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all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. To bed time 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 Widdershime. Just like you can condition your muscles, you can condition your brain, to fall asleep, and return to sleep, more quickly and easily.
“And the good news is that all you need to do to accomplish this is to listen.”
The more regularly you use the show, the better. This listener's report best results after about a month of regular use.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on. Our story tonight is called Sidewalk Choc. And it's a story about a journey through the park on a bright day. It's also about a cold drink from the coffee shop, a frog blinking from a pond, Alice and the caterpillar, birch trees and drawings on the sidewalk, and paying more attention
when small, happy moments wash over you.
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You are about to fall asleep, and you will sleep deeply all night long. I know I am just a stranger on the internet, but I hope you can feel how earnestly I care. How I am holding space for you to let your guard down, and feel safe and dream sweetly.
Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth, nice one more...
And out good, side walk chalk, the sunshine and warm weather was back.
“The storms last week had been a nice reprieve.”
The grass was green, the flowers looked refreshed. And the lily pads in the pond seemed to have doubled in number in the last few days.
I'd felt the urge to get out and catch some sun on my face, so I'd wandered into the park
down town. The coffee shop on Main Street had come Gucha on tap, and I had a tall icy cup of it in my hand.
“As I strolled past the newspaper kiosk at the entrance, the paved path circling the pond”
was busy with walkers and strollers.
And I turned out a fork to go deeper into a wooded area. I love that feeling of even in the middle of town being able to suddenly step into wilderness and nature. The bird song rose around me, like the volume dial had just been turned
“up, and a chipmunk crossed in front of me, his cheeks bulging with forged snacks.”
I sighed as I passed under the shade of a giant oak tree, the wind blew, and a few leftover rain drops that had been clinging to its leaves, fell to my face in arms. I sipped at my tea, tart, and floral. My thought it had been elderberry, or huckleberry lemon, either way it was delicious, and I caught myself feeling truly happy, contented. I'd realized these moments flicker through my days all the time, like sunlight filtering
down to the sidewalk through the leaves, and I'd been trying to pay more attention to them, to let them take up more space in my mind. I simply witnessed them, with my eyes wide open. My senses alert. It was as if I was marking them down, like a hatchmark chopped down a wall, and a counting of the goodness in my days. A small murky pool had formed from the rain around the stand of birch trees,
and as I passed it, a sudden movement caught my eye. It was immediately followed by a flop, and I realized I'd startled a frog. I stopped to wait for him to surface. I'm sure enough, a few seconds later, a tiny curved head, and two round blinking eyes paired up at me. I could just see his limbs, floating beneath the waterline, as ripples
Streamed away, in concentric circles.
bedside table. The old pond, a frog jumps in, the sound of the water. It had been
“written by a poet, named Matsuo-bashou, who died 300 years before I'd been born, and lived”
in a land 6,000 miles away. Yet, we'd both noted the same moment. He'd described exactly how it felt to be here. Right now, I smiled at the frog, finding the continuity from
Bashou to me, a comfort and a joy. The path took me out of the cops of trees, and into an
orderly garden, full of lavender, delphinium, and fox glove. There were neat boxwoods, and
“soapy areas, carved into cones, spirals, and giant toadstools. What a difference from the”
wild I'd just stepped out of. I almost expected to see the queen of hearts marching toward
me. I looked down at the path, and saw that someone else must have had the same thought.
There was a white rabbit, sketched with sidewalk chalk on the pavement. Beside it was a pocket watch, on a gold chain, and a teapot. All of the drawings were a little bit faded,
“and I guessed they'd been made just before the rain had fallen. My paused, wondering if I'd”
dropped out of the poetry of Bashou and down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. I remembered a flyer, I'd seen at the coffee shop, while waiting for my drink order. A program run by the library. What had it said, was something like stories and sidewalk chalk. I'd been skimming it when they called my name, and hadn't picked up much of what it was about. But clearly it was just like it sounded. I imagined a librarian telling about Alice on the
Cheshire cat, drawing out bottles with tags attached and playing cards, and I felt a bit disappointed that I'd missed it. grown-ups like stories too. In the next section of pavement, the kids must have been encouraged to draw characters from the story, and I spotted what I thought might have been the mad hatter, and the caterpillar. There was also a dinosaur being go, and what I was pretty sure was cookie monster. So they'd added a bit of their
own favorites. At the edge of the flower garden was a small wooden box on a stand. Sort of like the little libraries in my own neighborhood, where you could borrow and lend books. But
This one was full to bursting with colored chalk, dusty cylinders, and shades...
green and yellow. Some fresh and unused, others smaller and broken, gathered in an old coffee cup.
“Looked on the pavement below the box, where the simple words express yourself, what a”
delightful invitation. I sorted through the clinking pieces, and sat down on the path.
A tree, a blue bird, a rainbow with fluffy white clouds on either end. I drew the frog,
floating in the pool, and the chipmunk with his stuffed cheeks. I went back to the faded
“images drawn by the storyteller, and did my best to color them back in, retracing so that”
they would last a few more days. I thought about the poem in the woods, the story in the garden,
and the attempt I'd been making, to witness more of the good things that happened in my orbit. I took a blue stick of chalk back to the edge of the tree line. There was another
“line of poetry that had been drifting through my mind, a line by the profound and beautiful”
Mary Oliver. I sketched it out on the path, hoping that the next person who saw it would be likewise inspired. I stood back, and whispered her instructions, for living a life. She wrote, "Pay attention. Be amazed. Tell about it." Sidewalk chalk. The sunshine and warm weather was back. The storms last week had been a nice reprieve. The grass was green. The flowers looked refreshed. I'm the lily pads in the pond, seemed to have doubled
the number in the last few days. I'd felt the urge to get out, and catch some sun on my face. So I'd wandered into the park, downtown. The coffee shop on Main Street had kombucha on tap, and I had a tall icy cup of it in my hand. As I strolled past the newspaper kiosk at the entrance. The paved path circling the pond was busy with walkers, strollers, and I turned out a fork to go deeper into a wooded area. I love that feeling of
even in the middle of town, being able to suddenly step into wilderness a nature. The bird's song rose around me, like the volume dial had just been turned up, and a chip
Monk crossed in front of me.
under the shade of a giant oak tree. The wind blew, and a few leftover rain drops that
“had been cleaning to its leaves fell to my face in arms. I slipped at my tea, tart and floral.”
I thought it had been elderberry, more huckleberry lemon. Either way, it was delicious.
And I caught myself feeling truly happy, and contented. I'd realized these moments flicker
“through my days, all of the time, like sunlight, filtering down to the sidewalk through the”
leaves. And I'd been trying to pay more attention to them, to let them take up more space
in my mind by simply witnessing them with my eyes wide open. My senses alert. It was as if I was
“marking them down, like a hatchmark, chalked down to a wall, and accounting of the goodness”
in my days. A small, murky pool had formed from the rain around the stand of birch trees. And as I passed it, a sudden movement caught my eye. It was immediately followed by a plop, and I realized I'd startle the frog. I stopped to wait for him to surface. Sure enough, a few seconds later, a tiny, curved head, and two round, blinking eyes, paired up at me. I could just see his limbs, floating beneath the waterline,
as ripples streamed away in concentric circles. My thought of a high coup, I'd read in the books on my bedside table. The old pond, a frog jumps in, the sound of water. It had been written by a poet named Matsuo Basha, who died 300 years before I'd been born, and lived in a land 6,000 miles away. Yet, we'd both noted the same moment. He'd described exactly how it felt to be here right now. I smiled at the frog, finding the continuity
From Basha to me, a comfort, and a joy.
and into an orderly garden full of lavender, delphinium, and foxcloth. There were
“neat boxwoods and topiaries carved into cones, spirals, and giant toadstools. What a difference”
from the wild. I just stepped out of. I almost expected to see the queen of hearts marching
toward me. I looked down at the path, and saw that someone must have had the same thought.
There was a white rabbit sketched with sidewalk chalk on the pavement. Beside it was a pocket watch, on a gold chain, and a teapot. All of the drawings were a bit faded,
and I guessed they'd been made just before the rain had fallen. I paused, wondering if
“I dropped out of the poetry of Basha, and down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. I remember”
it a flyer I'd seen at the coffee shop, while waiting for my drink order. A program run by the library. I'd had it said, something like stories and sidewalk chalk. I'd been skimming it when they called my name. I hadn't picked up much of what it was about, but clearly it was just
“like it sounded. I imagined a librarian telling about Alice and the Cheshire cat, drawing”
out bottles, with tags attached, and playing cards, and felt a bit disappointed, that I'd missed it, grown-ups like stories too. In the next section of pavement, the kids must have been encouraged to draw characters from the story. And I spotted what I thought might have been the mad hatter, and the caterpillar. There was also a dinosaur, bingo, and what I was pretty sure was cookie monster. So they'd added a bit of their own favorites. At
the edge of the flower garden was a small wooden box on a stand, sort of like the little libraries, in my own neighborhood, where you could borrow and lend books. But this one was full to bursting, with colored chalk, dusty cylinders, and shades of pink and green and
Yellow.
chalked on the pavement below the box, where the simple words express yourself.
“A delightful invitation. I sorted through the clinking pieces, and sat down on the path.”
My drew a bit, a tree, a blue bird, a rainbow with fluffy white clouds on either end.
And drew the frog, floating in the pool, and the chipmunk with his stuffed cheeks. I went
“back to the faded images drawn by the storyteller, and did my best to color them back in,”
tracing, so that they would last for a few more days. I thought about the poem in the woods.
The story in the garden, and the attempt I'd been making, to witness more of the good
“things that happened in my orbit. I took a blue stick of chalk, back to the edge of the”
tree line. There was another line of poetry that had been drifting through my mind. Looking by the profound and beautiful, Mary Oliver, I sketched it out on the path, hoping the next person who saw it would be likewise inspired. I stood back and whispered her instructions for living a life. She wrote, pay attention, be amazed, tell about it, sweet dreams.
