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“Hi, I'm Katherine 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. What's 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. Make 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. When I started building this show and my shop, it really felt like I had to figure everything
out on my own, and there are so many pieces it can get overwhelming fast.
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Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at shopofi.com/nothingmudge, go to shopofi.com/nothingmudge. 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 Woodersheim.”
We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to the gathering place. They work to address the impact of marginalization, and by offering access to a broad range of basic necessities and wraparound care options. You can learn more about them in our show notes.
For ad-free episodes, subscribe to our premium feed at nothingmudgeappens.com. This technique works just by giving your brain something soft to focus on. And all you need in order for it to work is to listen. I'll tell you the story twice.
And I'll go a little slower, the second time through.
Our story tonight is called Late at the Library, and it's a story about an evening of study in a quiet spot. It's also about pens and pencils, a story told on a felt board, hushed footsteps through the mezzanine, and the camaraderie of people sharing a common goal in space. When my brain feels foggy, it's tempting to reach for something that gives you a quick
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Time to get tucked in.
Slide down into your sheets, and get as comfortable as you can, but day is done, and there
is nothing left to do, but rest.
“And you don't need permission to let go, but if it helps to hear it anyway, let me affirm”
that you have that permission. Take a deep breath into your nose, let it out your mouth, nice, one more breath in, and
out, good, late at the library.
When I looked up from my notes, I was a bit surprised to see that the windows had gone dark. The sun had set, and the street lamps had come on, all while I was deep in my studies.
“I had my pencil clamped between my teeth, a pen, and a highlighter in one hand, rotating”
between all three as I worked.
I set everything down for a moment, and rolled my shoulders down onto my back.
I took a deep breath, and just looked out through the windows, across the front lawn of the library, and down the street into town. I could see the lights of the cafe. They were still serving, though the dinner rush was probably over. I imagined satisfied diners leaning back in their booths and considering dessert. The bakery was dark, locked up for the night, since they would need to be back at it early
tomorrow. Beside my books and pencil case, was the to-go cup of tea I'd bought from the bakery before settling in to study tonight, and when I reached for it, I found it nearly empty, and the drags gone cold. Now seemed a good time for a study break, so I pushed my chair back, and peaked around the desk lamp to a fellow evening researcher. I lifted an eyebrow, and gestured to the collection of academic
“ephemera around me, asking in the quiet language of library doors. Will you watch my stuff?”
I got a nod, and thumbs up, and carried my cup out into the hall. The library at night has a tucked in calm feeling, as if the world has been narrowed to just this place. There are pools of light enough to read and write by, but nothing too bright. No buzzing fluorescent bulbs are overhead panels, and the sounds already soft simply because of the nature of the building. See me even more muffled, as if the patrons and the environment
itself have come to an agreement that if there is work to be done, after what might have already been a long day, then it should at least be done calmly. I passed one of the meeting rooms, and noticed a note, tacked up with a push pin to the board
Beside the door, saying weekly writers group, 730 to 830.
Inside a half dozen or so people sat around the table with laptops or notebooks,
“some with their heads bowed, tapping away, and a couple staring into space,”
or with head tipped back, an eyes closed, and wondered what their novels were about, what was being dreamed up in those chairs. One of them looked up and caught me watching, he smiled, and I smiled back, and I liked the camaraderie of being at work with these people, separately, but together. At home, I'd have likely closed my books by now.
These aspiring writers might never have written a word, but together we shared a bit of momentum.
“I turned back to the hall, and kept walking. There was a hot water tap by the vending machines,”
and though my tea bag was a bit tired, I decided a week cup of tea was better than none at all. I refilled my cup. I noticed a lively buzz coming from the children's section, my leaned against the doorway, and looked in as I dunked my tea bag in the hot water. There were kids sitting in a half-circle, around one of the librarians, who had a large felt bored on an easel. I had a sudden memory of being a kid myself, and watching a story come to life,
“just like this. As felt pieces and bright colors were laid out, bit by bit.”
The story was about animals on a farm. There was a big red barn, and an apple tree, and cows dreaming about life in the big city. The kids laughed along with the librarian, and a few grown-ups sat in the small chairs, smiling as they watched. I began to wind my way back to my desk, but decided to take the long way there.
I took the stairs behind the non-fiction stacks, to the second floor, and walked slowly
through the rows of shelves. They reminded me of that odd feeling of being up in a school hallway, outside of school hours when I was a kid. On some evening after a basketball game, in the gymnasium, remembering I'd forgotten my science book in my locker, and needing to race up to get it. The way the familiar halls looked so strange and lonely in different light.
The way my footfalls sounded in the quiet, when it had never been quiet enough to hear them before.
Crossing the room, I noticed a reading knuck on a small landing that looked down over the main collection, a sofa, and a pair of chairs beside the railing. No one was there, but there were a few books left on the table, and I stopped to read the titles.
There was a classic mystery, I'd read three or four times before, and several...
recognize, and at the bottom of the stack, an old history book with a crinkly cellophane cover.
“I turned it back to front, reading the title and the summary, and stunned disbelief.”
It pertained to exactly the topic I'd been studying up on this semester. In fact, it felt like a missing puzzle piece to my research. I sent my cup on a table and flipped through a few chapters. There were engravings and photos, timelines and citations,
a wealth of data and details, and I said a quiet thank you
to whoever had pulled this volume from the stacks today, reddit by the railing,
“then left it behind for me to stumble across.”
I tucked it into my elbow, retrieved my tea, and crossed the mezzanine to the staircase on the other end of the library. Below me I could see bowed heads and open books,
pens moving across notebooks, and at one table a patron would put their head down on their arms
and seemingly fallen asleep. I could see how that could happen. The same quiet atmosphere that made for good studying could be ideal for sleep.
“The library would close in another hour.”
And I imagined one of the librarians needing to rose the table top sleeper, helping them to pack their books into their bag and seeing them out the door. The sconces in the back stairwell, bloat with golden light, as I descended, and came out back into the study room. I was determined to get a bit further into my notes before I wrapped it up for the night.
My desk mate gave me a small nod, as I sat down with my cup, and newly found book. I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders back again, and picked up my pencil. Late at the library, when I looked up from my notes, I was a bit surprised to see
that the windows had gone dark. The sun had sat, and the street lamps had come on all while I was deep in my studies. I had my pencil clamped between my teeth, a pen, and a highlighter in one hand, rotating between all three, as I worked.
I sat everything down for a moment, and rolled my shoulders down onto my back. I took a deep breath, and just looked out through the windows, across the front lawn of the library,
Down the street into town.
they were still serving, though the dinner rush was probably over.
“I imagined satisfied diners, leaning back in their booths, and considering dessert.”
The bakery was dark, locked up for the night, since they would need to be back at it early tomorrow. Besides my books and pencil case, was the to go cup of tea I'd bought from the bakery, before settling in to study tonight.
And when I reached for it, I found it nearly empty,
and the drags gone cold. Now seemed a good time for a study break. So I pushed my chair back and peaked around the desk lamp to a fellow evening researcher.
“I lifted an eyebrow, and gestured to the collection of academic”
a femurum around me, asking in the quiet language of library goers,
"Will you watch my stuff?"
I got a nod, and a thumbs up, and carried my cup out into the hall. The library at night has a tucked in calm feeling, as if the world has been narrowed to just this place. There are pools of light, enough to read and write by,
but nothing too bright.
“No buzzing fluorescent bulbs are overhead panels,”
and the sounds already soft, simply because of the nature of the building. Seem even more muffled. As if the patrons and environment itself have come to an agreement,
that if there is work to be done, after what might have already been a long day, then it should, at least, be done calmly. I passed one of the meeting rooms, and noticed a note,
tacked up with a pushpin to the board, beside the door, saying, "Weakly writer's group, 730 to 830." Inside a half dozen or so people,
sat around the table, with laptops or notebooks, some with their heads bowed, tapping away, and a couple, staring into space, or with head tipped back, a nice closed.
I wondered what their novels were about. What was being dreamed up in those chairs? One of them looked up and caught me watching. He smiled, and I smiled back.
I liked the camaraderie,
of being at work with these people, separately, but together.
“At home, I'd have likely closed my books by now.”
These aspiring writers might never have written a word
but together, we share it a bit of momentum. I turned back to the hall and kept walking. There was a hot water tap by the vending machines, and though my tea bag was a bit tired, I decided a week cup of tea was better than none at all.
I refilled my cup and noticed a lively buzz coming from the children's section. I leaned against the doorway,
“and looked in as I dunked my tea bag in the hot water.”
There were kids sitting in a half circle around one of the librarians who had a large felt board on an easel. I had a sudden memory of being a kid myself watching a story come to life just like this. As felt pieces in bright colors were laid out bit by bit.
The story was about animals on a farm. There was a big red barn and an apple tree and cows dreaming about life in the big city.
“The kids laughed along with the librarian,”
and a few grown-up sat in the small chairs, smiling as they watched. I began to wind my way back to my desk, but decided to take the long way there. I took the stairs beside the non-fiction stacks,
up to the second floor and walked slowly through the rows of shelves.
It reminded me of that odd feeling of being up in a school hallway outside of school hours when I was a kid. On some evening after a basketball game in the gymnasium, remembering night forgotten my science book in my locker, and needing to race up to get it.
The way the familiar halls looked so strange and lonely in different light. The way my foot falls sounded in the quiet.
When it had never been quiet enough to hear them before.
Crossing the room, I noticed a reading look on a small landing. That looked down over the main collection. A sofa, and pair of chairs beside the railing. No one was there, but there were a few books left on a table.
When I stopped to read the titles,
There was a classic mystery, mind-rend, three or four times before.
Several titles, I didn't recognize at all,
“and at the bottom of the stack, an old history book,”
with a crinkly, cellophane cover. I turned it back to front, reading the title and the summary, and stunned disbelief. It pertained to exactly the topic.
I'd been studying up on this semester.
In fact, it felt like a missing puzzle piece, to my research.
“I set my cup on a table and flipped through a few chapters.”
There were engravings and photos, timelines and citations, a wealth of data, and details,
and I said a quiet thank you.
To whoever had pulled this volume from the stacks today, read it by the railing, and then left it behind for me to stumble across. I tucked it into my elbow, retrieved my tea, and crossed the mezzanine,
“to the staircase on the other end of the library.”
Below me, I saw a bowed heads and open books, pens moving across notebooks, and at one table, a patron who'd put their head down on their arms, and seemingly fall on the sleep. I could see how that could happen. The same quiet atmosphere that made for a good study could be ideal for sleep.
The library would close in another hour, and I imagined one of the librarians, needing to rouse the table top sleeper, helping them to pack their books into their bag, and seeing them out the door.
The sconces in the back stairwell, glowed with golden light, as I descended. I came out back into the study room. I was determined to get a bit further into my notes, before I wrapped it up for the night.
My desk mate gave me a small nod, as I sat down with my cup, a newly found book. I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders back again, and picked up my pencil.
Sweet dreams.
