowed them, kept them too long without any guilt. I
like to know as little about a book as possible
before I started it. I didn't want to know any
(34:40):
of the twists or turns until I was actually taking.
Speaker 2 (34:46):
Them, so I relied on my bookseller, my librarian, and friends.
Speaker 1 (35:00):
If one of them said I think you would like
I cut them off right there and just said yes please.
It rarely failed me. So as I picked up each
(35:23):
book and turned it over in my hands, I was
going on instinct, reacting to the title, to the cover art,
the font, and the way that it felt. There was
(35:51):
one with a cover the color of poppies, a title
that sounded like an idiot I had always known but
just never actually heard, and the solid weight of many
(36:11):
hours of reading in it. I carried it to the
chaise long by the window and climbed in. The room
was a little cool with the fresh air coming in,
(36:36):
so I tossed a throw over my legs and settled
back as comfortable and happy as I could be. I
took a slow breath and let it out, and started
(37:00):
with chapter one, Sweet Dreams.
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens,
you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
I read and write all the stories you hear on
(00:25):
Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Today
marks six years of telling you bedtime stories, which has
become the most exciting gentle adventure of my life. And
(00:48):
it seems fitting that today I can share something I've
been working on for quite a while, something created just
for you, bring a piece of the village into your
homes and to guide you into healthy wind down routines
that will feel so good. This month, we are releasing
(01:14):
but Nothing Much Happens wind Down Box, a wellness box
of hand selected products that I personally use and that
I love, along with a few exclusive stories to round
out your cozy routines. Each box features products specially selected
(01:39):
for your relaxation, from Everescio Wellness's Chill Now, a high
potency organic certified Raschi mushroom extract to nutri Champs tart
cherry gummies great for sleep and reducing inflammation, and they
taste great. There's a lavender candle to mark your moment
(02:04):
of calm from our favorite small batch candle maker's Vella box.
A meditative activity for you by way of a Brighter
Year's mini coloring book, a fantastic way to disconnect from
your screen and tap into your creative self before bed.
(02:29):
Then more mushrooms, this time in chocolate specially formulated for sleep,
from the lovely team behind Alice Mushrooms. And some delicious
essential oils to rub on your wrists and neck from
our friends at Woolsey's. And of course some melotonin for
(02:49):
those who need an extra helping hand to rest by
way of new strips. Place it on your tongue and
it dissolves in seconds. Like everything in this village, we
took our time to create this for you. It's such
a pleasure to be able to help so many of you,
(03:13):
to tuck you in at night and to keep watched
till the morning. And I'm excited to help create comfort
in new ways with our first ever wind down box.
Head over to Nothing Much Happens dot Com for more information.
(03:34):
I have a tried and true method for quieting down
your brain and easing you into sleep. I'll tell you
a bedtime story. It's simple and soothing and I'll tell
it twice, going a little slower on the second read through.
(03:56):
All you have to do is listen, let your mind
follow along with the shape of the story and the
sound of my voice, and before you know it, you'll
be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and ready for another day.
(04:18):
If you wake in the middle of the night, you
could always listen again, or just think back through any
bits of the story that you can remember. Over time,
you will create a go to response that will make
falling asleep and returning to sleep easier and easier. Our
(04:42):
story to night is called Petrokore, and it's a story
about things getting greener as the spring rain falls. It's
also about a record player with a favorite album on
the turn table, deer dozing in the grass, and making
(05:06):
a habit of enjoying yourself. Now turn everything off, slide
down into your sheets, and get your favorite pillow in
just the right spot. The day is over. I'll be
(05:32):
here watching over with my voice, so you can really
let go. Take a slow, deep breath in through your
nose and out through your mouth. Nice, do that one
(05:58):
more time. Breathe in and out. Good Petrocore from the
window in the highest room of my house, I could
(06:21):
look down into the gully where the river was running
fast and high. It always did at this time of year.
The snow and ice melting in rivers far north of
(06:42):
here fed it, and often it overflowed its banks and
made a little pond around the roots of the maple
and elm trees, where migrating ducks stopped for a flow.
(07:03):
I could just see them if I squinted, and I
imagined their feet kicking through the cold water as they
groomed their feathers with their beaks. It was raining, and
it had been for a day or two, and even
(07:28):
in the dim light, you could see the landscape changing
almost by the hour. Everything was turning green. There were
daffodils and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees,
(07:51):
and there was sort of an emerald sheen, like a
color filter on a photograph. Wherever you looked, it was
buds and branches and the first blades of grass. There
was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail
(08:17):
barely a foot wide, where generations of bucks and does
and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place
to another. I often saw a wrangle of doze clustered
(08:38):
on a dry patch. In the afternoons, Some would sleep,
while others ate lazily or just rested and gazed into
the distance. I called them my ladies who lunch, and
(09:01):
looked out for them every day, and felt sort of
honored that they came to my yard, for there are
in are. There was rain, but no wind, which meant
that the drops were falling straight down, and I eased
(09:23):
the old window open a few inches. The air that
rolled in was cool, but brought with it the pure
sweet smell of spring rain. Gosh, there really is nothing
(09:47):
like that smell after the winter, all those frozen still days,
then the melt and days of drying winds and warmer air,
and then this rain. It was like a perfectly formulated
(10:14):
recipe to evoke the most pleasing scent. And I liked
thinking that my ancestors would have smelled the same thing
after their own long winters. Some things are universal, some
(10:37):
things you can count on, and this was one of them.
I stepped back from the window and looked around the room.
It was only early afternoon, but the room was full
(10:59):
of shadows. I had a row of candles on a desk,
and I struck a match and lit them one by
one and set them around the room till the space
(11:19):
felt cozy and welcoming. I had a little warm light,
the scent of petrocore of rain after dry weather. Now
I needed music. I flipped through the records on my shelf.
(11:46):
I'd had the same album on my turn table for
the last two weeks, summer time music that felt like
driving around with your windows down and long evenings where
the sun didn't set till very late. It had been
(12:09):
perfect while everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers.
But now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious,
maybe a little soulful. I reached for the albums that
(12:33):
my folks listened to when I was a kid, singer
songwriters whose music I had heard on car trips to
the cottage and that had played in the kitchen while
dinner was cooked. I tipped one of the records out
(12:54):
of its sleeve and carefully caught it by its edges.
I set it on the turntable and turned it on.
I remember as a kid when we'd upgraded our stereo
(13:16):
and suddenly had a record player that, at the flick
of a switch would lift the arm and set the
needle on the record. We'd all watched it in action
the first time. Wowed by such automaticity. I must have
(13:41):
reached more than once to help it into place, probably
wanting to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how
it worked, because I'd been told to keep my hands
to myself enough times, but even now I had an
(14:08):
impulse to put them in my pockets and step back.
I smiled at the urge as the first guitar chords
played from the speakers. I hummed along, sometimes slipping into
(14:28):
song with the woman on the record. I knew all
the words. Now I had music to go along with
the scent of spring rain, the glow of the candles.
What else could make this moment really enjoyable? It was
(14:55):
something I was practicing lately, reminding myself that I was
meant to enjoy my life. I'd been quite good for
many years at making other people comfortable, helping others to
(15:18):
enjoy when there was nothing wrong with that. To see
my loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made,
or feeling at home in the space I created. It
was all its own kind of satisfaction. But I'd forgotten
(15:44):
about me along the way, and now I was in
the business of reminding myself daily to make a priority
of the things I enjoyed. So I stood a minute
(16:06):
in my little room at the top of the house
and closed my eyes and sort of scanned through my body,
looking for an answer as to what I wanted next.
(16:26):
What would feel good? Was it a snack, a nap
to get out my drawing pencils. I remembered turning the
last page of a book the night before, closing it
(16:49):
with a sigh, and sliding it onto my bedside table,
wondering which of the books from my to be read
stack would come next. So that's what I wanted, to
start a new book, to get lost in a new story.
(17:18):
I went over to my bookshelves and squatted down to
look at the spines in my stack. I was frugal
about some things, but not books. I bought them generously,
shared them, gifted them, borrowed them, kept them too long
(17:44):
without any guilt. I like to know as little about
a book as possible before I started it. I didn't
want to know any of the twists or turn turns
until I was actually taking them, so I relied on
(18:07):
my bookseller my librarian and friends. If one of them
said I think you would like I cut them off
right there. I just said yes please. It rarely failed me.
(18:30):
So as I picked up each book and turned it
over in my hands, I was going on instinct, reacting
to the title, to the cover art, the font, and
the way that it felt. There was one with a
(18:54):
cover the color of poppies, title that sounded like an
I had always known but just never actually heard, and
the solid weight of many hours of reading in it.
(19:14):
I carried it to the chaise long by the window
and climbed in. The room was a little cool with
the fresh air coming in, so I tossed a throw
over my legs and settled back as comfortable and happy
(19:38):
as I could be. I took a slow breath and
let it out, and started with chapter one Petrokore. From
(20:00):
the window in the highest room of my house, I
could look down into the gully where the river was
running fast and high. It always did at this time
(20:22):
of year. The snow an ice melting in rivers far
north of here fed it when often it overflowed its
banks and made a little pond around the roots of
(20:46):
the maple and elm trees where migrating ducks stopped for afloat.
I could just see them if I squinted, when I
(21:07):
imagined their feet kicking through the cold water as they
groomed their feathers with their beaks. It was raining, and
it had been for a day or two, and even
(21:32):
in the dim light, you could see the landscape changing
almost by the hour. Everything was turning green. There were
(21:53):
daffodils and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees
when there was a sort of emerald sheen, like a
color filter on a photograph. Wherever you looked, it was
(22:18):
buds and branches on the first blades of grass. There
was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail
barely a foot wide, where generations of bucks and does
(22:45):
and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place
to another. I often saw a wrangle of dough clustered
on a dry patch in the afternoon. Some would sleep,
(23:12):
while others ate lazily or just rested gazed into the distance.
I called them my ladies who lunch and looked out
for them every day, and felt sort of honored that
(23:39):
they came to my yard, For there are and r
there was rain, but no wind, which meant the drops
were falling straight down, and I eased the old window
(24:02):
up a few inches. The air that rolled in was cool,
but brought with it the pure sweet smell of spring rain. Gosh,
(24:26):
there really is nothing like that smell after the winter,
all those frozen still days. Then the melt and a
(24:48):
few days of drying winds and warmer air, and then
the rain. It was like a perfectly formulated recipe to
evoke the most pleasing scent. And I liked thinking that
(25:16):
my ancestors would have smelled the same thing after their
own long winters. Some things are universal, some things you
(25:38):
can count on, and this was one of them. I
stepped back from the window and looked round the room.
It was only early afternoon, but the room was full
(26:02):
of shadows. I had a row of candles on a desk,
and I struck a match and lit them one by one,
(26:22):
then set them around the room till the space felt
cozy and weelcoming. I had a little warm light, the
scent of Petrokore of rain after dry weather. Now I
(26:46):
needed music. I flipped through the records on my shelf.
I'd had the same album on my turntable for the
last two weeks. Summertime music that felt like driving around
(27:15):
with your windows down, and long evenings where the sun
didn't set till very late. That had been perfect while
everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers. But
(27:42):
now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious, maybe
a little soulful. I reached for the Elbow that my
folks listened to when I was a kid, singer songwriters
(28:10):
whose music I had heard on car trips to the
cottage and that had played in the kitchen while dinner
was cooked. I tipped one of the records out of
its sleeve and carefully caught it by its edges. I
(28:40):
set it on the turntable and turned it on. I
remember as a kid when we'd upgraded our stereo and
suddenly had a record player that, at the flick of
(29:03):
a switch would lift the arm and set the needle
on the record. We'd all watched it in action the
first time, Wowed by such automaticity. I must have reached
(29:31):
more than once to help it into place, probably wanting
to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how it
worked because I'd been told to keep my hands to
myself enough times that even now I had an impulse
(29:58):
to put them in my pocket and step back. I
smiled at the urge. As the first guitar chords played
from the speakers. I hummed along, sometimes slipping into song
(30:22):
with a woman on the record. I knew all the words.
Now I had music to go along with the scent
of the spring rain, the glow of the candles. What
(30:45):
else could make this moment really enjoyable? It was something
I was practicing lately, reminding myself that I was meant
to enjoy my life. I'd been quite good for many
(31:14):
years at making other people comfortable, helping others to enjoy,
and there was nothing wrong with that. To see my
loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made,
(31:38):
or feeling at home and the space I created, it
was its own kind of satisfaction. But I'd forgotten about
me along the way. I was in the business of
(32:04):
reminding myself daily to make a priority of the things
I enjoyed. So I stood a minute in my little
room at the top of the house and closed my
(32:28):
eyes and sort of scanned through my body, looking for
an answer as to what I wanted next. What would
(32:48):
feel good. Was it a snack a nap to get
out my drawing pencils. I remembered turning the last page
(33:09):
of a book the night before, closing it with a sigh,
and sliding it onto my bedside table, wondering which of
the books from my to be read stack would come next.
(33:37):
So that's what I wanted to start, a new book,
to get lost in a new story. I went over
to my bookshelves and squatted down to look at the
(33:58):
spines in my stack. I was frugal about some things,
but not books. I bought them, generously, shared them, gifted them,
(34:19):
borrowed them, kept them too long without any guilt. I
like to know as little about a book as possible
before I started it. I didn't want to know any
(34:40):
of the twists or turns until I was actually taking.
Speaker 2 (34:46):
Them, so I relied on my bookseller, my librarian, and friends.
Speaker 1 (35:00):
If one of them said I think you would like
I cut them off right there and just said yes please.
It rarely failed me. So as I picked up each
(35:23):
book and turned it over in my hands, I was
going on instinct, reacting to the title, to the cover art,
the font, and the way that it felt. There was
(35:51):
one with a cover the color of poppies, a title
that sounded like an idiot I had always known but
just never actually heard, and the solid weight of many
(36:11):
hours of reading in it. I carried it to the
chaise long by the window and climbed in. The room
was a little cool with the fresh air coming in,
(36:36):
so I tossed a throw over my legs and settled
back as comfortable and happy as I could be. I
took a slow breath and let it out, and started
(37:00):
with chapter one, Sweet Dreams.
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