Piano Piano

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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. Click 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. 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.”

Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Before we settle in tonight, I wanted to tell you about something we've been building behind the scenes. For a long time now, listeners have been asking for a way, together, together. A quieter, cozy corner of the internet.

A place for stories, gentle practices, creativity, rest, and community. And little by little, we've been making it. The village of nothing much is almost ready to open its doors.

If you'd like to be among the first to hear more about it, you can subscribe to our newsletter

at the link in our show notes.

“That's where we'll be sharing updates, early invitations, and a few surprises along the”

way. I can't wait to show you what we've been creating. We give to a different charity each week. In this week, we are giving to solidarity and snacks. They are a mutual aid group providing supplies along Skid Row every Saturday.

Learn more about them in our show notes. For ad free episodes, subscribe to our premium feed at nothingmatchappins.com. Not just by listening to the sound of my voice, and following along with the simple shape of the story, we will train your brain to reliably settle and sleep.

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

If you wake again in the night, just press play, and you'll drop right back off. Our story tonight is called Piano Piano, and it's a story about replacing rush with something more settled and helpful. It's also about a walk and a watering can, a dish cloth, and a deep breath, and the useful lessons we can learn at any age.

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You aren't alone, you are guarded, you are safe.

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

Nice, one more, breathe in, and out. Piano, piano, from the kitchen doorway, I watched him slide his books into his bag. He thumbed through the scores stored in the piano seat, and I recognized some that he had finished working through for a recital a few months back. Some that he had learned to play a year ago.

One caught his eye, and he slipped it from the stack, and talked it into his bag. You haven't played that one in a while, I said. Did your teacher ask you to bring it back out? People, the strap of his book bag, over his shoulder, and thought for a moment before he answered.

“I thought of a variation on it, like a different arrangement, you know?”

I nodded, though I didn't quite know. His talent had been right beneath the surface from a very young age. Faint a scratch, had brought it to the light. He played almost every day, and with an understanding for the shape the notes made. The patterns they drew in the air, that I could only glimpse from the corner of my eye.

Finally he'd begun writing his own pieces, playing them out and stopping to pencil notes into his staff paper notebook. I would sit back and awe, as he did it.

“Not only that he could reshape the patterns, he'd learned, and make something brand new”

from them.

But that he had found a way to express himself so fluidly and naturally, words didn't always

work for him, like chords did. And when I listened, I felt like I got to know him better. The things he struggled to get across with speech, flowed easily from his piano. And day he was walking himself to his lesson. It was just a few blocks away, and he'd been seeing the same teacher for years, a lovely

woman, who taught from the upright in her front drawing room window.

But this was the first time he was going on his own.

I didn't ask if he had everything. I could see that he did. His bag on his shoulder, his water bottle hooked over one finger at his side. I swallowed, and sighed, and waved as he went down the driveway. My heart had said once, that parenting is meant to have an element of planned up-salescence built-in.

That, when done correctly, your child needs you less and less as they grow. And I knew that it was true, that it was part of my job as his mom, to let him branch out, to do things on his own, and thereby gain confidence and skill along the way.

But that doesn't mean it was always easy.

I watched him make his way down the sidewalk, and smiled when he stopped to look at the drawings. The neighbor kids had chocked onto the concrete.

serious I was being over him just walking his young self to his piano lesson.

“And anyway, there were things to do, I thought, as I looked around the house.”

My plants needed watering. The dishes on the drain rack were dry, I should put them away. The shoes at the back door were in a heap, and I had, for the millionth time in my adult life, to decide what was for dinner.

Maybe I could get it all done before he came back around that corner in an hour or so.

I pushed up my sleeves and filled my watering can at the sink. Out of habit, I began unconsciously to rush.

“I watered my pothos plant too quickly, and the excess overflowed the saucer.”

I went to get a dish towel from the kitchen and pulled over the sugar bowl, which had been set on the corner of it. As I cleaned up the sugar, I caught the belt loop of my jeans on a cabinet door and huffed out an exasperated sigh. After detaching myself from the knob, I stood still and drew a deep breath in, and let

it out, I closed my eyes, and a moment from the night before popped into my head. He'd been playing a tricky piece that had been challenging him for weeks.

“The notes followed one on top of the other, and his small hands had to stretch to reach”

all the keys. As he practiced, I heard him speaking softly to himself under his breath. When he finished, I sat down beside him, and waited for him to lift his fingers from the keys. I asked him what he said while he played.

He pointed to a handwritten note at the top of the hardest passage. It said, "Piano, piano." I knew it meant something like quiet or softly, but raised an eyebrow and waited for him to say more. His teacher had written it there to remind him he said, "To take his time, and not rush."

Piano, it turned out, meant not just softly, but also slowly. In the phrase, "Piano, piano" meant something like bit by bit. He had been taking the work bit by bit, so smart, my son. In the kitchen, with the sugar on the counter, and the water overflowing from the plant, I repeated the handy mantra, "Piano, piano."

Little by little, bit by bit, first this, then that.

I pulled my hair up into a clip, and felt my shoulders soften away from my ears. I cleaned the counter. I mopped up the water. I wrung out the dishcloth in the sink and hung it over the faucet to dry. Then I took my time, watering a plant, pausing to see if the soil could absorb a bit more,

and adding it, if so, then moving on to the next.

dead leaves where I found them.

“Just as he had, I said the words under my breath to remind me.”

"Piano, piano, and I was still at it, calmly tending to a spider plant in a hanging pot in the dining room. When I heard the door open and shut, and his footsteps in the hall, the hour had passed, the small milestone of walking himself to a lesson had been reached.

He was growing up, bit by bit, and so it seemed, was I.

Piano, piano.

“From the kitchen doorway, I watched him slide his books into his bag.”

He thumbed through the scores, stored in the piano seat, and I recognized some that he had finished working through, for a recital a few months back, some that he had learned to play years ago. One caught his eye, and he slipped it from the stack, and tucked it into his bag. You haven't played that one in a while," I said.

Did your teacher ask you to bring it back out? He pulled the strap of his book bag over his shoulder, and fought for a moment before he answered.

“I thought of a variation on it, like a different arrangement, you know?”

I nodded, though I didn't quite know. His talent had been right beneath the surface, from a very young age. The faintest scratch had brought it to light. He played almost every day, and with an understanding for the shape the notes made. The patterns they drew in the air, that I could only glimpse from the corner of my eye.

And lately he'd begun writing his own pieces, playing them out, then stopping to pencil notes into his staff paper notebook. I would sit back in awe, as he did it. Not only that he could reshape the patterns he'd learned, and make something brand new from them, but that he had found a way to express himself so fluidly, and naturally.

Words didn't work for him, like the chords did. And when I listened, I felt like I got to know him better. The thing is he struggled to get across with speech, float easily from his piano. And he was walking himself to his lesson. It was just a few blocks away, and he'd been seeing the same teacher for years.

A lovely woman who taught from the upright in her front drawing room window.

And this was the first time he was going on his own.

I didn't ask him if he had everything. I could see that he did. His bag on his shoulder, his water bottle hooked over one finger at his side.

I heard it said once, but parenting is meant to have an element of planned obsolescence

“built in, that when done correctly, your child needs you less and less as they grow.”

And I knew that it was true that it was part of my job as his mom to let him branch out, do things on his own, and thereby gain confidence and skills along the way.

But that doesn't mean it was always easy.

I watched him make his way down the sidewalk, and smile when he stops to look at the drawings, the neighbor kids had chalked onto the concrete.

“When he turned at the corner and moved out of sight, I shook myself a bit.”

Laughing at how serious I was being, over him just walking his young self to his piano lesson.

And there were things to do, I thought, as I looked around the house.

My plants needed watering. The dishes on the drain rack were dry, I should put them away. The shoes at the back door were in a heap, and for the millionth time in my adult life, I had to decide what was for dinner.

“Maybe I could get it all done before he came back around that corner in an hour or so.”

I pushed up my sleeves and filled my watering can at the sink.

Out of habit, I began unconsciously to rush. I watered my pothos plant too quickly, and the excess overflowed the saucer. I went to get a dish towel from the kitchen and pulled over the sugar bowl, which had been set on a corner of it. As I cleaned up the sugar, I caught the loop of my jeans on a cabinet door, and half

doubt and exasperated sigh. After detaching myself from the knob, I stood still and drew a deep breath in and out. I closed my eyes, and a moment from the night before popped into my head, he'd been playing a tricky piece that had been challenging him for weeks. The notes followed one on top of the other, and his small hands had to stretch to reach

all the keys. As he practiced, I heard him speaking softly to himself, under his breath. When he finished, I sat down beside him, and waited for him to lift his fingers from

I asked what he said while he played, and he pointed to a hand-written note at the top of

the hardest passage. It said piano, piano.

“I knew it meant something like quiet, or softly, but raised an eyebrow, and waited for”

him to say more.

His teacher had written it there, to remind him to take his time, and not rush.

piano turned out meant not just softly, but also slowly, and the phrase piano, piano meant something like bit by bit.

“He had been taking the work bit by bit, so smart, my son.”

In the kitchen with the sugar on the counter, and the water, overflowing from the plant,

I repeated the handy mantra, piano, piano, little by little, bit by bit, first this, then

that. I pulled my hair up into a clip, and felt my shoulders soften away from my ears.

“I cleaned the counter, I mopped up the water.”

I wrung out the dishcloth in the sink, and hung it over the faucet to dry. Then I took my time, watered a plant, paused to see if the soil could absorb a bit more, adding it if so, then moving on to the next. I worked my way around the house, refilling my watering can, a time or two, and clipping away dead leaves where I found them.

Just as he had, I said the words under my breath, to remind me, piano, piano, slowly, slowly, and I was still at it, calmly tending to a spider-plant, in a hanging pot in the dining room. When I heard the door open and shut, and his footsteps in the hall, the hour had passed. The small milestone of walking himself to a lesson had been reached. He was growing up, bit by bit, and so it seemed, was I.

dreams.