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You know those days when your brain just won't cooperate?
When you're staring at your to-do list, hopping from call to call, and the mental fog just gets thicker.
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Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone. in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
We give to a different charity each week.
And this week we are giving to Forever Home Dog Rescue.
They rescue dogs in need and help them find their forever homes.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
I'd like to thank some recent premium subscribers.
Thank you, Zara.
Thanks, Rosie and Carl.
Thank you, Andrew.
Thanks, Alyssa.
A dime a day keeps bad dreams away.
Ad-free, bonus, and our super long nine-hour episodes are waiting for you.
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Since every episode is someone's first, I like to say a bit about how and why this works.
Our brains benefit from a bit of engagement at bedtime.
That's why we can often fall asleep when we're watching TV or reading a book.
But in the quiet, after all of that's put away, we struggle.
And the type of content you use to engage matters.
My stories are intentionally created to build a long-term habit of mindfulness and a short-term result of excellent sleep.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
It's brain training, so give it some time to work.
The more you use it, the quicker you'll fall and return to sleep.
Our story tonight is called Autumn at the Inn, Part 4, and for now, it's the last in this series.
It's a story about a new routine that heals as it unfolds.
A morning cup of tea, drunk from a window seat on the second floor.
A room full of interesting objects and stories waiting to be heard.
It's also about an armful of letters, a bike ride through falling leaves and stepping into something new to find yourself again.
Now snuggle down into your sheets and get comfortable.
Maybe you've been waiting for this moment all day.
Well, it's here now and nothing else is needed from you.
You have done enough for the day.
Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth Again, breathe in and out.
Good.
Autumn at the Inn, part four.
After a few days at the inn, I'd settled into a routine.
I'd wake up after my room was already full of sunlight to the gentle scratch of Sycamore pawing at the door ready to get out and do his kiddie business.
Then I'd make a cup of tea from the kettle in my room and curl up on the window seat to take in the view and slowly come to life.
I noticed that the family of mallard ducks on the lake had one white farm duck in their midst and I looked for him each morning, checking that the family was all together, letting out a sigh over the steam of my teacup once I spotted him.
Then I'd dress in jeans and a sweater and tromp down to the main floor of the inn.
I often stopped on the landing halfway down.
There was a window there looking out over the front drive and I'd try to judge if the trees across the way had shifted a shade or two since the day before.
Down in the entryway I'd take a copy of the village paper from beside the front door, greet a few of my fellow guests and make my way down the long hallway to the back porch where breakfast was served.
It was cool on the porch, but the fresh morning air was so crisp and delicious I always looked forward to settling into my seat.
On that first morning, I'd picked a small table at the far end of the porch.
Not because I was shy or desperate for privacy, though there is as much of that as one could want here.
But because I wanted a spot in the corner where I had a sort of panoramic view from the water to the woods.
Now it had become my spot.
And this morning, when I sat in it and flipped my coffee cup over in its saucer, a signal that I'd learned meant Fill her up, please.
The innkeeper swept over with a carafe and began to pour.
From the pocket on her apron.
She took out a few packets of the raw sugar I liked and set them beside the cup.
Big day, I said.
She nodded and smiled easily.
She didn't seem worried or run off her feet.
Today was the opening of an exhibit in the ballroom on the second floor that over the last few days I'd learned all about.
It seems for decades a hidden room had sat shut up in the inn, just off the library, in fact.
It had gone undiscovered even by the innkeeper herself, until the night of the All Hallows' Ball, almost a year before.
It wasn't quite clear to me how she'd finally stumbled upon it, but when she did, she found it was full of journals and artifacts that hadn't been seen or handled in years.
For the last few months, she'd been putting them together as a collection of local history for the public to enjoy.
And tonight at five on the dot, the doors of the ballroom would open and we could all take a small trip back in time.
I'd met several other guests who'd booked their rooms here for this week, especially so that they could see the exhibit.
And while I hadn't known anything about it when I'd made my own reservation, I was no less excited.
The innkeeper told me one morning, as she served me a dish of baked maple oatmeal and toast with apple butter, that the things she'd found in that room weren't tied to some great, epic mystery or anything, but they were rather a sort of archive of daily life that they'd been collected by her predecessor, an earlier innkeeper, who'd not just kept the inn, she'd kept the stories of many people who'd passed through it.
Each morning, as she poured coffee and set plates down in front of me, she told me a bit more about the items that would be on display.
There were apple-picking baskets that were hand-woven from ash splints soaked in water till they were pliable, with handles made of steam-bent hickory.
I knew that there was a collection of dance cards from village socials and that she'd been able to trace a few names on them to show where the dancers had ended up, who they'd married or where they lived.
And there was a good bit of art.
Children's drawings, sketches on the back of grocery lists, designs on play programs and some beautiful photography of familiar sights around town.
Just as I was stirring the raw sugar into my coffee, Chef carried a large tray of baked goods up from the inn's kitchen and out onto the porch.
The innkeeper watched them settle it down onto a stand by the door and asked if I wanted a piece of coffee cake or a pecan sticky bun or a slice of pumpkin tea cake.
Having tasted so many of Chef's delicious creations, I knew I didn't want to limit myself and I asked if there might be a sampler option.
She chuckled and bustled off to gather the plates.
The next part of my daily routine, after I ate, was to venture out and explore.
And with the benefit of a bountiful baked breakfast.
I was ready to see what the autumn world held for me.
I packed my journal into my bag and stopped to poke my head into the front office.
I noticed a stack of letters and postcards in the inn's outbox and asked if I could drop them off at the mailbox on the corner for her.
She thanked me and asked if I was heading into town.
I said that I was.
Did she need anything?
She told me that the bookshop owner had called.
The novel she'd ordered was in.
Would I mind picking it up?
I wouldn't.
As I pulled, the front door shut behind me, kicked through the falling leaves on the drive, a bundle of letters under my arm and a chore to do for someone who, by now, felt like a friend.
I was so glad I'd made this trip.
I'd started off by thinking I just needed some time off, some fresh air and a break from the daily grind.
But I thought now that what had been missing from my days, what I'd been burnt out by the lack of, were the small moments of ordinary life that I seemed to feel more deeply here.
A bike ride under falling leaves, a meal on the porch, a spoonful of sugar, a duck spotted in the water, an apple basket, a postcard.
When I paused, when I took time to savor these things, I found they equaled more than the sum of their parts.
I wasn't ready to go home yet.
And when I did, I was starting to think it would just be to pack up the plants and make bigger plans.
But wherever I ended up, I would take with me the rhythm of these days.
I would make it my own.
Autumn at the Inn, Part 4 After a few days at the inn, I'd settled into a routine.
I'd wake after my room was already full of sunlight, to the gentle scratch of sycamore pawing at the door ready to get out and to his kiddie business.
Then I'd make a cup of tea from the kettle in my room and curl up on the window seat to take in the view and slowly come to life.
I noticed that the family of mallard ducks on the lake had one white farm duck in their midst.
And I looked for him each morning, checking that the family was all together, letting out a sigh over the steam of my teacup.
Then I'd dress in jeans and a sweater and tromp down to the main floor of the inn.
I often stopped on the landing halfway down.
There was a window looking out over the front drive and I'd try to judge if the trees across the way had shifted a shade or two since the day before.
Down in the entryway I'd take a copy of the village paper from beside the front door, greet a few of my fellow guests and make my way down the long hall to the back porch where breakfast was served.
It was cool on the porch.
But the fresh morning air was so crisp and delicious.
I always looked forward to settling in to my seat.
On that first morning, I picked a small table at the far end of the porch.
Not because I was shy or desperate for privacy, though there is as much of that as one could want here.
But because I wanted a spot in the corner where I had a sort of panoramic view from the water to the woods.
Now it had become my spot.
And this morning, when I sat in it and flipped my coffee cup over in its saucer, a signal that I'd learned meant fill her up, please.
The innkeeper swept over with a carafe. and began to pour.
From the pocket on her apron, she took out a few packets of the raw sugar I liked and set them beside my cup.
Big day, I said.
She nodded and smiled easily, She didn't seem worried or run off her feet.
Today was the opening of an exhibit in the ballroom on the second floor that over the last few days I'd learned all about.
For decades, it seems a hidden room had sat shut up in the inn.
Just off the library, in fact.
It had gone undiscovered, even by the innkeeper herself.
Until the night of the All Hallows' Ball. almost a year before.
It wasn't quite clear to me how she'd finally stumbled upon it.
But when she did, she found it was full of journals and artifacts that hadn't been seen or handled in years.
For the last few months, she'd been putting them together as a collection of local history for the public to enjoy.
And tonight at five on the dot, the doors of the ballroom would open and we could all take a small trip back in time.
I'd met several other guests who'd booked their rooms here for this week, especially so that they could see the exhibit.
And while I hadn't known anything about it when I'd made my own reservation, I was no less excited.
Each morning, As she poured coffee and set plates down in front of me, she told me a bit more about the items that would be on display.
There were apple picking baskets that were hand-woven from ash splints soaked in water till they were pliable, with handles made of steam-bent hickory.
I knew that there was a collection of dance cards from village socials and that she'd been able to trace a few names on them to show where the dancers had ended up, who they'd married or where they lived.
And there was a good bit of art as well.
Children's drawings, sketches on the back of grocery lists, designs on play programs and some beautiful photography of familiar sights around town.
Just as I was stirring the raw sugar into my coffee, the chef carried a large tray of baked goods up from the inn's kitchen and out onto the porch.
The innkeeper watched them settle it down onto a stand and asked if I wanted a piece of coffee cake or a pecan sticky bun or a slice of pumpkin tea cake.
Having tasted so many of Chef's delicious creations, I knew I didn't want to limit myself and asked if there might be a sampler option.
She chuckled and bustled off to gather the plates.
The next part of my daily routine, after I ate, was to venture out to explore.
And with the benefit of a bountiful baked breakfast.
I was ready to see what the autumn world held for me.
I packed my journal into my bag and stopped to poke my head into the front office.
I noticed a stack of letters and postcards in the inn's outbox and asked if I could drop them off at the mailbox on the corner for her.
She thanked me and asked if I was headed into town.
I said that I was.
Did she need anything?
She told me the bookshop owner had called.
The novel she'd ordered was in.
Would I mind picking it up?
I wouldn't.
As I pulled, the front door shut behind me and kicked through the falling leaves on the drive.
A bundle of letters under my arm and a chore to do for someone who, by now felt like a friend.
I was so glad I'd made this trip.
I'd started off by thinking I just needed some time off, some fresh air and a break from the daily grind.
But I thought now that what had been missing from my days before, what I'd been burnt out by the lack of, were the small moments of ordinary life that I seemed to feel more deeply here.
A bike ride under falling leaves, a meal on the porch, a spoonful of sugar, a duck spotted in the water, an apple basket, a postcard.
When I paused, when I took time to savor these things, I found that they equaled more than the sum of their parts.
I wasn't ready to go home yet.
And when I did, I was starting to think it would just be to pack up the plants and make bigger plans.
But wherever I ended up, I would take with me the rhythm of these days.
I would make it my own.
Sweet dreams.
