In the Map Room (Encore)

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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 Widdershime. We are bringing you an on-core episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.

“It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location, and since”

I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different, but the stories

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“That's what the story I'm about to tell you is.”

It's a nest to lay your attention in. In order to stay in the nest, all you need to do is follow along with the sound of my voice, and the simple shape of the story.

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

If you wake in the night, you can climb right back into that nest, just by thinking through any parts of the story you remember. Over time, your sleep response will improve. You'll find that you fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer. When you wake, you'll feel rested and relaxed.

Our story tonight is called "In the Map Room", and it's a story about the pleasures of looking at the world drawn out on paper. It's also about a gasp of coi fish and a pond, a bike ride that leads somewhere surprising. And the view from the upper room of an old house. One of my favorite little rituals in the summer is climbing into bed after a warm day,

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“Now, put down anything that you've been working on or looking at.”

It's time to settle down into your bed, to pull the blanket over your shoulder, and relax into your favorite sleeping position. If you find that you clench your jaw when you sleep, start building a new habit here. Use your body gets heavier, you feel sleep coming on, rest the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside.

That will help keep your jaw relaxed.

“Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth.”

Nice, one more, breathe in, and out, good. In the map room, in between tours, when folks have wandered out through the old oak doors, and begin to circle through the grounds, I go to the map room. It was secretly why I joined the team of dozens in this historic house. Though I hadn't put down, slightly spend time with maps.

In the why do you want to work here, section of my volunteer application.

“Truthfully, my loved every part of the days I got to spend here, unlocking the doors”

in the mornings, and setting the A-frame sign out in the circle drive, opening the old

casement windows on the third floor, and standing in the quiet landing outside of the library,

while I listen to catch the echo of the people who once lived here, or who have walked through the halls, or added to, or admired the collections in them. It is, for many who come here, a delightful surprise, when they drive down the long twisting drive, and through the gardens up to the house. Maybe they see a sign on the highway, or heard from someone about the labyrinth in the courtyard,

or the room at the top floor, full of maps, and they come on a sunny Saturday to see for themselves, but they aren't prepared for how lovely the house is. They don't expect to find grounds so full of trickling fountains, smooth stone sculptures, narrow gravel paths that lead to more unexpected places and things.

I hadn't expected them the first time I'd been here, out on a long bike ride, and turning

down a back road, I found myself riding under a canopy of willow branches, and caught a glimpse through the tree trunks of the house set far back. I'd pedal down the long drive, and slip the front tire of my bike into the stand with a few others, and wandered shyly into the front garden. I wasn't sure that I was supposed to be there.

When a guide passed by, explaining the story of the house, who had built it, and who had filled it with so many treasures, to a small group of attentively listening folks, trailing behind her, I'd slipped in among them, and followed along for the next hour or so.

could look down into a clear pond, ringed with irises.

“She waited quietly as we looked at the water, till someone pointed out, and we also, a school”

of bright orange fish, 100 of them, if not more, swimming to the service, then shifting, and dropping down into the depths again. It was like watching the sun rising and setting in the water, and as I'd stood there, I thought about how many hidden treasures like this place are just waiting to be witnessed, and appreciated again.

The tour had ended at the top of the house, in a long room with shelves full of shallow

“drawers running to the ceiling, and wide library tables.”

It was the map room, and for me it was the cherry on top, the sweetest and least expected surprise of the afternoon.

I've always loved maps, and I have a whole room dedicated to them.

To know someone else had felt like I did, and made sure to leave behind a place where people could come just to look at the formation of continents and the lines that we draw through them.

“So consider the distance from one point to another, and the lakes and the rivers in between”

them.

It felt like a connection across a century, when I was so glad it had survived.

Soon I was finding an hour here, or there, a few times a week, to park my bike in the rack, and walk the grounds, and stray up to the mapperam. I'd worked my way through the drawers, sometimes with a magnifying glass pressed to my eye, and a note pad tucked into my back pocket. I found local maps with crumbling edges, that showed trails that would eventually be

become the streets that I grew up on. I found maps of forms and emerging cities, and I'd read the names of the families that were farming in the parks as they were built. Some had intricate hand-drawn compass roses in their corners, and I used them to orient myself by the angle of the sun, toward their capital city, or featured body of water.

The oldest, or covered in a web of connecting pinwheels, run lines, or Ioxidromes, but intersected with meridians on their way to true north. Maps can show you how people fought about the world at a certain moment in time, or at least how the map maker thought. Sometimes they show how people tried to spin a story that wasn't true, or puffed themselves

up to seem bigger than they were, and all of that is a useful lesson, even when what they show in their lines and place names are true. I'd found, as I'd gone through them, so many gaps in my own knowledge, and while everything I'd learned hadn't stuck permanently, and would need to be occasionally refreshed.

I felt connected, thus by looking at the shape of a city, or the name of a mountain, with

“the contours of the coastline, to the people who walked, and ate, and lived in those places”

every day. I'd heard someone say once, that there isn't a person in the world who is anything less than your 20th cousin, looking at the spaces we all shared, the felt true, eventually a guide had slipped me a volunteer application, suggesting that, as I was here so much anyway. I should just make it official, and now it was.

“I was here through the seasons, leading others over to spot the coi fish in the pond,”

pointing out the hidden faces in the tiles, on the east wall, and telling the stories of the people in the painting over the fireplace. Some days I'd spot someone, standing shyly in the garden, wondering if they were supposed

to be here, and I'd smile, thinking about them taking their first step into the map room.

In the map room, in between tours, when folks have wandered out through the old oak doors, and begun to circle through the grounds, I go to the map room. It was secretly why I joined the team of dozens in this historic house, though I hadn't put down slightly spend time with maps.

“In the, why do you want to work here, section of my volunteer application?”

Too fully, I loved every part of the days I got to spend here. Unlocking the doors in the morning, and setting the A-frame sign out in the circle drive,

and setting the old casement windows on the third floor, and standing in the quiet landing,

outside of the library. While I listen to catch the echo of the people who once lived here, or who have walked through the halls, or added to, or admired the collections in them. It is, for many who come here, a delightful surprise when they drive down the long, twisting drive and through the gardens up to the house, maybe they see a sign on the highway, or heard

from someone about the lab rent in the courtyard, with a room on the top floor full of maps. And they come on a sunny Saturday to see for themselves, but they aren't prepared for how lovely the house is. They don't expect to find grounds, so full of trickling fountains, and smooth stone sculptures,

I hadn't expected them the first time I'd been here myself out on a long bike ride, and

“taking a turn down a back road, I found myself under a canopy of willow branches, and caught”

a glimpse through the tree trunks of the house set far back. I'd pedal down the long drive and slip the front tire of my bike into the stand with a few

others, and wandered shyly into the front garden.

I wasn't sure that I was supposed to be there, when a guide passed by, explaining the story

“of the house, who had built it, and who had filled it with so many treasures, to a small”

group of attentively listening folks trailing behind her. I'd slipped in among them, and followed along for the next hour or so. I'd let us to a spot on the far side of the house, with land fell away, when you could look down into a clear pond, ringed with irises.

“She waited quietly as we looked at the water, until someone pointed, and we all”

saw a school of bright orange fish, a hundred of them, if not more, swimming to the surface, then shifting, and dropping down into the depths again. It was like watching the sun, rising and setting in the water, and as I'd stood there, I thought about how many hidden treasures, like this place, are just waiting to be witnessed, and appreciated again. The tour had ended at the top of the house, in a long room, with

shelves full of shallow drawers, running to the ceiling, and wide library tables. It was the mapperum, and for me, it was the cherry on top, the sweetest and least expected surprise of the afternoon.

I've always loved maps, and I have a whole room dedicated to them.

To know someone else had felt like I did, and made sure to leave behind a place where people could come, just to look at the formations of the continents, and the lines that we draw through them, to consider the distance from one point to another, and the lakes and rivers in between. It felt like a connection across a century, and I was so glad it had survived. Soon I was finding an hour, here or there, a few times a week, to park my bike

sometimes with a magnifying glass pressed to my eye, and a note pad tucked into my back pocket.

“I found local maps, with crumbling edges, that showed trails that would eventually become”

of the streets that I grew up on. I found maps of farms and emerging cities, and I'd read the names of the families that were farming in the parks as they were built.

Some had intricate hand-drawn compass roses in their corners, and I used them to orient

myself by the angle of the sun, toward their capital city, or featured body of water.

“The oldest or covered in a web of connecting pinwheels, run lines, or Ioxidromes, that intersected”

with meridians on their way to true north. Maps can show you how people fought about the world at a certain moment in time, or at least how the map maker thought. Sometimes they show how people tried to spin a story that wasn't true, or puffed themselves up to seem bigger than they were. And all of that is a useful lesson, even when what they show in

“their lines and place names are true. I'd found, as I'd gone through them, so many gaps”

in my own knowledge. While everything I'd learned hadn't stuck permanently, and would need to be occasionally refreshed, I found seeing the world from so many angles, had changed the way I thought about myself. I felt connected, just by looking at the shape of a city, the name of a mountain, or the contours of a coastline, to the people who walked, and ate, and lived in those places every day. I'd heard someone say once, that there isn't

a person in the world who is anything less than your 20th cousin. Looking at the spaces we all shared, and felt true, eventually a guide had slipped me of volunteer application. Suggesting that, as I was here so much anyway, I should make it official. And now it was. I was here through the seasons, leading others over to spot the coifish in the pond, pointing out the hidden faces in the tiles on the East

Wall, and telling the stories of the people in the painting over the fireplace. Some days I'd spot someone, standing shyly in the garden, wondering if they were supposed to be here.

I'd smile, thinking about them taking that first step into the map room, sweet dreams.