Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Kathryn Nicolai.
I write and read all the stories you'll hear on Nothing Much Happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittershine.
We give to a different charity each week.
And this week, we are giving to the Trevor Project.
They work to support and safeguard LGBTQIA plus young people.
You can learn more in our show notes.
Before we dig in tonight, I just want to share something with you.
I hear from so many folks who are feeling anxious, and I want to give you all the tools I can to help.
We have this show, we have our daytime version, and our guided meditation show, all of that linked in our notes.
And now we've added one more soothing aid to our offerings.
It's a weighted pillow designed to rest on your chest, lap, or be hugged close, providing a comforting, grounded sensation to help you relax.
These pillows provide deep pressure stimulation, and that encourages your body to release natural calming hormones while lowering stress hormones.
I use one when I record, I have it right now on my lap.
So if you need extra help these days, I recommend it.
And you can order it through the link in our notes.
Now here's how this works.
We're going to do a little cognitive reshuffling.
We need your brain to have some little job to do.
A small, simple focal point in order for you to fall asleep.
And that job just amounts to you listening, following along with the simple shape of the story and the sound of my voice.
And this helps you tonight, obviously, but also helps in the long term by conditioning a response.
So have a little patience if you're new here, you will get better with time.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
Our story tonight is called Thanksgiving at the Cabin.
And it's a story about a walk through the woods with friends to start the day.
It's also about sun on your face, empty branches and squirrels, cranberries and apples, the sound of the shower running in the other room, and a note written in the steam on the mirror, family as you find it, and the deep feeling of enough.
Okay, lights out. It's time to be done looking at your phone.
Really. Snuggle into your sheets and make yourself as comfortable as you can.
You have done enough for the day.
Now nothing remains but rest.
Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth.
Again, fill it up and let it go.
Good. Thanksgiving at the Cabin.
The deep woods in autumn have a special scent, a layered aroma that rises up from the ground and drifts down on you from above, of wet earth and dead leaves and moss and pine needles and a thousand other things.
There are places in the world that seemingly smell like nothing.
The overlit aisles of a big box store, an empty parking lot in January after a big snowfall, a clean vacant house between owners, but the woods would never make that list.
The woods can feel quiet and solitary, but the smell alone is a giveaway of the activity hidden under the drifts of leaves and layers of bark.
And those scents can feel like company on a long walk down the leaf -strewn paths a few days before December.
That is where I was, our dog a dozen feet in front of me, happily prancing, stopping to sniff, letting me pass him for a few moments, then racing back out in front to lead the way.
We'd done this same walk a few months earlier when the trees were full of shining green leaves and even when there wasn't a cloud in the sky, the woods were dim, almost dark.
A sort of daytime gloaming could be found under the canopy.
But now, after the wind and rain of autumn, nearly all the leaves had fallen, and the sun shone on us whenever it passed from behind a cloud.
There was a nice feeling.
The cool, dim woods suddenly lit up and slightly warmer.
It made me stop now and then just to close my eyes and let the sun kiss my face.
We had a big afternoon planned.
It was Thanksgiving, after all.
But this was perhaps my favorite part of the day.
Or second favorite, right after the mashed potatoes, which we'd be eating in just a couple of hours.
We were going to our neighbors to share in their Thanksgiving, bringing pies and ourselves and our dog.
And I was very much looking forward to all of it.
But this quiet time was special.
It was when I felt most like myself.
And when the pure gratitude of the day overflowed from my cup without even having to try.
I breathed in deep lungfuls of the forest air.
Everything my eyes landed on seemed like a small miracle.
My dog and I were happy and harmonious and working up a good appetite for the meal to come.
We passed under a branch where a well -fed squirrel sat.
Her tail pulled about her like a hoodie as she chewed through a nutshell.
She tracked us with her eyes, but was wholly unbothered.
And I thought, oh, that'll be me later with the mashed potatoes.
We turned as the path curved, and the cabin came into sight at the end of a long open meadow.
It was an A -frame cabin, just large enough for the three of us.
And like the woods in autumn, full of good scents, most days it would be just the familiar smell of naughty pine and wood smoke.
But today there would also be apple and pumpkin pies, crisp pastry, and vanilla in the air.
And as I thought of it, we picked up our pace.
Past the house, at the far edge of a clear field, was a valley.
We were situated on the side of a mountain, and looked across to another.
Even from far away, I could pick out a few of the houses there, see smoke rising from chimneys.
And I smiled at the idea of all of us, separated by distance, but not by action, as we readied for our feasts.
The dog ran past me, and slipped through the doggy door into the cabin.
I stopped at the edge of our small porch.
At different times during the years, a possum lived under the wooden slats.
Sometimes months would go by without catching sight of him.
And then he'd be back.
Or maybe it was his cousin or sister.
Either way, sometimes a little soul resided there.
And I would leave an apple, or the last crackers in the sleeve, or some other bit of our supper.
I'd slipped a few seasonal treats into my pocket on the way out of the cabin this morning.
And I stopped to arrange them for our possible guest.
I had a handful of cranberries, and I set them out in a circle.
For eyes there were two plump dates, and for a nose, a long, pale Brazil nut.
Finally I peeled a mandarin, and laid the segments out to make a smile.
It was silly, but it made me feel good and hospitable, to set out this snack with care and a little whimsy.
But sometimes, your intentions only come across to you.
Sometimes they're lost in translation.
And the person or possum you mean to express something to doesn't receive the full force of your statement, and that's okay.
It can be enough that you carry the kindness in your heart.
Whenever you wish someone well, you get the strongest dose of that medicine, in your own head and heart first.
So I left my smiley face behind me as I stepped through the cabin door.
The wind might blow it apart.
The dog might run out and gobble it up.
Still, it had been made and offered up, and that mattered to me.
Inside, the scent of the pies baking filled the air.
And I thought of that trope in old -timey cartoons, where someone smells a pie and starts floating along, toes a few inches above the floor, nose first toward the cooling treat.
That pie class at the bakery had clearly paid off.
The pies were set on a rack on the counter, and I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from breaking off a piece of the flaky crust.
I could hear the shower going and peeked at my watch.
It was about time to get ready.
While dinner wouldn't be formal at all, it was a chance to spiff up a bit.
I poked my head into the bathroom.
It was full of steam and the scent of the eucalyptus that I'd hung up the day before by the showerhead.
My sweetheart was deep into shampooing and hadn't spotted me.
So I sneaked over to the mirror and drew a heart in the condensation.
Inside, I scrawled our initials.
We had a way of writing them that wove them together, and we sometimes left the symbol for each other on notes or traced it in the sand at the beach.
I snuck back out and stepped into the bedroom to page through the sweaters in my closet.
The dog was stretched out across the foot of our bed, and I stopped to lay down with him.
I snuggled up behind him, and he rolled over to show me his belly.
His fur smelled of the fresh air and layers of scent we'd walked through in the woods.
I laid my head beside his on the quilt, and we listened to the sound of the shower and watched the branches shift in the wind outside.
I didn't know what more I could ask for in that moment, a perfect Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving at the cabin.
The deep woods in autumn have a special scent.
Layered aroma that rises up from the ground and drifts down on you from above.
Of wet earth and dead leaves and moss and pine needles, and a thousand other things.
There are places in the world that seemingly smell like nothing.
The over -lit aisles of a big -box store, an empty parking lot in January after a big snowfall, a clean, vacant house between owners, but the woods would never make that list.
The woods can feel quiet and solitary, but the smell alone is a giveaway.
Of the activity hidden under the drifts of leaves and layers of bark.
And those scents can feel like company on a long walk down the leaf -strewn paths a few days before December.
That is where I was.
Our dog, a dozen feed in front of me, happily prancing, stopping to sniff, letting me pass him for a few moments, and then racing back out in front to lead the way.
We'd done this same walk a few months earlier, when the trees were full of shining grain leaves, and even when there wasn't a cloud in the sky, the woods were dim, almost dark.
A sort of daytime gloaming could be found under the canopy.
But now, after the wind and rain of autumn, nearly all the leaves had fallen, and the sun shone on us whenever it passed from behind a cloud.
It was a nice feeling.
The cool, dim woods, suddenly lit up and slightly warmer.
It made me stop, now and then, just to close my eyes and let the sun kiss my face.
We had a big afternoon planned.
It was Thanksgiving, after all, but this was perhaps my favorite part of the day, or second favorite, right after the mashed potatoes, which we'd be eating in just a couple of hours.
We were going to our neighbors to share in their Thanksgiving, bringing pies and ourselves and our dog, and I was very much looking forward to all of it.
But this quiet time was special.
It was when I felt most like myself, and when the pure gratitude of the day overflowed from my cup, without even having to try.
I breathed in deep lungfuls of the forest air.
Everything my eyes landed on seemed like a small miracle.
My dog and I were happy and harmonious and working up a good appetite for the meal to come.
We passed under a branch where a well -fed squirrel sat.
Her tail pulled about her, like a hoodie, as she chewed through a nutshell.
She tracked us with her eyes, but was wholly unbothered, and I thought, that'll be me later with the mashed potatoes.
We turned as the path curved, and the cabin came into sight at the end of a long open meadow.
It was an A -frame cabin, just large enough for the three of us, and like the woods in autumn, full of good sense.
Most days it would be just the familiar smell of naughty pine and wood smoke.
But today there would also be apple and pumpkin pies, crisp pastry, and vanilla in the air.
And as I thought of it, we picked up our pace.
Past the house, at the far edge of a clear field, was a valley.
We were situated on the side of a mountain, and looked across to another.
Even from far away, I could pick out a few of the houses there, see smoke rising from chimneys, and I smiled at the idea of all of us, separated by distance, but not by action, as we readied for our feasts.
The dog ran past me, and slipped through the doggy door, and into the cabin.
I stopped at the edge of our small porch.
At different times during the years, a possum lived under the wooden slats.
Sometimes months would go by without catching sight of him, and then he'd be back, or maybe it was his cousin or sister.
Either way, sometimes a little soul resided there, and I would leave an apple, or the last crackers in the sleeve, or some other bit of our supper.
I'd slipped a few seasonal treats into my pocket, on the way out of the cabin this morning, and I stopped to arrange them for our possible guest.
I had a handful of cranberries, and I set them out in a circle.
For eyes, there were two plump dates, and for a nose, there was a long, pale Brazil nut.
Finally, I peeled a mandarin, and laid the segments out to make a smile.
It was silly, but it made me feel good, and hospitable, to set out this snack with care, and a little whimsy.
Sometimes your intention only comes across to you.
Sometimes it's lost in translation, and the person or possum that you mean to express something to doesn't receive the full force of your statement.
Well, that's okay. It can be enough that you carry the kindness in your heart.
Whenever you wish someone well, you get the strongest dose of that medicine, in your own head and heart first.
So I left my smiley face behind, as I stepped through the cabin door.
The wind might blow it apart.
The dog might run out and gobble it up.
But still, it had been made and offered up.
And that mattered to me.
Inside, the scent of baking pies filled the air, and I thought of that old trope in old timey cartoons, where someone smells a pie and starts floating along, toes a few inches above the floor, nose first toward the cooling treat.
That pie -making class at the bakery had clearly paid off.
The pies were set on a rack on the counter, and I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from breaking off a piece of the flaky crusts.
I could hear the shower going and peeked at my watch.
It was about time to get ready.
While dinner wouldn't be formal at all, it was a chance to spiff up a bit.
I poked my head into the bathroom.
It was full of steam and the scent of the eucalyptus that I'd hung up the day before by the shower head.
My sweetheart was deep into shampooing and hadn't spotted me, so I sneaked over to the mirror and drew a heart in the condensation.
Inside, I scrawled our initials.
We had a way of writing them that wove them together, when we left the symbol sometimes for each other on notes or traced it in the sand at the beach.
I snuck back out, stepped into the bedroom to page through the sweaters in my closet.
The dog was stretched out across the foot of the bed, and I stopped to lay down with him.
I snuggled up behind him, and he rolled over to show me his belly, his fur smelled of the fresh air and layers of scent we'd walked through in the woods.
I laid my head beside his on the quilt, and we listened to the sound of the shower and watched the branches shift in the wind.
I didn't know what more I could ask for in that moment.
A perfect Thanksgiving.
Sweet dreams.
