Connect the Dots

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“Hi, I'm Catherine Nikolai, 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. Based 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 they're still sweetness

in everyday life. Stick 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

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That's code nothing much at naturesunshine.com. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone. In which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai. 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 8 years of sweet dreams, and if we have been of use to you, if you want to make sure we 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. I want to come 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. Drive now, nothing much happens.com. Here is how this works. Your mind needs to be gently shepherded toward the land of nod. Elts, 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 rain drops, and a bird bath, a clear spot at the kitchen table with enough light to see by, dots, and lines, and not having to decide.

at the end of the stay.

“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, 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 that 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 mind 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 paper back, opened at about two”

thirds through, and laid 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 talked

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 bird bath 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, sending circular ripples that were then disrupted by the next handful of drops.

When it finally went from rolling to whistling, my turn to away from the door, and clicked

off the burner.

“Hearing 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 sketchpads, 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, my still used it every time, I pretended that otherwise, my doodles might escape from the pages.

The first 20 pages are 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 and a vantage 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. On 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, until 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'll 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 birdbap 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 oxbowl lake, then slowly and methodically traced lines around it. Each one following close to the one before, as the shapes spread out, like ripples on

a pond. The paper was just a bit rough, and as I drew the marker over it, it rumbles 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.

an emergency, but in a soft, magnetic pole 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

are 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. When I returned to the table, 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.”

Oh, well, a kettle could soon be boiling again. I might turn the page in my book, and draw a bit longer. I didn't mind the rain today. It felt full of promise. For grass, that could turn green overnight.

For two lups, 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 whirling 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 roast 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. That 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, 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. In a plate, with the peel from a Clementine, impressively coiled, still in one piece, a pine cone,

and lane, face down, the cracks in the spine, showing where passages were broken up.

“My 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, and tucked it into the pages of the book, so we 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.

“And I wiped the table top 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, "My 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.

“The film left over flavor from the holidays, ginger and pear, but tasty in any season.”

My cracked the kitchen door open, and let the fresh, cool air swirl through the room. I'd scrubbed and filled the bird bath 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.

Spring 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. Now this sounded round, while cold water sounded pointy. My carried my cup to the table, and opened my book. It was small and square, but 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 sketchpads, this was the one that most frequently went with me to the coffee shop, or the

It had an elastic strap, dyed the same color as the cover, so it could be secured shot.

“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 20 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.

“Not having to decide what to draw, to find a subject, an advantage point, and so on, was”

the point. More about process and 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.

My place to 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 until I had a frame for the pattern. My often took a breath there, just giving my thoughts a nudge, stay outside of the line for a while, albeit in here, you'd 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 birdbatte 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 oxbowl 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

the 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. It 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. That all at once, like it sometimes did when everything felt like an emergency, but in

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 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 until the latch clicked. When I returned to the table, 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.