First Mow of the Year (Encore)

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“If you already listen to me, then you know bedtime stories can be powerful tools for”

rest, but sometimes what you need isn't a story, maybe it's something a little different, and that's where sleep magic comes in. Sleep magic is a sleep hypnosis podcast, hosted by hypnotherapist Jessica Porter, instead of storytelling, Jessica uses a hypnotic voice that gradually slows down, weaving in gentle suggestions, to help your mind, let go, it's designed so that by the end you're not just

calmer, you're already asleep, and what's unique is that she doesn't only talk about sleep, Jessica threads in themes like dealing with heartbreak, easing anxiety, and building confidence, so the work you do while drifting off actually carries into your waking life.

“There are more than 300 episodes, and listeners call the show life changing, and a real gift.”

Over 5 million people have tuned in, and I can see why.

So if you're curious to try a different approach, one that complements what you already get here, subscribe to sleep magic wherever you listen to podcasts, just search sleep magic, and start listening for free today. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep.

I'm Katherine Nikolai, my right and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Widdersheim.

“We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired”

at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment and a different location, and since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different, but the stories

are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep-brast and

sweet dreams. Now, after six years and more than 130 million downloads, I've kind of cracked the code on how to help you sleep. I'll tell you a story. Nothing much happens in it.

You just rest your mind on the words. Follow along with my voice, and soon you'll be waking up tomorrow, feeling rested and refreshed.

I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake again in the night, you can turn a story right back on, you'll drop right back to sleep. And if you're new to this, be patient. This is brain training, and it may take some regular use to work reliably. Our story tonight is called First Mow of the Year, and it's a story about a day of yard

work, a spring arrives in full, and it's also about pine cones and lady bugs, a glass of water enjoyed on the porch step, the sun on the back of your neck, and the shared experiences that connect us. Now, it's time to turn out the light, set down your device, and slide down into your sheets. There's nothing left to do, nothing remains, but that you rest.

I'll be here, reading even after you fall on a sleep. And jaw shoulders, hands, and hips, all relaxed, all as well.

Nice, do that one more time, breathe in, and let it go, good.

“First Mow of the Year, I stood outside the garage.”

My fingers reaching for the handle, but looking over my shoulder into the backyard and beyond, past the tree line that marked the yard next door, at all the green growth and flowers that had shot up and blossomed in the last week or so. We slept with the windows cracked last night, and this morning I had opened more, airing out the house, the staleness of long cold months, washed away in minutes.

I wanted to get outside as soon as I could, and looking out from the kitchen window.

“I could see a days' worth of chores waiting for me.”

The weather had been warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on any mowing or cutting back, waiting for all the little critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few meals first.

Seem like today might finally be the day for it.

I turned back to the garage and gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a little bend in my knees, and a strong push up on the door, to send it gliding into place.

“I'd thought about getting an opener put on, but there was something about opening it”

by hand that I actually liked. It was a very specific movement, one that was very deep in my muscle memory, from when I would hoist open the garage door for my grandpa, so he could get his tractor out. It rattly clatter of the old door moving on its track. The gust of scent from inside, tools and dust and wood shavings.

The way my wrist knew how far to turn my knees, how much to bend, and then inside the garage, the neat pegboards hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into place, and waiting for its next job. My own garage was not quite as neat as his had been, but still there was a sort of order to the chaos.

I stepped in and propped my hands on my hips, looking around at the tools and stacks of pots.

First things first, I thought, and reached for a pair of garden gloves.

My thumb went right through a hole in the fabric, and I laughed, recognizing the pair as one I'd bought years ago, when I'd tilled my first garden. They were cream with red dots, but if you looked close enough or distinguishable as lady bugs, I took them off, and took them into my back pocket, thinking that I could probably

I found a second pair.

“This one, without any terribly large holes, and put them on.”

I wheeled my mower out onto the sidewalk, and shook out a lawnbag beside it. From down the block, I heard the stuttering start of someone else's mower, and cupped my hand over my eyes to shield out the sun, and peer through the yards.

A few gardens over my neighbor was mowing the first path through his grass, and within

a second, the scent of it hit me, so green and lively. I took a few deep breaths with my eyes closed.

“Spring was really here, some are just behind.”

In my own yard, I started to trace back and forth, walking slowly with my eyes on the ground. I picked up sticks and pine cones, relocated rocks, and gathered a few scraps of trash that the wind had blown in.

When the grass was clear, I started my own mower, and pushed it down the length of the

yard. It reminded me suddenly of my dad's green tennis shoes by the back door when I was a kid. They hadn't started off as green, but after a day behind the mower, they'd begun to color with chlorophyll, and it'd given up on trying to keep them wide. They'd just become his mowing shoes. I looked down at my own pair, and smiled.

There was something so small and simple, a shared experience of being a grown-up with chores,

but it made me really happy this whole day did. I made slow, even rows with the mower. I'd raised the blade up a bit, so I was giving the grass only a subtle haircut. My mind got quiet, as I mode. A steadyness of my feet pacing along behind the wheels. The warm sun on the back of my neck. The slow, careful turn at the end of a row, lining

up the wheels and starting again.

“Was it so different from walking elaborate? Didn't feel that different?”

I'd had to teach her once who'd recommended a walking meditation. They'd suggested the best place for it was a grocery store, just get a cart, and walk the aisles as slowly as you can, notice each step that was me now. When the backyard was done, I shut down the mower and began to wheel it down the driveway to start in the front.

This does a quiet thirst appeared in my throat. I noticed a tall glass of water set out for me on the step of the side door. It seemed like the perfect time for a break. I sat down on the step and lifted the cool glass to my lips. There were a few slices of cucumber floating among the ice cubes, and I tasted so refreshing

While I sipped, I looked across the driveway at the house next door.

“They had two little boys. Well, not so little anymore.”

They were growing fast. And my mind, the youngest, was still riding in the stroller. Has big brother totalling beside, as their dads took them for a walk. And I knew he must now be several years into elementary school.

The oldest, probably in middle school.

Their dog, a sweet golden retriever named Clover, stretched out on her side on the back patio in the sun.

“And even from where I sat, I could see the slow rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed.”

My glass of water finished, I set it down on the step, pushed back up onto my feet. I reached for the handlebar of the mower.

On the front yard, I repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen branches, and found

one of Clover's frisbee's among the pacacandra. I carried it to her fence and whistled for. She lifted her head to look at me.

“On the ear flipped inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth.”

I showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet, ready for me to throw it. I sent it out toward the back edge of her yard, and she went tearing after it. She didn't catch it mid-air, she wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it out from where it landed near a lilac bush and carried it back to her patio with her tail happily wagging along the way.

Across the street, another neighbor was fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter. A new one, shiny and red, sat waiting on the grass as she worked away with the screwdriver. Just like the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, of tugging at the pull cord of the moor, of green tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun, on a warm patio.

I knew the feeling of wrestling, of a slightly rusted screw. I restarted the moor and began to pace through the front lawn, comforted by the moments my neighbors and I all had in common. First mo of the year. I stood outside the garage, my fingers reaching for the handle, but looking over my shoulder

into the backyard, and beyond, passed the tree line that marked the yard next door. At all the green, growth, and flowers that had shot up and blossomed in the last week or so. It slept with the window's cracked last night, and this morning I had opened more, airing out the house, the staleness of long cold months washed away in minutes. I wanted to get outside, as soon as I could, and looking out from the kitchen window, I

The weather had been warming for weeks now, and I'd been holding off on any mowing or cutting

“back, waiting for all the little critters and pollinators to wake up and have a few meals”

first.

It seemed like today might finally be the day for it.

It turned back to the garage and gripped the handle. It took a swift turn, a little bend in my knees, and a strong push up on the door to send it gliding into place.

“I thought about getting an opener, put on it, but there was something about opening”

it by hand that I actually liked. It was a very specific movement, one that was buried deep in my muscle memory. From when I would hoist open the garage door for my grandpa, so he could get his tractor out. The rattlely clatter of the old door, moving on its track, the gust of scent from inside,

“tools, and dust, and wood shavings, the way my wrist knew how far to turn, my knees”

how much to bend, and then inside the garage, neat pegboards, hung with tools, and the shiny tractor backed into place, and waiting for its next job. My own garage was not quite as neat as his had been, but still there was a sort of order to the chaos. I stepped in, and propped my hands on my hips, looking around at the tools and stacks

of pots.

First things first, I thought, and reached for a pair of garden gloves.

My thumb went right through a hole in the fabric, and I laughed, recognizing the pair as one I'd bought years before, when I'd told my first garden, they were creme, with red dots, and if you looked close enough, were distinguishable as ladybugs. I took them off and tucked them into my back pocket, thinking that I could probably fix them up with a needle and thread in a jiffy.

I found a second pair, this one without any terribly large holes, and put them on.

I wheeled my mower out onto the sidewalk, and shook out a lawn bag beside it. From down the block, I heard the stuttering start of someone else's mower, and cupped my hand over my eyes to shield out the sun, and peer through the arts. A few gardens over, my neighbor was mowing the first path through his grass, and within a second, the scent of it hit me, so green and lively.

Spring was really here, summer just behind.

“In my own yard, I started to trace back and forth, walking slowly with my eyes on the ground.”

I picked up sticks and pine cones, relocated rocks, and gathered a few scraps of trash that the wind had blown in. When the grass was clear, I started my own mower and pushed it down the length of the yard. It reminded me suddenly of my dad's screen tennis shoes by the back door when I was a kid.

They hadn't started off as green, but after a day behind the mower, they'd begun to

color with chlorophyll, and he'd given up trying to keep them might. They'd just become his mowing shoes.

“I looked down at my own pair, and smiled.”

It was something so small and simple, a shared experience of being a grown-up with chores, but it made me really happy this whole day did.

I made slow, even rows with the mower.

I'd raised the blade up a bit, so I was giving the grass only a subtle haircut. My mind got quiet, as I mowed. The steadiness of my feet pacing along behind the wheels. The warm sun on the back of my neck.

“The slow, careful turn at the end of a row, lining up the wheels and starting again.”

Was it so different from walking a labyrinth? I didn't feel that different. I'd had a teacher once who'd recommended a walking meditation. They'd suggested the best place for it was a grocery store. Get a cart and walk the aisles as slowly as you can.

Notice each step. That was me now. When the backyard was done, I shut down the mower and began to wheel it down the driveway to start in the front. Just as a quiet, thirst appeared in my throat, I noticed a tall glass of water set out

for me on the step of the side door. I'd seemed the perfect time for a break. I sat down on the step and lifted the cool glass to my lips. There were a few slices of cucumber floating among the ice cubes, and it tasted so refreshing and delicious.

While I sipped, I looked across the driveway at the house next door. They had two little boys. Well, not so little anymore. They were growing fast. In my mind, the youngest was still riding in the stroller.

But I knew he must now be several years into elementary school.

The oldest probably in middle school.

“Their dog, a sweet golden retriever named Clover, stretched out on her side.”

On their back patio in the sun, and even from where I sat, I could see the slow rise

and fall of her ribs as she breathed.

My glass of water finished, I set it down on the step, and pushed back up onto my feet. I reached for the handlebar of the mower.

“In the front yard, I repeated the step of patrolling the grass for fallen branches, and”

found one of Clover's frisbee's among the packacandra.

I carried it to her fence and whistled for her. She lifted her head to look at me, one ear flipped inside out, and her lips stuck on her teeth. I showed her the frisbee, and she jumped to her feet, ready for me to throw it.

“I sent it out toward the back edge of her yard, and she went tearing after it.”

She didn't catch it, mid-air. She wasn't that kind of dog, but she did dig it out from where it landed near a lilac bush, and carried it back to her patio, with her tail happily wagging along the way. Across the street, another neighbor was fixing her mailbox. The flag had broken off over the winter, a new one, shiny and red.

That waiting on the grass, as she worked away with the screwdriver. Just like the muscle memory of pushing open the garage door, I've tugging at the pull cord of the mower, of green tennis shoes, of sleeping in the sun on a warm patio. I knew that feeling of wrestling with a slightly rusted screw. I restarted the mower, and began to pace through the front lawn, comforted by the moments

my neighbors and I had in common sweet dreams.