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“Hi, I'm Catherine 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.
“Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens.”
You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai, I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Widdersheim. Now, I'm going to tell you a bedtime story, and it will occupy your mind enough to keep it from wandering, but not so much that it will keep you up.
All you have to do is listen.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower, the second time through.
This is a kind of brain training, so know that it will get better and better with time. Our story tonight is called The Cabin in Summer, and it's a story about days spent in the sunny garden and the shaded forest, but it's also about lemon balm and raspberries. The cool water of the creek running over your ankles, mushroom, hunting, and thresholds sweeping, and the wisdom of wild places, handed down from one generation to the next.
One of the things I'm trying to do as I get older is to make healthy choices easier, because if something is complicated, I probably won't keep doing it, but if it becomes part of a ritual, I will. So for me, that's things like a morning latte, keeping water nearby while I'm writing, making tea in the afternoon.
“Water is just part of the rhythm of my day, and that's why I use aquatru.”
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Aquatru even comes with a 30-day best tasting water guarantee that's AQUATRU.com, promo code NOTHINGMUCH. So lights out, devices down. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. You are about to fall asleep, and you will sleep deeply all night.
Take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth. Nice, one more, breathe in, and out, good. The cabin in summer, thank goodness for old trees.
All around the cabin, they stood tall and covered us in shade.
Even on the warmest days of summer, they kept us cool.
“We could retreat inside after hours in the garden, or long walks on the trails, and we'd”
instantly feel a relief of the dim realms and the fresher air. And the summer was proving to be a warm one for sure. Our gardens were thriving from the sunny days. Our tomatoes, particularly, loved the high heat on abundant light.
We planted basil, around and among the tomato cages.
And every day I pinched them back to keep flowers away, and more leafy growth coming.
“The zucchini and peppers were growing fast, and the pumpkin patch was promising, and exciting”
jackal lantern carvings season to come. Along the split rail fence, at the garden's back, vines of wild raspberries grew. In most days I picked enough to fill a mug from the cupboard, and twined with the vine,
and growing in low mounds along fence posts, was lemon balm, which I hadn't planted,
but had somehow found its way here. In balm reminded me a bit of mint, in the shape of its leaves, and even slightly in its fragrance.
“The leaves were crinkly, and harsh-shaped, and when I bruised them gently, they gave off”
the scent, yes, of lemon, but something softer, like lemon zest, and grass, and mint all together. I'd been picking stems of it, along with the raspberries. Sometimes just to tuck behind my ear, and smell as I worked, and sometimes to add to my iced tea, but also because for me, it figured into a good night's sleep, and plenty
of traditions. Lemon balm was thought to lift hearts, to sweeten thoughts, and even dreams. So returning to the cool rooms of the cabin, with my raspberries, and my posy of herbs, and cut a few stems, and tuck them into a little satchel. Nothing fancy, it could be a bit of cheesecloth, an old handkerchief, or a scrap of pillow
ice, my tie it shut, with a bit of twine, and tuck it under our pillows, to ward off nightmares, and bring us sweet dreams. Every few days, I refreshed the herbs, and I found the ritual soothing, even if it wasn't exactly rational, and I didn't need it to be. Working a garden long enough, and you learn there are rhythms we hardly tap into.
Patterns unseen by most, that there are more things in garden and woods than our dreamt of in most philosophy. And it made me happy to do something small, to take care of us, made me smile, and maybe
That was the magic of it.
In the same vein, I'd set out two raspberries, and a fimble full of water, on the window
“of cell at night, for the fairies, of course.”
And most mornings the berries would be gone, a thimble tipped over and dry, except for the dew that had settled on it. I was bedding, I was making some starling, or warbler happy, with my evening traditions.
And after all, birds are a sort of fairy, right there.
There was also the creek to pay regular visits to. Sometimes we went all together, the dog is well.
“We'd walk the trails after dinner, and hunt mushrooms that grew from the tree trunks,”
aga, and woodiers, and hen of the woods, or hen of the wood, we weren't sure which.
But often I went by myself, I loved listening to the babble of the water, watching it as
it rushed over rocks, or spiral the netties, stepping into it on a hot day, with my bare feet, feeling the cool water rising up over my ankles. It was a heavenly feeling, and one that washed most thoughts from my head. There is a saying that a person can't step into the same river twice for the river has changed, and so has the person.
“When that did feel true, each trip out, even when the summer days repeated themselves, with”
familiar actions, meals, and rhythms, I was different, and so was the water. When it made me think of another bit of folklore, my must have learned it when I learned to use lemon balm and feed the fairies. The advice was that trees are keepers, and rivers are carriers. So tell the trees the things you need held, your secrets and memories.
The puzzles you haven't worked out yet, and the wishes that weren't quite fully formed, they would hold them for you, but tell the water what you wanted carried away, your worries and cares, the things you were done with, and didn't serve you any longer. In the evenings when the dishes were drying on the drainboard, on the fireflies were beginning to shimmer in the yard.
Before I set out the berries, or we laid our heads down on our lemon-centred pillows, I do one last bit of housekeeping, one more traditional practice that had been handed down to me. When we were done reading our books on the porch, when the dog had made his last trip out into the grass, I'd be the last to go in, I kept a broom in the corner of the porch, and I took a moment to sweep the steps and the threshold.
I swept in counter-clockwise circles, a pattern called "Witterschins," and as I went, I cleared the day out of my mind. My swept out the cobwebs, and spare used up thoughts, any unkindness,
Or uncharitable thinking, and once the threshold was clean, I turned the broo...
it's bristles faced up, and prompted back in the corner.
“The upturned broom was meant to protect us from any unwelcome visitors in the night, and”
was a habit I'd learn directly from my grandmother. She'd even used it when she was ready for a house guest to be on their way. She'd send me into her cleaning cupboard to
stand the broom up on its end, and within ten minutes sure enough, we would have the house
“to ourselves again. My often thought of her, as I stepped inside and closed the door”
on the night, grateful for the wise women, passed down ways to send worries into water, wishes and traction, and to build a safe place to lay your head and dream in peace. The cabin
summer, thank goodness for old trees all around the cabin. They stood tall and covered
“us in shade. Even on the warmest days of summer, they kept us cool. We could retreat”
inside after hours in the garden, or long walks on the trails, and we'd instantly feel the relief of the dim rooms, the fresher air, and this summer was proving to be a warm one. For sure. Our gardens were thriving from the sunny days. Our tomatoes, particularly, loved the high heat, and abundant light. We'd planted basil, around, and among the tomato cages. And every day, my pinched them back, to keep their flowers away, and more leafy
growth coming. The zucchini and peppers were growing fast, and the pumpkin patch was promising, and exciting, jack-o-lantern, carving season to come. Along the split rail fence, at the garden's back, vines of wild raspberries grew. When most days, I picked enough to fill a mug from the cupboard, and twined with the vine, and growing in low mounds, along the fence post, was lemon balm, which I hadn't planted, but had somehow found its way here.
A lemon balm reminded me, a bit of mint, in the shape of its leaves, and even slightly in its fragrance. The leaves were crinkly, and heart-shaped, and when I bruised them gently, they gave off the scent. We asked of lemon, with something softer, like lemon zest,
Grass, and mint all together.
Sometimes just to tuck behind my ear, and smell as I worked, and sometimes to add to my
“nice tea, but also because, for me, had figured into a good night's sleep, and plenty of”
traditions. Lemon balm was thought to lift hearts, to sweeten thoughts, and even dreams. So returning to the cool rooms of the cabin, with my raspberries, and my posy of herbs,
I'd caught a few stems, and tuck them into a little satchel. Nothing fancy.
“It could be a bit of cheesecloth, and old curchiff, or scrap of pillowcase.”
I'd tie it shut with a bit of twine, and tuck it under our pillows, to ward off nightmares, and bring us sweet dreams. Every few days, I refreshed the herbs, and I found the ritual
soothing, even if it wasn't exactly rational. I didn't need it to be, work in a garden long
“enough. When you learn, there are rhythms we hardly tap into. Patterns unseen by most.”
There are more things in garden and woods than our drumped of in most philosophy. When it made me happy to do something small to take care of us, it made me smile, and maybe that was the magic of it. In the same vein, I'd set out two raspberries, and a thimble full of water on the window, so at night. For the fairies, of course. And most mornings, the berries would be gone. The thimble tipped over and dry, except for
the dew that settled on it. I was bedding, I was making some starling or warbler, happy with my evening tradition. But after all, birds are sort of fairy, aren't they? There was also the creek to pay regular visits to. Sometimes we all went together. The dog is well. We'd walk the trails after dinner, and hunt mushrooms that grew from tree trunks. Doggo, and woodiers, and hen of the woods, or hen of the wood, we weren't sure which.
But often I went by myself. I loved listening to the babble of the water. Watching it is at rushed over rocks, or spiraled in eddies. Stepping into it on a hot day with my bare feet, feeling the cool water rising up over my ankles. It was a heavenly feeling, and one that
Washed most thoughts from my head.
the same river twice, for the river has changed, and so has the person. When that
“did feel true, each trip out. Even when the summer days repeated themselves, with familiar”
actions, meals and rhythms, I was different when so was the water. It made me think of another bit of folklore. My must have learned it when I learned to use lemon-bomb, and to feed
the ferries. The advice was that trees are keepers, and rivers are carriers. So tell the
“trees, the things you need held. Your secrets and memories. The puzzles you haven't”
worked out yet, and the wishes that weren't quite fully formed. They would hold them for you. But tell the water what you wanted carried away. Your worries, when your cares.
The things you were done with, and didn't serve you any longer. In the evenings, when
“the dishes were drying on the drainboard, and the fireflies were beginning to shimmer in”
the yard. Before I set out the ferries meal, or relate our heads down on lemon-centred pillows, I do one last bit of housekeeping. One more traditional practice that had been handed down to me. When we were done reading our books on the porch, and the dog had made his last trip out into the grass. I'd be the last to go in. My kept a broom in the corner of the porch, and I took a moment to sweep the steps and the threshold. My swept in counter
clockwise circles, a pattern called "witter shins." And as I went, I cleared the day out of my mind. My swept out the cobwebs, and spare, mused up thoughts, and the unkindness, more uncharitable thinking. And once the threshold was clean, I turned the broom over, so its bristles faced up, and prompted back in the corner. The upturned broom was meant to protect us from any unwelcome visitors in the night. It was a habit I'd learned directly
from my grandmother. She'd even used it when she was ready for a house guest to be on their way. She'd send me into her cleaning cupboard, to stand the broom up on its end. From within ten minutes, sure enough, we'd have the house to ourselves again. My often thought of her,
As I stepped inside, I'm closed to the door on the night.
to pass down ways to send worries into water, wishes into action, and to build a safe place to lay your head, and dream in peace. Sweet dreams.
