April 1, 2024 • 29 mins
Our story tonight is called Sunrise at the Cabin, and it’s a story about welcoming the coming day with a friend at your side. It’s also about dry leaves left over from Autumn crunching under your feet, the beauty of imperfect things, changing light, a coffee cup steaming in the morning air, and the gift of an early start.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Meals on Wheels. Meals on Wheels works to support our senior neighbors and extend their independence and health as they age.
Subscribe for ad-free, bonus, and extra-long episodes now, as well as ad-free and early episodes of Stories from the Village of Nothing Much! Search for NMH Premium channel on Apple Podcasts.
Listen to our new show, Stories from the Village of Nothing Much, on your favorite podcast app.
Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-Happens
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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Transcript
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
(00:24):
nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Witttersheim. We
give to a different charity each week, and this week
we are giving to Meals on Wheels, who work to
support our senior neighbors to extend their independence and health
(00:45):
as they age. Learn more about them in our show notes.
I want to thank some recent subscribers to our premium feed.
So thank you, Emma Rose, Thank you, Jonathan, Thank you,
Pip Natasha, thank you. You are helping us to continue
(01:09):
to provide this service that so many depend on. A
premium subscription works out to just ten cents a day
and gives you over thirty five bonus episodes, with more
publishing each month and completely add free listening. You can
(01:31):
subscribe through the link in our show notes or by
searching an MH premium on Apple podcasts now. Especially if
you are new here and if you are welcome, We're
so glad you're here. Let me say a little bit
(01:52):
about how this works. Your mind needs just the right
amount and type of engagement to make falling asleep easier.
And after six years, yeah, I've kind of cracked the code.
(02:15):
I'll tell you a soft, soothing bedtime story. It's short
on plot but full of relaxing details. All you have
to do is listen and we'll guide your brain to
reliable sleep. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go
(02:39):
a little slower the second time through. If you wake
later in the night, you can just start the story
over again, or think through any part of it that
you can remember. This is brain training, so give it
some time for it to really become ingrained. Our story
(03:04):
tonight is called Sunrise at the Cabin, and it's a
story about welcoming the coming day with a friend at
your side. It's also about dry leaves left over from
autumn crunching under your feet, the beauty of imperfect things,
(03:29):
changing light, a coffee cup steaming in the morning air,
and the gift of an early start. Now lights out,
my DearS, arrange your pillows and blankets so that you
(03:51):
are as comfortable and comforted as possible. Let your whole
body soften, jaw, shoulders, the muscles around your eyes. Everything
goes heavy into the sheets. You are exactly where you're
(04:19):
supposed to be right now, Nothing is needed from you.
Draw a deep breath in through the nose and sigh
from your mouth. One more breathe in and out. Good
(04:54):
sunrise at the cabin. I'm not sure how it started.
I've never been an early riser, nor am I a
night owl. I like to go to bed early and
(05:14):
stay tucked in till late. But recently I've been waking
up before the sun rested and ready wanting to get
up and get going. At first I resisted, flipped my
(05:36):
pillow to the cool side and tried to slip back
into a dream, or propped myself up and read my book,
hoping my eyes would grow heavy again. Then I realized
(05:58):
that whatever the cause of this resetting of my internal clock,
I could take advantage of it, enjoy it rather than
try to wind the hands back. And since then I've
(06:21):
become a sunrise enthusiast, watching it from different locations and
with a growing appreciation for the quiet optimism it inspired
in me. To day was no different. I woke with
(06:45):
no alarm, just a feeling of being replete, done with
sleep and bed, and crept quietly around in the darkness
so as not to wake the household. I put on
(07:06):
thick socks, swapped my thin pajamas for warm sweats, and
felt around on the bedside table till I found my glasses.
I kept to the edges of the stairs to minimize
(07:26):
squeaking as I came down into the kitchen and patted
over to the coffee maker. As I ran water in
the sink and rinsed the caraffe, I peered out into
the yard. Our cabin is set at the edge of
(07:49):
a valley, land dropping away in front of us, then
rising up and up on the other side, more than
a hill, but not quite a mountain. There are a
scattering of houses on the winding roads, and a few
(08:15):
had lit windows glowing in the early morning. I wondered
if they too were spooning grounds into their coffee filters,
smelling the scent of the brew. When the pot was
half full, I poured some into my favorite mug and
(08:39):
pulled my hood up over my head. I stepped into
my garden clogs and slid the door to the deck open.
It was cool, still early in the spring, but not cold,
(09:02):
and as I stepped out and was about to close
the door behind me. I heard the jingle of my
dog's collar. I waited a moment as he came sleepily
down the stairs and outside with me. He stopped to
(09:24):
lean against my leg and let me rub his head,
then ran out ahead of me. We tromped across the yard,
the first birds of the morning clearing their throats in
the nests above us and singing. At the far edge
(09:47):
of the yard, just before the drop off, we had
a fire pit ringed with ad arondack chairs, and I
brushed a few dried leaves from the seat of one
and sat down. My dog brought me a stick he'd
(10:08):
found and wagged his tail in the low light, waiting
for me to toss it. I threw it back toward
the house and heard his paws thudding into the soft
ground as he chased after it. I sighed and leaned
(10:31):
back in my chair, bringing the cup close to my
face and watching the steam left into the air. The
light was changing around me, so subtle that it was
difficult to notice unless I paid close attention. And I
(10:57):
paid close attention. I noticed that I could see the
outline of tree trunks and a few of the bigger branches,
though their tops were lost in the darkness. My dog returned,
(11:19):
laid down beside the chair and catching the stick between
his paws, gnawed at it As I waited for the
sun to rise. It would come up nearly in the
center of the valley, not exactly the center, a little
(11:43):
to one side, and I liked that lopsided, imperfect things
felt lived in and less fragile than the ones that
lined up just perfectly. The horizon was glowing brighter, and
(12:06):
the sky above it more blue. My senses were wide awake,
taking in all that they could. Then it made me
feel calm and content. I'd heard someone once ask why
(12:30):
being present was such a big deal, Why work at it?
The answer they'd gotten was simple, and it rained true
to me since I'd taken up watching sunrises. When our
(12:50):
minds and bodies are in the same place, we feel better,
We act more reasonably, We make more sense. This morning ritual,
the dog chewing his stick beside me, the changing lines
(13:13):
of light and color, the taste of my coffee. It
made sense, helped me make sense of myself and my day. Finally,
the sun crested over the land in the distance, and
(13:35):
instantly I smiled. If every stitch of land all over
the world has its own special moment. Each day is
singled out to be seen and honored. This was ours.
(13:58):
I set my cup on the arm of my chair,
stood and walked closer to the drop off, looking down
into the valley that was filling up with bright light.
The houses on the hill, whose windows were lit while
(14:19):
my coffee had been brewing, now just reflected sun. I
turned my face to it, let it shine through my
closed lids and revive me. After a few minutes, again
(14:42):
feeling replete, I turned and whistled for my dog, and
he came ambling over, his stick, a bit smaller but
still in his mouth. I tossed it for him again,
(15:06):
and bent to gather up a few more broken branches
and dried out seed pods. Today would be a good
day to clear the yard of fallen kindling and brush
and pile it high in the fire pit for tonight.
(15:29):
The days were getting longer and warmer now that we
were past the equinox, and I liked to be outside
for as much of it as possible. Just as I
was dropping the wood into the pit and thinking that
(15:52):
a second cup of coffee would hit the spot, I
heard the windows above the sink creek open and a
voice call out, breakfast is ready coming. I called back,
and we turned back to the house. Sunrise at the cabin.
(16:24):
I'm not sure how it started. I've never been an
early riser, nor am I a night owl. I like
to go to bed early and stay tucked in till late.
But recently I've been waking up before the sun rested
(16:50):
and ready wanting to get up and get going. At
first I resisted, flipped my pillow to the cool side
and tried to slip back into a dream, or propped
(17:13):
myself up and read my book, hoping my eyes would
grow heavy again. Then I realized that whatever the cause
of this resetting of my internal clock, I could take
(17:35):
advantage of it, enjoy it rather than try to wind
the hands back. And since then I've become a sunrise enthusiast,
watching it from different locations and with a growing a
(17:59):
pretiation for the quiet optimism it inspired in me. Today
was no different. I woke with no alarm, just a
feeling of being replete, done with sleep and bed, and
(18:24):
crept quietly around in the darkness so as not to
wake the household. I put on thick socks, swapped my
thin pajamas for warm sweats, and felt around on the
bedside table till I found my glasses. I kept to
(18:51):
the edges of the stairs to minimize squeaking as I
came down into the kitchen, then padded over to the
coffee maker. I ran water in the sink and rinsed
the caraffe. I peered out into the yard. Our cabin
(19:21):
is set at the edge of a valley, land dropping
away in front of us, then rising up and up
on the other side, more than a hill, but not
quite a mountain. There are a scattering of houses on
(19:48):
the winding roads, and a few had lit windows glowing
in the early morning. I wondered if they too were
spooning grounds into their coffee filters, smelling the scent of
(20:09):
the brew. When the pot was half full, I poured
some into my favorite mog and pulled my hood up
over my head. I stepped into my garden clogs and
(20:32):
slid the door to the deck open. It was cool,
still early in the spring, but not cold, and as
I stepped out and was about to close the door
behind me, I heard the jingle of my dog's collar.
(21:01):
I waited a moment as he came sleepily down the
stairs and outside with me. He stopped to lean against
my leg let me rub his head, then ran out
ahead of me. We tromped across the yard, the first
(21:29):
birds of the morning clearing their throats and their nests
above us and singing. At the far edge of the yard,
just before the drop off, we had a fire pit
(21:52):
ringed with Adirondack chairs, and I brushed a few dried
leaves from the seat of one and sat down. My
dog brought me a stick he'd found and wagged his
tail in the low light, waiting for me to toss it.
(22:18):
I threw it back toward the house and heard his
paws thudding into the soft ground as he chased it.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair, bringing the
cup close to my face and watching the steam lift
(22:44):
into the air. The light was changing around me, so
subtle that it was difficult to notice unless I paid
close attention. I paid close attention. I noticed that I
(23:09):
could see the outline of tree trunks and a few
of the bigger branches, though their tops were still lost
in the darkness. My dog returned, laid down beside the
(23:29):
chair and catching the stick between his paws. Gnawed at
it as I waited for the sun to rise. It
would come up nearly in the center of the valley,
(23:50):
not exactly the center, a little to one side, and
I liked that sided imperfect things felt lived in and
less fragile than the ones that lined up just perfectly.
(24:14):
The horizon was glowing brighter, and the sky above it
more blue. My senses were wide awake, taking in all
that they could, and it made me feel calm and content.
(24:39):
I'd heard someone ask once why being present was such
a big deal, Why work at it? The answer they'd
gotten was simple and rain true to me, since I'd
(25:01):
taken up watching sunrises. When our minds and bodies are
in the same place, we feel better, We act more reasonably,
We make more sense. This morning ritual, the dog chewing
(25:29):
his stick beside me, the changing lines of light and color,
the taste of my coffee. It made sense, helped me
make sense of myself and my day. Finally, the sun
(25:51):
crested over the land in the distance, and instantly I smiled.
If every stitch of land all over the world has
its own special moment each day, to be singled out,
to be seen and honored, this was ours. I set
(26:18):
my cup on the arm of my chair and walked
closer to the drop off, looking down into the valley
that was filling up with bright light. The houses on
the hill, whose windows were lit when my coffee had
(26:43):
been brewing, now a just reflected sun. I turned my
face to it, let it shine through my closed lids,
revive me. After a few minutes, again feeling replete, I
(27:13):
turned and whistled for my dog, and he came ambling over,
his stick, a bit smaller but still in his mouth.
I tossed it for him again and bent to gather
(27:33):
up a few more broken branches and dried out seed pods.
TO day would be a good day to clear the
yard of fallen kindling and brush and pile it high
(27:55):
in the fire pit for to night. The days were
getting longer and warmer now that we were past the equinox,
and I liked to be outside for as much of
it as possible. Just as I was dropping the wood
(28:23):
into the pit and thinking that a second cup of
coffee would hit the spot, I heard the window above
the sink creek open and a voice call out, breakfast
is ready coming, I called back, and we turned back
(28:52):
to the house. 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
(00:24):
nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Witttersheim. We
give to a different charity each week, and this week
we are giving to Meals on Wheels, who work to
support our senior neighbors to extend their independence and health
(00:45):
as they age. Learn more about them in our show notes.
I want to thank some recent subscribers to our premium feed.
So thank you, Emma Rose, Thank you, Jonathan, Thank you,
Pip Natasha, thank you. You are helping us to continue
(01:09):
to provide this service that so many depend on. A
premium subscription works out to just ten cents a day
and gives you over thirty five bonus episodes, with more
publishing each month and completely add free listening. You can
(01:31):
subscribe through the link in our show notes or by
searching an MH premium on Apple podcasts now. Especially if
you are new here and if you are welcome, We're
so glad you're here. Let me say a little bit
(01:52):
about how this works. Your mind needs just the right
amount and type of engagement to make falling asleep easier.
And after six years, yeah, I've kind of cracked the code.
(02:15):
I'll tell you a soft, soothing bedtime story. It's short
on plot but full of relaxing details. All you have
to do is listen and we'll guide your brain to
reliable sleep. I'll tell the story twice and I'll go
(02:39):
a little slower the second time through. If you wake
later in the night, you can just start the story
over again, or think through any part of it that
you can remember. This is brain training, so give it
some time for it to really become ingrained. Our story
(03:04):
tonight is called Sunrise at the Cabin, and it's a
story about welcoming the coming day with a friend at
your side. It's also about dry leaves left over from
autumn crunching under your feet, the beauty of imperfect things,
(03:29):
changing light, a coffee cup steaming in the morning air,
and the gift of an early start. Now lights out,
my DearS, arrange your pillows and blankets so that you
(03:51):
are as comfortable and comforted as possible. Let your whole
body soften, jaw, shoulders, the muscles around your eyes. Everything
goes heavy into the sheets. You are exactly where you're
(04:19):
supposed to be right now, Nothing is needed from you.
Draw a deep breath in through the nose and sigh
from your mouth. One more breathe in and out. Good
(04:54):
sunrise at the cabin. I'm not sure how it started.
I've never been an early riser, nor am I a
night owl. I like to go to bed early and
(05:14):
stay tucked in till late. But recently I've been waking
up before the sun rested and ready wanting to get
up and get going. At first I resisted, flipped my
(05:36):
pillow to the cool side and tried to slip back
into a dream, or propped myself up and read my book,
hoping my eyes would grow heavy again. Then I realized
(05:58):
that whatever the cause of this resetting of my internal clock,
I could take advantage of it, enjoy it rather than
try to wind the hands back. And since then I've
(06:21):
become a sunrise enthusiast, watching it from different locations and
with a growing appreciation for the quiet optimism it inspired
in me. To day was no different. I woke with
(06:45):
no alarm, just a feeling of being replete, done with
sleep and bed, and crept quietly around in the darkness
so as not to wake the household. I put on
(07:06):
thick socks, swapped my thin pajamas for warm sweats, and
felt around on the bedside table till I found my glasses.
I kept to the edges of the stairs to minimize
(07:26):
squeaking as I came down into the kitchen and patted
over to the coffee maker. As I ran water in
the sink and rinsed the caraffe, I peered out into
the yard. Our cabin is set at the edge of
(07:49):
a valley, land dropping away in front of us, then
rising up and up on the other side, more than
a hill, but not quite a mountain. There are a
scattering of houses on the winding roads, and a few
(08:15):
had lit windows glowing in the early morning. I wondered
if they too were spooning grounds into their coffee filters,
smelling the scent of the brew. When the pot was
half full, I poured some into my favorite mug and
(08:39):
pulled my hood up over my head. I stepped into
my garden clogs and slid the door to the deck open.
It was cool, still early in the spring, but not cold,
(09:02):
and as I stepped out and was about to close
the door behind me. I heard the jingle of my
dog's collar. I waited a moment as he came sleepily
down the stairs and outside with me. He stopped to
(09:24):
lean against my leg and let me rub his head,
then ran out ahead of me. We tromped across the yard,
the first birds of the morning clearing their throats in
the nests above us and singing. At the far edge
(09:47):
of the yard, just before the drop off, we had
a fire pit ringed with ad arondack chairs, and I
brushed a few dried leaves from the seat of one
and sat down. My dog brought me a stick he'd
(10:08):
found and wagged his tail in the low light, waiting
for me to toss it. I threw it back toward
the house and heard his paws thudding into the soft
ground as he chased after it. I sighed and leaned
(10:31):
back in my chair, bringing the cup close to my
face and watching the steam left into the air. The
light was changing around me, so subtle that it was
difficult to notice unless I paid close attention. And I
(10:57):
paid close attention. I noticed that I could see the
outline of tree trunks and a few of the bigger branches,
though their tops were lost in the darkness. My dog returned,
(11:19):
laid down beside the chair and catching the stick between
his paws, gnawed at it As I waited for the
sun to rise. It would come up nearly in the
center of the valley, not exactly the center, a little
(11:43):
to one side, and I liked that lopsided, imperfect things
felt lived in and less fragile than the ones that
lined up just perfectly. The horizon was glowing brighter, and
(12:06):
the sky above it more blue. My senses were wide awake,
taking in all that they could. Then it made me
feel calm and content. I'd heard someone once ask why
(12:30):
being present was such a big deal, Why work at it?
The answer they'd gotten was simple, and it rained true
to me since I'd taken up watching sunrises. When our
(12:50):
minds and bodies are in the same place, we feel better,
We act more reasonably, We make more sense. This morning ritual,
the dog chewing his stick beside me, the changing lines
(13:13):
of light and color, the taste of my coffee. It
made sense, helped me make sense of myself and my day. Finally,
the sun crested over the land in the distance, and
(13:35):
instantly I smiled. If every stitch of land all over
the world has its own special moment. Each day is
singled out to be seen and honored. This was ours.
(13:58):
I set my cup on the arm of my chair,
stood and walked closer to the drop off, looking down
into the valley that was filling up with bright light.
The houses on the hill, whose windows were lit while
(14:19):
my coffee had been brewing, now just reflected sun. I
turned my face to it, let it shine through my
closed lids and revive me. After a few minutes, again
(14:42):
feeling replete, I turned and whistled for my dog, and
he came ambling over, his stick, a bit smaller but
still in his mouth. I tossed it for him again,
(15:06):
and bent to gather up a few more broken branches
and dried out seed pods. Today would be a good
day to clear the yard of fallen kindling and brush
and pile it high in the fire pit for tonight.
(15:29):
The days were getting longer and warmer now that we
were past the equinox, and I liked to be outside
for as much of it as possible. Just as I
was dropping the wood into the pit and thinking that
(15:52):
a second cup of coffee would hit the spot, I
heard the windows above the sink creek open and a
voice call out, breakfast is ready coming. I called back,
and we turned back to the house. Sunrise at the cabin.
(16:24):
I'm not sure how it started. I've never been an
early riser, nor am I a night owl. I like
to go to bed early and stay tucked in till late.
But recently I've been waking up before the sun rested
(16:50):
and ready wanting to get up and get going. At
first I resisted, flipped my pillow to the cool side
and tried to slip back into a dream, or propped
(17:13):
myself up and read my book, hoping my eyes would
grow heavy again. Then I realized that whatever the cause
of this resetting of my internal clock, I could take
(17:35):
advantage of it, enjoy it rather than try to wind
the hands back. And since then I've become a sunrise enthusiast,
watching it from different locations and with a growing a
(17:59):
pretiation for the quiet optimism it inspired in me. Today
was no different. I woke with no alarm, just a
feeling of being replete, done with sleep and bed, and
(18:24):
crept quietly around in the darkness so as not to
wake the household. I put on thick socks, swapped my
thin pajamas for warm sweats, and felt around on the
bedside table till I found my glasses. I kept to
(18:51):
the edges of the stairs to minimize squeaking as I
came down into the kitchen, then padded over to the
coffee maker. I ran water in the sink and rinsed
the caraffe. I peered out into the yard. Our cabin
(19:21):
is set at the edge of a valley, land dropping
away in front of us, then rising up and up
on the other side, more than a hill, but not
quite a mountain. There are a scattering of houses on
(19:48):
the winding roads, and a few had lit windows glowing
in the early morning. I wondered if they too were
spooning grounds into their coffee filters, smelling the scent of
(20:09):
the brew. When the pot was half full, I poured
some into my favorite mog and pulled my hood up
over my head. I stepped into my garden clogs and
(20:32):
slid the door to the deck open. It was cool,
still early in the spring, but not cold, and as
I stepped out and was about to close the door
behind me, I heard the jingle of my dog's collar.
(21:01):
I waited a moment as he came sleepily down the
stairs and outside with me. He stopped to lean against
my leg let me rub his head, then ran out
ahead of me. We tromped across the yard, the first
(21:29):
birds of the morning clearing their throats and their nests
above us and singing. At the far edge of the yard,
just before the drop off, we had a fire pit
(21:52):
ringed with Adirondack chairs, and I brushed a few dried
leaves from the seat of one and sat down. My
dog brought me a stick he'd found and wagged his
tail in the low light, waiting for me to toss it.
(22:18):
I threw it back toward the house and heard his
paws thudding into the soft ground as he chased it.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair, bringing the
cup close to my face and watching the steam lift
(22:44):
into the air. The light was changing around me, so
subtle that it was difficult to notice unless I paid
close attention. I paid close attention. I noticed that I
(23:09):
could see the outline of tree trunks and a few
of the bigger branches, though their tops were still lost
in the darkness. My dog returned, laid down beside the
(23:29):
chair and catching the stick between his paws. Gnawed at
it as I waited for the sun to rise. It
would come up nearly in the center of the valley,
(23:50):
not exactly the center, a little to one side, and
I liked that sided imperfect things felt lived in and
less fragile than the ones that lined up just perfectly.
(24:14):
The horizon was glowing brighter, and the sky above it
more blue. My senses were wide awake, taking in all
that they could, and it made me feel calm and content.
(24:39):
I'd heard someone ask once why being present was such
a big deal, Why work at it? The answer they'd
gotten was simple and rain true to me, since I'd
(25:01):
taken up watching sunrises. When our minds and bodies are
in the same place, we feel better, We act more reasonably,
We make more sense. This morning ritual, the dog chewing
(25:29):
his stick beside me, the changing lines of light and color,
the taste of my coffee. It made sense, helped me
make sense of myself and my day. Finally, the sun
(25:51):
crested over the land in the distance, and instantly I smiled.
If every stitch of land all over the world has
its own special moment each day, to be singled out,
to be seen and honored, this was ours. I set
(26:18):
my cup on the arm of my chair and walked
closer to the drop off, looking down into the valley
that was filling up with bright light. The houses on
the hill, whose windows were lit when my coffee had
(26:43):
been brewing, now a just reflected sun. I turned my
face to it, let it shine through my closed lids,
revive me. After a few minutes, again feeling replete, I
(27:13):
turned and whistled for my dog, and he came ambling over,
his stick, a bit smaller but still in his mouth.
I tossed it for him again and bent to gather
(27:33):
up a few more broken branches and dried out seed pods.
TO day would be a good day to clear the
yard of fallen kindling and brush and pile it high
(27:55):
in the fire pit for to night. The days were
getting longer and warmer now that we were past the equinox,
and I liked to be outside for as much of
it as possible. Just as I was dropping the wood
(28:23):
into the pit and thinking that a second cup of
coffee would hit the spot, I heard the window above
the sink creek open and a voice call out, breakfast
is ready coming, I called back, and we turned back
(28:52):
to the house. Sweet dreams,
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