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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 Adopt-A-Pet of Fenton, Michigan.
Adopt-A-Pet finds loving families for homeless dogs and cats, as well as assisting people in the community with their personal animals.
We just adopted a very sweet two-year-old dog from them about a month ago and we are so grateful to have Harriet in our family.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
For ad-free and bonus episodes, click subscribe in Spotify or Apple, or go to nothingmuchappens.com.
Since every episode is someone's first, I like to say a little about how this works.
For many of us, especially folks with ADHD or busy brains, total silence at bedtime isn't actually relaxing.
When the world goes quiet the brain often goes hunting for stimulation, and a calm voice gives it something gentle and predictable to follow so it can settle.
And this is completely normal.
It's not cheating, and it's not a bad habit.
It's actually good sleep hygiene.
Now I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, just start another episode.
You'll drop right back off.
Our story tonight is called Fogged Glasses and Felting Fibers, and it's a story about an evening spent working on a project among friends.
It's also about a tote bag full of spools of colored thread, the moon reflected in a car window, a saved seat, a black-and-white movie, the quiet, companionable sound of knitting, needles clicking and a gentle nudge to direct more attention to the things that make you grateful and content.
Okay, it's time.
Get as comfortable as you can.
Pull the blanket up over your shoulder and let your whole body relax.
All shall be well.
And all shall be well.
And all manner of thing shall be well.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
Let it out your mouth.
Again, breathe in and out.
Good.
Fogged glasses and felting fibers.
My scarf was wrapped all the way up over my head and every breath fogged my glasses in the cold night air.
I hitched my tote bag up onto my shoulder.
It kept sliding down the slippery fabric of my parka.
And one sock was threatening to slide under my heel inside my winter boot.
I remembered something I'd read the day before, scrawled on a sticky note, tacked among flyers on the bulletin board at the coffee shop.
It just said, yum or yuck.
And it made me stop, with the cinnamon shaker in my hand hovering above the foam of my latte, and consider what it might mean.
I mean, I guess it meant just what it said.
In this moment, was I looking at the world, and saying yum or yuck.
And of course, with my hot cup in my hand, it was easy to declare yum.
But I found it coming back, helpfully, into my head a few more times over the course of the day.
When the snow was piled up on my windshield, I had to stand out in the cold for a few minutes to scrape at the glass.
I'd been grumbling under my breath.
Then noticed the reflection of the moon in the passenger window and looked up to see a wide, open sky full of stars.
Yum, I'd said when I'd trudged to the library only to find that the book I was desperate to read had been checked out and that I was number 47 on the wait list.
I'd been about to declare it a definite yuck.
When I stopped to consider that this meant my neighborhood was full of people who loved the same series, I did that.
The author I'd been following since her debut novel a dozen years before was now a best-selling writer.
And how good that must feel.
Yum.
So even now, as my sock slipped all the way to my arch and my ears stung with cold, I looked down the sidewalk to the lit doors of the theater where other thoroughly scarved, tote bag-carrying crafters were stepping through with smiles on their faces.
And I said, under my foggy breath, Yum.
It was crafters' night at the movie theater downtown and it looked like it would be a good-sized crowd for it.
I don't remember how I first heard about it.
Maybe another notice on the same bulletin board at the coffee shop.
But I'd been coming since last spring, whenever I could.
It was once a month.
On a midweek evening, They showed a movie, something that fit the season and kept the lights in the theater up so that you could see your embroidery or knitting clearly.
I pushed through the doors and stepped into the warmth of the lobby.
I scooted to the side a moment to unwrap my scarf, tug my sock back into place and wipe my glasses.
The lobby was bustling with excited cross-stitchers and crocheters, and the scent of fresh popcorn filled the air.
At a trestle table near the concession, there were a few of the event organizers welcoming those who were here for the first time and handing out the craft of the evening to those who'd come without anything to work on.
That was something I really loved about this event.
Even if you didn't have a project going, you would by the time you left.
They designed beginner-friendly crafts that went with the night's movie.
Tonight it looked like they'd prepared a collection of tree ornaments to make from thick cardstock, folded and glued into place.
I smiled down at the suitcase covered in stickers from all over the world the bell that Zuzu points to at the end of the film and the moon on the lasso that George promised to pull from the sky.
There were glue sticks and a bunch of the round-ended scissors I remembered from elementary school in a cup to borrow, even though my tote bag held more than enough work for tonight.
I was so charmed by the paper ornament craft that I took one of them in as well.
Even if I didn't make it here, it would be fun to do with my nephews later.
I stopped at the concession stand for a soda and a soft pretzel dotted with mustard, then made my way into the theater.
I don't mind doing things alone.
I enjoy taking myself out to dinner or wandering the museum and shops downtown at my own pace.
But I still felt that moment of awkwardness as I stood in the aisle of the cinema trying to decide where to sit.
People were scattered through the seats, some alone and some in clumps of friends.
A woman at the end of a row caught my eye and tipped her head toward an empty seat beside her.
She had a few friends in the rows around her and they all made space, shifting their totes and skeins of yarn.
That awkward twinge disappeared and I felt like I'd just walked into the cafeteria with my lunch tray in my hands to find that someone had saved me a seat.
Yum, I thought.
I settled myself in, said hello and fell into easy conversation about the movie we were about to watch and the projects each of us were working on.
My pretzel was chewy and deliciously salty.
And once I'd finished the last bite and wiped my fingertips clean of any errant dabs of mustard, I pulled my tote bag onto my lap and started to take out my embroidery hoop, my needle and thread.
I didn't have a specific plan for my designs.
I'd been sort of doodling, if you can call it that.
Doodling with a needle and pretty colors of thread.
Stitching acorns and coffee cups and a wandering set of paw prints around the edges of the even weave.
The movie started and I watched for a few moments as snow fell thickly on Gower's Drugs and Martini's Bar.
Throughout the theater, the steady sound of clicking knitting needles echoed.
With the lights still up and so many moving hands, people didn't feel the need to be silent and instead chatted in low voices.
The woman beside me was felting, a craft I was smitten with, but hadn't yet attempted.
As I separated my strands of thread, she walked me through the basics.
She had a felting needle, with tiny barbs that would catch the strands of wool.
She slipped a few finger protectors on with a wink saying she'd learned the hard way that it was better to wear them than not.
She had a collection of wool fibers in different colors.
She was working on a miniature mince pie for the holidays and already had a golden disk of fibers for the bottom crust.
She began to poke chocolate brown and dark cherry strands together to make the filling.
It's basically strategic tangling, she said.
She nodded at my hoop and asked whether I was making a scene or would stitch out a phrase.
I thought it might be a scene more of my favorite cozy symbols a scarf and mittens, snowflakes and books in a stack.
I imagined them like a border around the edges.
A wreath of winter comforts.
When I suddenly knew the words I wanted to put in the center.
That simple mantra that was shifting my perspective.
One small moment at a time.
Yum or yuck.
Because maybe I couldn't stop ice from building on my windshield or my sock from slipping down in my boot.
But there were dozens of moments every day when I could redirect my attention.
I could choose not to take the discomfort personally.
I could lean into the sweet spots, which seemed to appear more often the more I looked for them.
I threaded my needle and began to stitch.
Fogged glasses and felting fibers My scarf was wrapped all the way up over my head.
And every breath fogged my glasses in the cold night air.
I hitched my tote bag up onto my shoulder.
It kept sliding down the slippery fabric of my parka, and one sock was threatening to slide under my heel inside my winter boot.
I remembered something I'd read the day before, scrawled on a sticky note, tacked among flyers on the bulletin board at the coffee shop.
It said, Yum or yuck.
And it made me stop, with the cinnamon shaker in my hand hovering above the foam of my latte, and consider what it might mean.
I mean, I guess it meant just what it said.
In this moment, was I looking at the world and thinking, yum or yuck?
And, of course, with my hot cup in my hand, it was easy to declare yum, but I found it helpfully coming back into my head a few more times over the course of the day.
When the snow was piled up on my windshield and I had to stand out in the cold for a few minutes to scrape at the glass, I'd been grumbling under my breath.
Then noticed the reflection of the moon in the passenger window and looked up to see a wide, open sky full of stars.
Yum, I'd said.
When I trudged to the library only to find that the book I was desperate to read had been checked out and that I was number 47 on the wait list.
I'd been about to declare it a definite yuck when I stopped to consider That this meant my neighborhood was full of people who loved the same series I did.
That the author I'd been following since her debut novel a dozen years before was now a best-selling writer.
And how good that must feel.
Yum.
So even now, as my sock slipped all the way to my arch and my ears stung with cold, I looked down the sidewalk to the doors of the theater, where other thoroughly scarved, tote-bag-carrying crafters were stepping through the doors with smiles on their faces.
And I said, under my foggy breath, Yum.
It was crafters' night at the movie theater downtown and it looked like there would be a good-sized crowd for it.
I don't remember how I first heard about it.
Maybe another notice on that same bulletin board at the coffee shop.
But I'd been coming since last spring, whenever I could.
It was once a month, on a midweek evening.
They showed a movie, something that fit the season, and kept the lights in the theater up so that you could see your embroidery or knitting clearly.
I pushed through the doors, and stepped into the warmth of the lobby.
I scooted to the side a moment to unwrap my scarf, tug my sock back into place, and wipe my glasses.
The lobby was bustling with excited cross-stitchers and crocheters, and the scent of fresh popcorn filled the air.
At a trestle table near the concession, there were a few of the organizers welcoming those who were here for the first time and handing out the craft of the evening to those who'd come without anything to work on.
That was something I really loved about this event.
Even if you didn't have a project going, you would by the time you left.
They designed beginner-friendly crafts that went with the night's movie.
Tonight it looked like they'd prepared a collection of tree ornaments to make from thick cardstock, folded and glued into place.
I smiled down at the suitcase, covered in stickers from all over the world.
The bell that Suzu points to at the end of the film.
And the moon on a lasso, that George promised to pull from the sky.
There were glue sticks and a bunch of round-ended scissors the kind I remembered from elementary school in a cup to borrow.
Even though my tote bag held more than enough work for tonight, I was so charmed by the paper ornament craft that I tucked one of them in as well.
Even if I didn't make it here, it would be fun to do with my nephews later.
I stopped at the concession stand for a soda and a soft pretzel dotted with mustard, then made my way into the theater.
I don't mind doing things alone.
I enjoy taking myself out to dinner or wandering the museum and shops downtown at my own pace.
But I still felt that moment of awkwardness as I stood in the aisle of the cinema trying to decide where to sit.
People were scattered through the seats, some alone, and some in clumps of friends.
A woman at the end of a row caught my eye. and tipped her head toward an empty seat beside her.
She had a few friends in the rows around her and they all made space, shifting their totes and skeins of yarn.
That awkward twinge disappeared.
And I felt like I'd just walked into the cafeteria with my lunch tray in my hands to find that someone had saved me a seat.
Yum, I thought.
I settled myself in, said hello and fell into easy conversation about the movie we were about to watch and the projects each of us were working on.
My pretzel was chewy and deliciously salty, and once I'd finished the last bite and wiped my fingertips clean of any errant dabs of mustard,
I pulled my tote bag onto my lap and started to take out my embroidery hoop, needle, and thread.
I didn't have a specific plan for my design.
I'd been sort of doodling, if you can call it that.
Doodling with a needle and pretty colors of thread.
Stitching acorns and coffee cups.
And a wandering set of paw prints around the edges of the even weave.
The movie started and I watched for a few moments as snow fell thickly on Gower's drugs and Martini's bar.
Throughout the theater, the steady sound of clicking knitting needles echoed.
With the lights still up, and so many moving hands.
People didn't feel the need to be silent, and instead chatted in low voices.
The woman beside me was felting, a craft I was smitten with, but hadn't yet attempted.
As I separated my strands of thread, she walked me through the basics.
She had a felting needle with tiny barbs that would catch the strands of wool.
She slipped a few finger protectors on with a wink saying she'd learned the hard way that it was better to wear them than not.
She had a collection of wool fibers in different colors.
She was making a miniature mince pie for the holidays and already had a golden disk of fibers for the bottom crust.
She began to poke chocolate brown and dark cherry strands together to make the filling.
It's basically strategic tangling, she said.
She nodded at my hoop and asked whether I was making a scene. or would stitch out a phrase.
I thought it might be a scene.
More of my favorite cozy symbols.
A scarf and mittens.
Snowflakes and books in a stack.
I imagined them like a border around the edges.
A wreath of winter comforts. when I suddenly knew the words I wanted to put in the center.
That simple mantra that was shifting my perspective one small moment at a time.
Yum or yuck.
Because maybe I couldn't stop ice from building up on my windshield.
Or keep my sock from sliding down inside my boot.
But there were dozens of moments every day when I could redirect my attention.
I could choose not to take the discomfort personally.
I could lean into the sweet spots, which seemed to appear more often the more I looked for them.
I threaded my needle and began to stitch.
Sweet dreams.
