Slow Life

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“If you're looking for something a little more lively and outspoken, tukes, takes, might”

be right up your alley. What kind of tukes shares bold, unfiltered takes on reality TV and real life, with a mix of humor and honesty that's really engaging.

Fine, tukes, takes, wherever you listen.

Welcome 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 Woodersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to tiny paws to rescue, finding pugs there forever homes, learn more about them in our show notes. For bonus and ad-free episodes, and to support and sustain what we do, become a premium member by clicking subscribe, and apple, or Spotify, or by going to nothingmuchappens.com.

You know how this goes, I'm going to build a scaffolding with words, a support system for your mind to rest in.

“I'll read our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.”

If you wake in the night, any scaffolding will do, this story or any simple pleasant memory, just start at a beginning point, and walk yourself through, and within a few steps, you'll fall right back to sleep. Our story tonight is called Slow Life, and it's about changing your pace in lots of small ways.

It's also about the texture of tree bark, your shoulders releasing from your ears, and the feeling of shallow music vibrating in your chest. Now lights out, snuggle in, and release your jaw.

Anything left from the day, take a second to acknowledge it.

It's the act of looking away that makes thoughts stickier. If you look head on, just acknowledge what is there, how it feels, often it will release its grip on you, and a couple of breaths will help complete the cycle. Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth. Nice, one more breath in, and out, good, slow life.

There are certain lessons I have to learn over and over again. I can't count how many times I've started cooking dinner by saying to myself, "I don't need the big pan." In an attempt to save time cleaning up, I reach for the smaller one. In ten minutes later, when it's overflowing with vegetables and spices, and I still

need to add the sauce, I can seed, and take the bigger pan out, and sloppily shift everything

It's the same on that street that runs through downtown.

The lights are timed, and if I slow down, I'll actually hit a half dozen green lights in a row, but I forget over and over, and race only to stop and wait to each one. Hmm, what other lessons? To mind my own business, to let what others think of me be theirs.

I put too many clothes in the washing machine, then have to dry them three times.

“Most of these come to the same thing, slow down, slow down to remember what I already”

know, slow down to enjoy the process of every day actions, slow down because I'll just make better choices, when I'm not rushed. So I'm trying to have a slower life in the moments when I can.

I started at home in very small ways, when I washed the dishes, I waited until the water

temperature was just right before I filled the sink.

“Then I found I didn't have to run more hot or cold in, as I went.”

I slowed down, as I put away a stack of folded t-shirts, and rather than drop half of them in a heap in a drawer, they actually went in the way they were meant to. It was a deliberate practice. One thing I had to revisit pretty regularly, as my inner engine was so used to revving up that I'd find myself rushing for no reason, and soon I'd step my toe, or back out

“of the driveway, with my coffee cup on the car roof, or need three tries to turn off”

a light switch, I'm thinking, I'm doing it again, and I'd take a deep breath, and let it out, and slow down. Even trickier was living slowly out of the house. When the momentum of the people around me could easily catch me up like a leaf, and the current of a creek, it helped to look for small details to pay attention to.

When I waited in line on a busy morning at the bakery, feeling the haste of those around me, eager to get a bagel, and get to work or school. I really looked at the golden color of the croissants in the case. I listened to the creaky board under my feet. I breathed in the jammy smell of the donuts.

When I was in the park, walking fast for no reason, a stitch in my side, and without the

literally by reaching out to loop an arm around the trunk of a tree.

“I'd close my eyes, and lift my face to the sky, and give the hurry a chance to drain”

out of me. If my eyes still closed, the sounds around me shifted, from background noise to high-fi stereo, I'd listen to hear my own breath, feel my heartbeat, and once I could,

I'd start to walk again, deliberately looking for a pace that just felt good.

I'd remind myself of something my yoga teacher used to say, when I was trying to hard on

“my mat, straining with my shoulders clenched to my ears, in warrior Vietabhadrasana too.”

She'd lay her hands gently on my shoulders, and remind me, there's nowhere to get, no where to get, nowhere.

I'd read once about the word utopia, a word we've taken to mean paradise, a place of perfection.

The literal translation, though, is just no place. And when I read that, I didn't take it as a seed of pessimism planted in the literature. As if Sir Thomas Moore were saying paradise couldn't exist, but rather that perfection lives in open spaces, in unhurried minutes, in bare experience. Was that what he meant?

“Honestly, I didn't care, it meant that for me.”

I looked forward to some of those bare experiences tonight, as I headed to the auditorium, where the community theater played. There was a chamber music concert that I'd bought a ticket for. And when the asher at the door tore it, and handed me back the stub. He just shared up the aisle and straight toward the stage, and keeping with the concept

of music for a small space. The audience was limited, and seated right on stage with the musicians. I found my seat, and slipped my program into my bag. I didn't want to read about it. I wanted to listen without distraction.

The house lights dimmed, and it felt like the stage was a raft, floating in a broad sea of darkness. The musicians took their places, and I pressed my feet flat on the floor, and rested my palms on my knees.

I could hear the small sounds of the instruments being brought into position.

“I swear I could even hear the sound of everyone coming to attention, that all of us”

musicians and audience members decided together to turn our inner dials to the same channel, then there was the high poignant voice of a violin playing a melody I didn't know.

The cello joined in, and I could feel the resonance of it in my chest.

“I heard someone say once that sound is just touch from a distance, and I could see why”

as the viola and piano came in, as they handed the melody back and forth, and knit the notes together, I felt like I was woven into the music.

I slowed my breath down, I was no place, and I intended to stay.

There are certain lessons I have to learn over and over again. I can't count how many times I've started cooking dinner by saying to myself, "I don't need the big pan." In an attempt to save time cleaning up, I reach for the smaller one, then ten minutes later, and it's overflowing with vegetables, spices, and I still need to add the sauce.

I can seed and take the bigger pan out and sloppily shift everything from one to the other. By actually tripling the mass, it's the same on the street that runs through down town. The lights are timed, and if I slow down, I'll actually hit half dozen green lights in a row, but I forget, over and over, and race only to stop and wait at each one. What are their lessons, oh, to mind my own business, to let what others think of me

be theirs. I put too many clothes in the washing machine, and then have to dry them three times.

“Most of these come to the same thing, slow down, slow down to remember what I already”

know, slow down to enjoy the process of everyday actions, slow down because I'll just make better choices when I'm not rushed.

It started at home in very small ways.

“When I washed the dishes, I waited till the water temperature was just right before I filled”

the sink. Then I found I didn't have to run more hot or cold in as I went.

I slowed down as I put away a stack of folded t-shirts, and rather than drop half of them

in a heap in the drawer, they actually went in the way they were meant to. It was a deliberate practice.

“Something I had to revisit pretty regularly.”

As my inner engine was so used to revving up, then I'd find myself rushing for no reason.

Soon, I'd stub my toe or back out of the driveway with my coffee cup on the car roof, or need three tries to turn off a light switch. Ah, I'm doing it again, and I'd take a deep breath and let it out and slow down.

“Then trickier was living slowly out of the house.”

When the momentum of the people around me could easily catch me up, like a leaf and the current of a creek. It helped to look for small details to pay attention to. So when I waited in line on a busy morning at the bakery, feeling the haste of those around me, eager to get a bagel and get to work or school, I really looked at the golden color of the

croissants in the case. I listened to the creaky board under my feet. I breathed in the sweet, jammy smell of the donuts. When I was in the park, walking fast for no reason, a stitch in my side and without the space in my head or senses to enjoy the summer breeze, I'd catch myself sometimes literally.

By reaching out to loop an arm around the trunk of a tree, I'd stop, close my eyes and lift my face to the sky and give the hurry a chance to drain out of me. With my eyes still closed, the sounds around me shifted from background noise to high-fi stereo. I'd listen to hear my own breath to feel my heartbeat and once I could, I'd start to walk again.

I'd remind myself of something, my yoga teacher used to say,

“"When I was trying too hard on my mat, straining with my shoulders, clenched my ears,”

in warrior, Vietabhadrasana too, she'd lay her hands gently on my shoulders and remind me, there's nowhere to get, nowhere to get, I'd read once about the word utopia, a word we've taken to mean paradise, a place of perfection.

The literal translation, though, has actually just no place, and when I read that,

I didn't take it as a seed of pessimism, planted in literature, as if Sertama's more were saying paradise couldn't exist, but rather that perfection lives in open spaces, in unharried minutes, in bare experience. Was that what he meant?

“Honestly, I didn't care. It meant that for me.”

I looked forward to some of those bare experiences tonight,

as I headed to the auditorium where the community theater played, there was a chamber music concert that I'd bought a ticket for, and when the usher at the door tore it, and handed me back the stop, he just shared up the aisle and straight toward the stage,

“and keeping with the concept of music for a small space.”

The audience was limited and seated right on stage with the musicians. I found my seat and slipped my program into my bag. I didn't want to read about it, and wanted to listen, without distraction. The house lights dimmed, and it felt like the stage was a raft, floating in a broad sea of darkness. The musicians took their places,

and I pressed my feet flat on the floor, and rested my palms on my knees. I closed my eyes, and turned myself over to listening. I could hear the small sounds of the instruments, being brought into position. I swear I could even hear the sound of everyone coming to attention.

to the same channel, then there was the high poignant voice

“of a violin playing a melody I didn't know.”

The cello joined in, and I could feel the resonance of it in my chest.

I heard someone say once that sound is just touch from a distance, and I could see why.

“As the viola and piano came in, as they handed the melody back and forth,”

and knit the notes together, I felt like I was woven right into the music.

I slowed my breath down. I was no place, and I intended to stay sweet dreams.