April 4, 2024 • 25 mins
Our story tonight is called The Front Door and the Back Door, and it’s a story about a bit of Spring Cleaning inside and outside the house. It’s also about butterflies drawn in chalk on the sidewalk, a message arriving at the just the right moment, and seedlings waiting for their chance to grow.
So get cozy and ready to sleep.
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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 grown ups, in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories
you hear on Nothing much happens with audio engineering by
(00:24):
Bob Wittersheim. Now let's get ready to sleep. I'll read
you a story. It's a place to rest your mind,
like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river.
Your mind will follow along with the moving current of
(00:46):
my voice and our story, and before you know it,
it will ease you into deep sleep. I'll read the
story twice and go a little slower on the second read.
If you wake in the night, take yourself back into
(01:07):
the story, thinking back through any bit you can remember.
This interrupts your brain's tendency to cycle through thought, and
we'll put you right back into sleep mode. It is
brain training, and it might take a bit of practice,
(01:29):
so be patient if you are new to this. Now
it's time to switch off the light. Set aside anything
you've been looking at or working on. You've looked at
a screen for the last time today, Adjust your pillows
and your comforter until you feel completely at ease. If
(01:55):
you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep. Tryst the
tip of your tongue at the place where your upper
teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help
to keep your jaw relaxed. Our story tonight is called
the Front Door and the back Door, and it's a
(02:19):
story about a bit of spring cleaning inside and outside
the house. It's also about butterflies drawn and chalk on
the sidewalk, a message arriving at just the right moment,
and seedlings waiting for their chance to grow. Now, take
(02:44):
a deep breath in through your nose, sigh out through
the mouth. Again, breathe in and let it out.
Speaker 2 (03:06):
Good. The front door and the back door. The air
was fresh, and the day was sunny. The temperature had
been sneaking up a few degrees at a time for
the last week or so, and finally, to day there
(03:30):
was a real warmth in the air. I started inside
by drawing aside curtains and opening windows. I stood at
the kitchen sink, washing up after tea and oatmeal, and
(03:51):
smiling at the feel of the fresh air circling around me.
Through the window, I could hear them movements of birds
and squirrels, and beyond them, a soft spring wind coming
to dry up mud puddles. I could hear a lawnmower
(04:12):
in the next block over being coaxed to life, and
my neighbor's dog barking through the fence. I dried my
cup and bowl and put them back on their shelf.
Often I'd have turned on music or a radio show
(04:32):
to follow me through my chores, but it was nice
to do my work with nothing but the sounds from
outside keeping me company. I hung the dish towel from
its hook beside the sink and moved into the living room,
opening more windows as I went. There was a jumble
(04:56):
of books and blankets spread over the sofa, and as
I folded and tidied, I stopped to read a few
lines from one of the books. There was a book
about Zen, with a few poems and meditations. The page
(05:17):
I opened to just said open the front door and
open the back door. Let thoughts move through, just don't
offer them a cup of tea. I smiled down at
the words. Has that happened to you? That you read
(05:42):
just the right thing at just the right moment, Not
in that false way where you have to force a match,
but where there is just a flash of serendipitous harmony.
It feels like being winked at, but you're not sure
(06:05):
by who. I tucked the book under one arm and
went to the front door and drew back the bolt.
I opened it wide and let sunshine into the front hall.
Through the screen door, I saw the kids in the
(06:28):
yard across the street. They were writing their names and
drawing butterflies and caterpillars and pastel chalk across their sidewalks.
I went straight to the back door, a sliding glass
door that gave out to the back patio, and opened
it as wide as it would go. Dried hydrange of
(06:53):
blooms from last year were shifting in the breeze. I
felt like I could practically see the grass growing. I
read the line in the book again and dog eared
the page before closing it up and sliding it back
onto its shelf. With a dust cloth in hand, I
(07:16):
worked my way around the room, shining up the tops
of tables and the faces and picture frames in the
front hall. Beside the open door, I stepped into my
shoes and took the dust cloth out to shake over
the edge of the front porch. My neighbors doors were
(07:41):
open too, and I thought a bit more about the
line in the book. I shook the dust cloth and
watched the particles catching in the sunlight as they fell.
I went back inside to drop the cloth in the
laundry basket and wash my hands. Some people, I thought,
(08:06):
have their front door closed nothing gets in, they feel unreachable.
And some people have their front door open, but the
back door is closed. Everything gets in and nothing gets out.
(08:29):
Letting things come and go thoughts rise up and move
on without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging
or ruminating. It was a tricky skill, and one I
guess we could all use some practice with. I thought
(08:55):
of people I knew who had doors closed, and reminded
myself that it's always easier to see these things and others,
and that likely we were all both types of people.
Many times every day, all we could do was try
(09:15):
to open the places that had been shut, to turn
on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to
let things come and let them go. With a house
in order, I was eager to get out into the yard.
(09:39):
There were hours left on this sunny day, so I
rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening gloves
and started to work my way through the beds. I
hadn't cut much back in the autumn, as the falling
leaves and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to the
(10:00):
little creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd read
that pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought,
and spring was a better time for that. So now
there was quite a bit to clear those dried hydrange
(10:24):
of blossoms and last year's broad, pale, hostile leaves and
twigs and pine needles. I worked my way around the
house and into the backyard, where I had a few
raised beds i'd built the year before. The soil inside
(10:47):
was dark and fortified with compost. I turned it over
with my trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a
helicopter seed from the maple over head that was already
sprouting roots. I'd been growing seed leans for the last
(11:09):
month on an upstairs window sill, and soon, maybe in
another week or so, they'd be ready to go into
the beds. I'd spent a few dreary winter days carefully
reading through seed catalogs and making charts of germination periods
(11:31):
and hours of likely sunlight. I crossed my fingers, thinking
about the seeds I'd picked. I'd been a bit adventurous,
figuring I could buy carrots and tomatoes and beans at
the farmer's market, so I'd give my bit of space
(11:53):
over to more exotic eats. Up on the sill, several
varieties of chilis were sprouting. Perhaps it had been the
cold of the winter that made me crave spice. I'd
also planted cantalope seeds and watermelon radish, and tiger nuts
(12:20):
and mouse melons, because why not. I thought the planting
could be away from me to practice, keeping my doors
open and my tea to myself. I'd do my work,
then step back and let whatever happened next happen. The
(12:51):
front door and the back door. The air was fresh
and the day was sunny. The temperature had been sneaking
up a few degrees at a time for the last
week or so, and finally, to day there was a
(13:18):
real warmth in the air. I started inside by drawing
aside curtains and opening windows. I stood at the kitchen sink,
(13:39):
washing up after tea and oatmeal, and smiling at the
feel of the fresh air. Circling around me through the window.
I could hear the movement of birds and squirrels, and
beyond them a soft spring wind coming to dry up
(14:03):
mud puddles. I could hear a lawnmower in the next
block over being coaxed to life, and my neighbor's dog
barking through the fence. I dried my cup and bowl
(14:28):
and put them back on their shelf. Often I'd have
turned on music or a radio show to follow me
through my chores, but it was so nice to do
(14:48):
my work with nothing but the sounds from outside keeping
me company. I hung the dish towel it hook beside
the sink and moved into the living room, opening more
windows as I went. There was a jumble of books
(15:13):
and blankets spread over the sofa, and as I folded
and tidied, I stopped to read a few lines from
one of the books. It was a book about zen,
(15:34):
with a few poems and meditations. The page I opened
to just said, opened the front door and opened the
back door. Let thoughts move through, just don't offer them
(15:57):
a cup of tea. I smiled down at the words,
Has that happened to you? That you read just the
right thing at just the right moment, not in that
(16:20):
false way where you have to force a match, but
where there is just a flash of serendipitous harmony. It
feels like being winked at, but you're not sure by who.
(16:48):
I tucked the book under one arm and went to
the front door and drew back the bolt. I opened
it wide and let sunshine into the front hall. Through
(17:10):
the screen door, I saw the kids in the yard
across the street. They were writing their names and drawing
butterflies and caterpillars and pastel chalk crossed their sidewalks. I
(17:33):
went straight to the back door, a sliding glass door
that gave out to the back patio, and opened it
as wide as it would go. Dried hydrange of blooms
from last year were shifting in the breeze. I felt
(18:01):
like I could practically see the grass growing. I read
the line in the book again and dog yeared the
page before closing it up and sliding it back on
to its shelf. With a dust cloth in hand, I
(18:28):
worked my way around the room, shining up the tops
of tables and the faces in picture frames. In the
front hall. Beside the open door, I stepped into my
(18:49):
shoes and took the dust cloth out to shake over
the edge of the front porch. My neighbor's doors were
open too. When I thought a bit more about the
line in the book, I shook the dust cloth and
(19:15):
watched the particles catching in the sunlight as they fell.
I went back inside to drop the cloth in the
laundry basket and wash my hands. Some people, I thought,
have their front door closed. Nothing gets in. They feel unreachable.
(19:46):
When some people have their front door open but the
back door is closed, everything gets in and nothing gets out.
Letting things come and go thoughts rise up and move
(20:10):
on without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging
or ruminating. It was a tricky skill, and one I
(20:31):
guessed we could all use some practice with. I thought
of people I knew who had doors closed, and reminded
myself that it's always easier to see these things in others,
(20:53):
and that likely we were all both types of people.
Many times every day, all we could do was to
open up the places that had been shut, to turn
on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to
(21:19):
let things come and let them go with the house
in order. I was eager to get out into the
yard there were hours left on this sunny day, so
I rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening
(21:42):
gloves and started to work my way through the beds.
I hadn't cut much back in the autumn, as the
falling leaves and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to
the little creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd
(22:08):
read that pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought,
and spring was a better time for that. So now
there was quite a bit to clear those dried hydranger
(22:29):
blossoms and last year's broad, pale, hostile eaves and twigs
and pine needles. I worked my way around the house
and into the back yard, where I had a few
(22:53):
raised beds i'd built the year before. The soil inside
was dark and fortified with compost. I turned it over
with my trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a
(23:13):
helicopter seed from the maple overhead that was already sprouting roots.
I'd been growing seed leans for the last month on
an upstairs window sill, and soon, maybe in another week
(23:35):
or so, they'd be ready to go into the beds.
I'd spent a few dreary winter days, carefully reading through
seed catalogs and making charts of germination periods and hours
(23:57):
of likely sunlight. I crossed my fingers thinking about the
seeds I'd picked out. I'd been a bit adventurous, figuring
I could buy carrots and tomatoes and beans at the
(24:19):
farmer's market, so I'd give my bit of space over
to more exotic eats. Up on the sill, several varieties
of chilies were sprouting. Perhaps it had been the cold
(24:43):
of the winter that made me crave spice. I'd also
planted cantalope seeds and watermelon radish, and tiger nuts and
mouse melons, because why not. I thought the planting could
(25:07):
be away from me, to practice, keeping my doors open
and my tea to myself. I'd do my work, then
step back and let whatever happened next happen. Sweet dreams.
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups, in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories
you hear on Nothing much happens with audio engineering by
(00:24):
Bob Wittersheim. Now let's get ready to sleep. I'll read
you a story. It's a place to rest your mind,
like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river.
Your mind will follow along with the moving current of
(00:46):
my voice and our story, and before you know it,
it will ease you into deep sleep. I'll read the
story twice and go a little slower on the second read.
If you wake in the night, take yourself back into
(01:07):
the story, thinking back through any bit you can remember.
This interrupts your brain's tendency to cycle through thought, and
we'll put you right back into sleep mode. It is
brain training, and it might take a bit of practice,
(01:29):
so be patient if you are new to this. Now
it's time to switch off the light. Set aside anything
you've been looking at or working on. You've looked at
a screen for the last time today, Adjust your pillows
and your comforter until you feel completely at ease. If
(01:55):
you sometimes clench your jaw as you sleep. Tryst the
tip of your tongue at the place where your upper
teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help
to keep your jaw relaxed. Our story tonight is called
the Front Door and the back Door, and it's a
(02:19):
story about a bit of spring cleaning inside and outside
the house. It's also about butterflies drawn and chalk on
the sidewalk, a message arriving at just the right moment,
and seedlings waiting for their chance to grow. Now, take
(02:44):
a deep breath in through your nose, sigh out through
the mouth. Again, breathe in and let it out.
Speaker 2 (03:06):
Good. The front door and the back door. The air
was fresh, and the day was sunny. The temperature had
been sneaking up a few degrees at a time for
the last week or so, and finally, to day there
(03:30):
was a real warmth in the air. I started inside
by drawing aside curtains and opening windows. I stood at
the kitchen sink, washing up after tea and oatmeal, and
(03:51):
smiling at the feel of the fresh air circling around me.
Through the window, I could hear them movements of birds
and squirrels, and beyond them, a soft spring wind coming
to dry up mud puddles. I could hear a lawnmower
(04:12):
in the next block over being coaxed to life, and
my neighbor's dog barking through the fence. I dried my
cup and bowl and put them back on their shelf.
Often I'd have turned on music or a radio show
(04:32):
to follow me through my chores, but it was nice
to do my work with nothing but the sounds from
outside keeping me company. I hung the dish towel from
its hook beside the sink and moved into the living room,
opening more windows as I went. There was a jumble
(04:56):
of books and blankets spread over the sofa, and as
I folded and tidied, I stopped to read a few
lines from one of the books. There was a book
about Zen, with a few poems and meditations. The page
(05:17):
I opened to just said open the front door and
open the back door. Let thoughts move through, just don't
offer them a cup of tea. I smiled down at
the words. Has that happened to you? That you read
(05:42):
just the right thing at just the right moment, Not
in that false way where you have to force a match,
but where there is just a flash of serendipitous harmony.
It feels like being winked at, but you're not sure
(06:05):
by who. I tucked the book under one arm and
went to the front door and drew back the bolt.
I opened it wide and let sunshine into the front hall.
Through the screen door, I saw the kids in the
(06:28):
yard across the street. They were writing their names and
drawing butterflies and caterpillars and pastel chalk across their sidewalks.
I went straight to the back door, a sliding glass
door that gave out to the back patio, and opened
it as wide as it would go. Dried hydrange of
(06:53):
blooms from last year were shifting in the breeze. I
felt like I could practically see the grass growing. I
read the line in the book again and dog eared
the page before closing it up and sliding it back
onto its shelf. With a dust cloth in hand, I
(07:16):
worked my way around the room, shining up the tops
of tables and the faces and picture frames in the
front hall. Beside the open door, I stepped into my
shoes and took the dust cloth out to shake over
the edge of the front porch. My neighbors doors were
(07:41):
open too, and I thought a bit more about the
line in the book. I shook the dust cloth and
watched the particles catching in the sunlight as they fell.
I went back inside to drop the cloth in the
laundry basket and wash my hands. Some people, I thought,
(08:06):
have their front door closed nothing gets in, they feel unreachable.
And some people have their front door open, but the
back door is closed. Everything gets in and nothing gets out.
(08:29):
Letting things come and go thoughts rise up and move
on without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging
or ruminating. It was a tricky skill, and one I
guess we could all use some practice with. I thought
(08:55):
of people I knew who had doors closed, and reminded
myself that it's always easier to see these things and others,
and that likely we were all both types of people.
Many times every day, all we could do was try
(09:15):
to open the places that had been shut, to turn
on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to
let things come and let them go. With a house
in order, I was eager to get out into the yard.
(09:39):
There were hours left on this sunny day, so I
rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening gloves
and started to work my way through the beds. I
hadn't cut much back in the autumn, as the falling
leaves and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to the
(10:00):
little creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd read
that pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought,
and spring was a better time for that. So now
there was quite a bit to clear those dried hydrange
(10:24):
of blossoms and last year's broad, pale, hostile leaves and
twigs and pine needles. I worked my way around the
house and into the backyard, where I had a few
raised beds i'd built the year before. The soil inside
(10:47):
was dark and fortified with compost. I turned it over
with my trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a
helicopter seed from the maple over head that was already
sprouting roots. I'd been growing seed leans for the last
(11:09):
month on an upstairs window sill, and soon, maybe in
another week or so, they'd be ready to go into
the beds. I'd spent a few dreary winter days carefully
reading through seed catalogs and making charts of germination periods
(11:31):
and hours of likely sunlight. I crossed my fingers, thinking
about the seeds I'd picked. I'd been a bit adventurous,
figuring I could buy carrots and tomatoes and beans at
the farmer's market, so I'd give my bit of space
(11:53):
over to more exotic eats. Up on the sill, several
varieties of chilis were sprouting. Perhaps it had been the
cold of the winter that made me crave spice. I'd
also planted cantalope seeds and watermelon radish, and tiger nuts
(12:20):
and mouse melons, because why not. I thought the planting
could be away from me to practice, keeping my doors
open and my tea to myself. I'd do my work,
then step back and let whatever happened next happen. The
(12:51):
front door and the back door. The air was fresh
and the day was sunny. The temperature had been sneaking
up a few degrees at a time for the last
week or so, and finally, to day there was a
(13:18):
real warmth in the air. I started inside by drawing
aside curtains and opening windows. I stood at the kitchen sink,
(13:39):
washing up after tea and oatmeal, and smiling at the
feel of the fresh air. Circling around me through the window.
I could hear the movement of birds and squirrels, and
beyond them a soft spring wind coming to dry up
(14:03):
mud puddles. I could hear a lawnmower in the next
block over being coaxed to life, and my neighbor's dog
barking through the fence. I dried my cup and bowl
(14:28):
and put them back on their shelf. Often I'd have
turned on music or a radio show to follow me
through my chores, but it was so nice to do
(14:48):
my work with nothing but the sounds from outside keeping
me company. I hung the dish towel it hook beside
the sink and moved into the living room, opening more
windows as I went. There was a jumble of books
(15:13):
and blankets spread over the sofa, and as I folded
and tidied, I stopped to read a few lines from
one of the books. It was a book about zen,
(15:34):
with a few poems and meditations. The page I opened
to just said, opened the front door and opened the
back door. Let thoughts move through, just don't offer them
(15:57):
a cup of tea. I smiled down at the words,
Has that happened to you? That you read just the
right thing at just the right moment, not in that
(16:20):
false way where you have to force a match, but
where there is just a flash of serendipitous harmony. It
feels like being winked at, but you're not sure by who.
(16:48):
I tucked the book under one arm and went to
the front door and drew back the bolt. I opened
it wide and let sunshine into the front hall. Through
(17:10):
the screen door, I saw the kids in the yard
across the street. They were writing their names and drawing
butterflies and caterpillars and pastel chalk crossed their sidewalks. I
(17:33):
went straight to the back door, a sliding glass door
that gave out to the back patio, and opened it
as wide as it would go. Dried hydrange of blooms
from last year were shifting in the breeze. I felt
(18:01):
like I could practically see the grass growing. I read
the line in the book again and dog yeared the
page before closing it up and sliding it back on
to its shelf. With a dust cloth in hand, I
(18:28):
worked my way around the room, shining up the tops
of tables and the faces in picture frames. In the
front hall. Beside the open door, I stepped into my
(18:49):
shoes and took the dust cloth out to shake over
the edge of the front porch. My neighbor's doors were
open too. When I thought a bit more about the
line in the book, I shook the dust cloth and
(19:15):
watched the particles catching in the sunlight as they fell.
I went back inside to drop the cloth in the
laundry basket and wash my hands. Some people, I thought,
have their front door closed. Nothing gets in. They feel unreachable.
(19:46):
When some people have their front door open but the
back door is closed, everything gets in and nothing gets out.
Letting things come and go thoughts rise up and move
(20:10):
on without pouring them a cup of tea, without clinging
or ruminating. It was a tricky skill, and one I
(20:31):
guessed we could all use some practice with. I thought
of people I knew who had doors closed, and reminded
myself that it's always easier to see these things in others,
(20:53):
and that likely we were all both types of people.
Many times every day, all we could do was to
open up the places that had been shut, to turn
on the lights once we'd realized they were spent, to
(21:19):
let things come and let them go with the house
in order. I was eager to get out into the
yard there were hours left on this sunny day, so
I rummaged in the garage until I found my gardening
(21:42):
gloves and started to work my way through the beds.
I hadn't cut much back in the autumn, as the
falling leaves and drying stalks of plants gave shelter to
the little creatures that shared the garden. And because I'd
(22:08):
read that pruning stimulates growth, tell me about it, I thought,
and spring was a better time for that. So now
there was quite a bit to clear those dried hydranger
(22:29):
blossoms and last year's broad, pale, hostile eaves and twigs
and pine needles. I worked my way around the house
and into the back yard, where I had a few
(22:53):
raised beds i'd built the year before. The soil inside
was dark and fortified with compost. I turned it over
with my trowel and pulled out stray leaves and a
(23:13):
helicopter seed from the maple overhead that was already sprouting roots.
I'd been growing seed leans for the last month on
an upstairs window sill, and soon, maybe in another week
(23:35):
or so, they'd be ready to go into the beds.
I'd spent a few dreary winter days, carefully reading through
seed catalogs and making charts of germination periods and hours
(23:57):
of likely sunlight. I crossed my fingers thinking about the
seeds I'd picked out. I'd been a bit adventurous, figuring
I could buy carrots and tomatoes and beans at the
(24:19):
farmer's market, so I'd give my bit of space over
to more exotic eats. Up on the sill, several varieties
of chilies were sprouting. Perhaps it had been the cold
(24:43):
of the winter that made me crave spice. I'd also
planted cantalope seeds and watermelon radish, and tiger nuts and
mouse melons, because why not. I thought the planting could
(25:07):
be away from me, to practice, keeping my doors open
and my tea to myself. I'd do my work, then
step back and let whatever happened next happen. Sweet dreams.
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