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When we think about being happier, we often imagine big changes more money, a dream job, a different life.
But it turns out we're often wrong about what actually makes us feel better.
On the Happiness Lab, Yale professor Dr Lori Santos breaks down the science of happiness and shares practical ways to build more of it into your everyday life.
Listen to The Happiness Lab wherever you get your podcasts.
Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Katherine Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
Now, here's how this works.
If we can occupy your mind just enough, We can rock it to sleep.
That's sort of what this is.
A lullaby for your thinking mind.
All you have to do is attend listen, follow along with the sound of my voice and we will get.
If you're new to this, know that it is a kind of conditioning.
It improves with regular use, so be patient.
Keep tuning in.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read-through.
If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story right back on.
Most people fall back to sleep again within seconds.
Our story tonight is called Piano Lessons.
And it's a story about a well-loved upright piano and the boy who plays it.
It's also about a little cottage where ivy grows up the bricks, middle C lesson books and metronomes and finding the things that feel like they were always meant for you.
Now, let's get comfortable.
In fact, make supreme comfort your number one priority right now.
The right pillow, the blanket just where you like it, and let your muscles soften and relax.
You have done enough for the day.
Truly, it is enough.
You can stop now.
Draw a deep breath in through the nose.
And sigh from your mouth.
One more.
In.
And out. good.
Piano lessons.
The bright spring sunshine was helping me find the dust that needed clearing out in our house.
It always startles me That first sunny day when you open the front door and pull back the curtains and suddenly the air is filled with floating specks, the floorboards crowded with dust bunnies big enough to pass for tumbleweeds.
So I'd been working my way through the front room, running my dust cloth, over the family photos on the bookshelves, the lamp in the front window, the broad lid of the piano.
I noticed it was the least dusty thing in the room, and I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
My youngest plays it nearly every day.
We'd come across the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood garage sale.
I still remember the way my son's eyes had gone wide when he'd seen it.
He was a quiet boy.
There was a lot of magic inside of him, and sometimes it stayed inside.
But when he played came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
The piano had come home the next day.
A rather complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of wood salvaged from the garage and a not inconsiderable amount of effort, but it had all been worth it.
We'd polished up the cabinet and the bench, the bottom of which was about to fall out from all the scores and lesson books it had come with.
I'd organized the lot of them into boxes he could work his way through. as his lessons progressed.
Then I repaired the bench itself, and now it held his first few books and performance pieces.
The piano had been badly in need of a tune-up when it came home and my son had found the process fascinating.
He's often shy around new people, but he'd met a kindred spirit in the woman who'd come with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag.
She'd patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated middle C. tuned it, and set the pin.
Then they'd worked their way through the keys playing listening, tightening strings or loosening them.
He had an ear for it. could hear when a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp.
And he could name a note just by hearing it.
He knew it.
The same way I could tell an orange crayon from a red, with no hesitation and a little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
The tuner came every six months and he had it marked down on the calendar on the fridge and would meet her at the door and reach for her tools, slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
He'd played his first recital last year and the man who owned the piano last, who'd kindly given it to us in exchange for an invitation to that recital, had attended and sat proudly beside us.
He'd taken pictures and then listened to the music with his eyes closed. a soft smile on his face.
He'd also come for Thanksgiving and when the tables were full and we were beginning to run out of seats, he'd mentioned that His wife had always pulled up the piano bench when they needed an extra spot for someone.
I looked at my son, thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that he could share the bench if it was with our new friend.
The two of them would fit.
So we'd move chairs around, and they'd sat side by side, eating their sweet potatoes and stuffing.
During the school year, he just had one lesson a week.
There were lots of other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted him to have time to go to the library, to ride his bike, to play video games with his friends, and days when he had nothing scheduled at all.
Now that summer was coming, I'd left it up to him.
Did he want to play more piano?
Maybe have lessons twice a week?
He'd sat quiet for a minute or two, thinking it through, then nodded.
Twice a week sounded good to him.
His piano teacher lived in a little cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town.
Ivy grew up the brick beside her front porch and in the yard was a small carved sign saying Piano Lessons.
She had come to our house a few times, but I think we both liked going to her house instead.
It was a very comfortable space.
She'd been a musician for years and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in her youth outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to her own name on the marquee or crowded around a microphone with others in a recording studio.
When we showed up on her front porch him with his practice books under his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately She'd opened the door and stepped back to let us in and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary.
Inside, the floors were laid with thick rugs, but I guessed were knotted by hand somewhere far away.
The air smelled of sandalwood and green tea, and her furniture was beautiful and comfortable.
Her front window held creeping pothos and a healthy asparagus fern.
Here was a woman who had built a life she loved, who knew how to protect her peace.
We were there for him, for him to take lessons from her.
But I often felt I was learning as well mentally taking notes as I settled onto a sofa out of the way.
They'd open the books on the stand and he'd warm up his fingers, playing through scales and exercises.
I loved watching him set the metronome, sliding the swinging arm out from behind its stopper, adjusting the tempo and letting it tick, then watching him tap his toe, which barely reached the ground, to find a rhythm.
I'd prop my novel open on my lap, read a few words, listen to his playing, the quiet discussions.
The spring recital was going to be at the inn by the lake this year.
On their big back porch where he'd help turn pages for his teacher while she played for a wedding the September before.
I imagined him playing the music echoing over the water, the birds stopping to listen along with us, me holding tightly to a bouquet of flowers to hand to him after.
Not everything we try when we are young or when we are grown suits us.
I was so glad that we had found something that suited him so well.
PIANO LESSONS
The bright spring sunshine was helping me find the dust that needed clearing out in our house.
It always startles me that first sunny day when you open the front door and pull back the curtains and suddenly the air is filled with floating specks, the floorboards crowded with dust bunnies big enough to pass for tumbleweeds.
So I'd been working my way through the front room, running my dust cloth, over the family photos on the bookshelves, the lamp in the front window and the broad lid of the piano.
As I did, I noticed it was the least dusty thing in the room.
And I guess I wasn't surprised at that.
My youngest plays it nearly every day.
We'd come across the piano a couple of years before at a neighborhood garage sale.
I still remember the way my son's eyes had gone wide when he'd seen it.
He was a quiet boy.
There was a lot of magic inside him, and sometimes it stayed inside.
But when he played, it came out, and I got to enjoy it along with him.
The piano had come home the next day.
A rather complicated arrangement involving a borrowed truck, several friends, planks of wood salvaged from the garage and a not inconsiderable amount of effort, but it had all been worth it.
We polished up the cabinet and bench, the bottom of which was about to fall out from all the scores and lesson books it had come with.
I'd organized the lot of them into boxes he could work his way into as his lessons progressed.
Then I repaired the bench itself.
Now, It held his first few books and performance pieces.
The piano had been badly in need of a tune-up when it came home.
And my son had found the process fascinating.
He's often shy around new people.
But he'd met a kindred spirit in the woman who'd come with a bag of tools to attend to the piano.
He'd watched as she'd opened up the soundboard and taken her hammer, wrench and tuning key from her bag.
She'd patiently explained what she was doing as she isolated Middle C. tuned it, and set the pin.
Then they'd worked their way through the keys playing listening, tightening strings or loosening them.
He had an ear for, it could hear when a note was even just a fraction flat or sharp, and he could name a note just by hearing it.
He knew it.
In the same way I could tell an orange crayon from red, with no hesitation and a little confusion as to why others struggled to do the same.
Tuner came every six months and he had it marked down on the calendar on the fridge and would meet her at the door and reach for her tools, slinging the strap of her bag over his own little shoulder.
He'd played his first recital last year and the man who'd owned the piano last, who'd kindly given it to us in exchange for an invitation to that recital, had attended and sat proudly beside us.
He'd taken pictures and then listened to the music with his eyes closed and a soft smile on his face.
He'd also come for Thanksgiving and when the tables were full and we were beginning to run out of seats.
He'd mentioned that his wife had always pulled up the piano bench when they needed an extra spot for someone.
I'd looked at my son. thinking he might not want anyone else sitting on his bench.
He'd leaned in close to my ear and whispered that he could share the bench.
If it was with our new friend, the two of them would fit.
So we'd moved chairs around, and they'd sat side by side, eating their sweet potatoes and stuffing.
During the school year, he'd had just one lesson a week.
There were lots of other things to do, ways to play, and I wanted him to have time to go to the library, to ride his bike, to play video games with his friends, and days when he had nothing scheduled at all.
Now that summer was coming, I'd left it up to him.
Did he want to play more piano?
Maybe have lessons twice a week?
He'd sat quiet for a minute or two, thinking it through, then nodded.
Twice a week sounded good to him.
His piano teacher lived in a little cottage in a pretty neighborhood north of town.
Ivy grew up the brick beside her front porch and in the yard was a small carved sign saying piano lessons.
She had come to our house a few times, but I think we both liked going to her house instead.
It was a very comfortable space.
She'd been a musician for years and her mantle was covered with pictures of her in her youth outside theaters and concert venues, pointing up to her own name on the marquee or crowded around a microphone with others in recording studios.
When we showed up on her front porch him with his practice books under his arm, me with whatever novel I'd been reading lately she'd open the door and step back to let us in and it felt like being allowed into a sanctuary.
Inside the flowers were laid with thick rugs that I guessed were knotted by hand somewhere far away.
The air smelled of sandalwood and green tea, and her furniture was beautiful and comfortable.
Her front window held creeping pothos and a healthy asparagus fern.
Here was a woman who had built a life she loved.
Who knew how to protect her peace.
We were there for him.
For him to take lessons from her, but I often felt like I was learning as well, mentally taking notes as I settled onto a sofa out of the way.
The recital was going to be at the inn by the lake this year, on their big back porch, where he'd helped turn pages for his teacher while she'd played for a wedding the September before.
I imagined him playing the music echoing over the water.
The birds stopping to listen along with us.
Me holding tightly to a bouquet of flowers to hand to him after.
Not everything we try when we are young. when we are grown suits us.
I was so glad we'd found something that suited him so well.
Sweet dreams.
