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Subscribe now. If you're hearing this, it means you've already made sleep a priority.
And that's something worth applauding. You've carved out this quiet moment to wind down.
And I have something that fits beautifully into that routine.
It's called Moonbird. It's a small, screen-free device that gently expands and contracts in your hand, guiding your breath with a calming rhythm.
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I use it whenever I record this podcast.
It helps me stay calm and centered as I read to you.
And after seeing how much it helped me, my wife wanted one for herself, and now she loves it too.
There's no screen to distract you, but if you like data, there's an optional app that tracks your heart rate and HRV.
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We'll have that in our show notes. moonbird.life slash nothingmuchappens.
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.
We give to a different charity each week.
And this week we are giving to Fellow Earthlings Wildlife Center.
Fellow Earthlings specializes in caring for meerkats.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
Our bedtime stories are brought to you by the letter U, as in you, your support.
When you buy a product from one of our sponsors or share our show with a friend, leave a good review or subscribe to our premium feed.
Thank you. Tucking so many in at night gives me sweet dreams.
Subscribe, follow us on socials, and learn more at nothingmuchappens.com.
Busy minds need a place to rest. And that's what this is.
So let the gentle shape of the story catch your attention just enough to replace the background static of your mind.
That gentle focus will shift you right into deep sleep.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to turn on another episode, or let them just play all through the night.
Our story tonight is called The Journal, and it's a story about the blank pages of a beautiful book and the freedom to finally write in them, no matter what comes from your pen.
It's also about tonic water, an espresso, deep breaths in child's pose. a garden at midnight, and small prompts reminding us to let go of some things and dive deeper into others.
Now lights out, devices down, snuggle in and get as comfortable as you can.
There's nothing left to do today. In fact, nothing is what is needed now.
Soften your shoulders, your jaw, your neck and hands.
Draw a deep breath in through your nose and sigh from your mouth.
Again, breathe in and let it go. good. The journal.
I've dusted it countless times, moved it from one shelf to another, onto my bedside table and off again, into my bag and back to the shelf.
It's just such a beautiful journal. Honestly, it has intimidated me.
What could I write on the inside that would be as lovely as the outside?
A few times I'd even opened the front cover, pressed into the center crease to crack the spine, and thought for a while about starting an entry.
But then I'd reach toward the pencil cup and freeze up. wondering if I should use a pretty pen, dark green or purple ink, or if that was too permanent.
Maybe a pencil would be better. Then how should I lay it out?
The date in the corner? Do I give the entry a title?
Bullet points? Or just begin? By then, the whole exercise, which was meant to be enjoyable and relaxing, had become anything but.
And I'd shut the journal and set it aside again.
Then this week, I'd been in yoga class, resting in child's pose.
My hips sunk back toward my heels. My chest dropped down toward the mat.
When my teacher made a simple suggestion, a mantra that we might try out for the week, just to see how it felt, the mantra was, Oh, well.
I chuckled into my mat when she said it.
It did seem an almost absurdly simple approach.
She went on to remind us of how many small, insignificant things we gave mental space to. how often things that didn't actually matter were treated not only like they did, but like they deserved a lot of attention, energy, and urgency.
She invited us to tune in in the coming days. and see if we could spot a few moments when we were getting hung up on details that didn't matter, and try saying to ourselves, oh well, it might help build a habit of right-sizing our circumstances, and maybe even enjoying our days a bit more.
So today, when I trailed my fingers over the books on my shelf, looking for something new to read, and came across the journal, I thought of my previous hesitancy to mess up the pretty pages with my scribbles.
I smiled and said, Oh well. and slid it off the shelf.
I took my favorite pen from the cup, without a second thought, and dropped them both into my bag, and headed out to the coffee shop.
The shop was busy, and I liked it. the sound of milk steaming and beans grinding, the chatter of others, and the steady ring of the bell over the door, all helped me feel private and unperceived, like the world was too occupied with its own story to take much notice of mine.
I settled at a table outside, under a pergola wrapped in ivy and Virginia creeper.
It was shady and cool in the summer heat, and to go with it, I'd ordered an espresso tonic, a little sweet, slightly bitter, and very refreshing.
I took my journal and pen from my bag, and rolled my shoulders back, letting out a big sigh.
The cover reminded me of a garden at midnight.
Dark blue fabric, embroidered flowers in red and sapphire, ivory stars, and a golden moon.
The pages were cut unevenly. A style I remembered was called deckled edges.
And stitched into the binding was a satin chocolate brown ribbon to mark the pages with.
And the size and shape of it, it wasn't standard, it was square, and the perfect size to carry in your hand.
I turned it over, feeling the texture of the cover and edges, and tried to remember where I'd even got this journal.
Had it been a gift? Something I'd bought for myself at a craft fair or the stationery shop?
It was strange that I couldn't put my finger on it.
It seemed like it had just shown up on my shelf one day.
I remembered my mantra and whispered aloud, Oh well.
I opened the cover and saw a line for my name.
This journal belongs to, it said. And with no hesitation, I scrawled in my name.
It was a little slanted, and I'd smudged the last letter as I finished it. but I practiced just letting it be.
Not perfect, but it existed, and it hadn't before.
Flipping through the pages, I realized that there were illustrations and quotes on some of them.
How had I not noticed before? Fireflies. and ship anchors.
Birds crossing the sky and fence posts crowded with grasses.
There were sketches of spotted toadstools and pocket watches.
And across the center page, a range of mountains capped in snow.
I kept paging through and saw that the quotes were actually prompts, short entryways into writing, with enough space under them to suggest how much to scrawl.
All along, this book was waiting for me to look more closely and guide me out of my stalling. and into creating.
Well, I thought, no more waiting. I set the book down on the table and opened it up.
I looked through a few of the prompts, and while I could see myself spinning a tale or recounting a memory from them, None felt right.
There were simple suggestions to write on what felt good today.
What can you hear right now? Or more thoughtfully, what are you done with but haven't set down yet?
Hmm. I could write a few pages on that one.
I wanted something more creative instead, something that would send my little boat sailing out into a sea of imagination.
I decided to trust the journal and flipped through it with my eyes closed.
When my fingers touched a page that seemed to tingle with importance, I cracked an eyelid and peered down.
I chuckled at the two-word prompt on the page.
It seemed like the other side of the oh-well mantra I'd been saying all day.
One that, instead of dismissing the details, let you lean in and develop them.
There was a stretch of open pages following the prompt, and I decided to fill them, no matter what silliness I wrote or how sloppy my writing.
I lifted my pen and uncapped it, set the nib to the page, and began to write under the prompt.
What if? The journal. I've dusted it countless times, moved it from one shelf to another, onto my bedside table and off again, into my bag, and back to the shelf.
It's just such a beautiful journal. Honestly, it has intimidated me.
What could I write on the inside that would be as lovely as the outside?
A few times, I'd even opened the front cover, pressed into the center crease to crack the spine and thought for a while about starting an entry.
But then I'd reach toward the pencil cup and freeze up, wondering if I should use a pretty pen dark green or purple ink?
Or if that was too permanent, maybe a pencil would be better.
Then how should I lay it out? The date in the corner?
Do I give the entry a title? bullet points, or just begin.
By then, the whole exercise, which was meant to be enjoyable and relaxing, had become anything but, and I'd shut the journal and set it aside again.
Then this week, I'd been in yoga class, resting in child's pose.
My hips sunk back toward my heels. My chest dropped down toward the mat.
When my teacher made a simple suggestion, a mantra, that we might try out for the week, just to see how it felt.
The mantra was, oh well. I chuckled into my mat when she said it.
It did seem an almost absurdly simple approach. she went on to remind us of how many small, insignificant things we gave mental space to.
How often things that didn't actually matter were treated not only like they did, but like they deserved a lot of attention, energy, and urgency.
She invited us to tune in in the coming days and see if we could spot a few moments when we were getting hung up on details that didn't matter.
And try saying to ourselves, oh well, it might help build a habit of right-sizing our circumstances. and maybe even enjoying our days a bit more.
So today, when I trailed my fingers over the books on my shelf, looking for something new to read, and came across the journal, I thought of my previous hesitancy to mess up the pretty pages with my scribbles.
I smiled and said, oh well, and slid it off the shelf.
I took my favorite pen from the cup without a second thought and dropped them both into my bag and headed out to the coffee shop.
The shop was busy, and I liked it. The sound of milk steaming and beans grinding.
The chatter of others. And the steady ring of the bell over the door.
All helped me feel private and unperceived. like the world was too occupied with its own story to take much notice of mine.
I settled at a table outside, under a pergola wrapped in ivy and Virginia creeper.
It was shady and cool in the summer heat, And to go with it, I'd ordered an espresso tonic.
A little sweet, slightly bitter, and very refreshing.
I took my journal and pen from the bag and rolled my shoulders back. letting out a big sigh.
The cover reminded me of a garden at midnight.
Dark blue fabric embroidered flowers in red and sapphire.
Ivory stars and a golden moon. The pages were cut unevenly.
A style I remembered was called deckled edges.
And stitched into the binding was a satin chocolate brown ribbon to mark the pages with. and the size and shape of it.
It wasn't standard. It was square, and the perfect size to carry in your hand.
I turned it over, feeling the texture of the cover and the edges. and tried to remember where I'd even gotten this journal.
Had it been a gift? Something I'd bought for myself?
At a craft fair? Or at the stationery shop?
It was strange that I couldn't put my finger on it.
It seemed like it had just shown up on my shelf one day.
I remembered my mantra and whispered aloud, Oh well.
I opened the cover and saw a line for my name.
This journal belongs to, it said. And with no hesitation, I scrawled in my name.
It was a little slanted, and I'd smudged the last letter as I finished it.
But I practiced letting it be. Not perfect, but it existed, and it hadn't before.
Flipping through the pages, I realized there were illustrations and quotes on some of them.
How had I not noticed before? There were fireflies and ship anchors.
Birds crossing the sky and fence posts crowded with grasses.
Sketches of spotted toadstools and pocket watches. and across the center page, a range of mountains capped in snow.
I kept paging through and saw that the quotes were actually prompts, short entryways into writing.
With enough space under them to suggest how much to scrawl.
All along, this book was waiting for me to look more closely and guide me out of my stalling and into creating.
Well, I thought, no more waiting. I set the book down on the table and opened it up.
I looked through a few of the prompts, and while I could see myself spinning a tale or recounting a memory from them, none felt quite right.
There were simple suggestions to write on.
What felt good today? Or what can you hear right now?
Or more thoughtfully, what are you done with but haven't sat down yet?
Hmm. I could write a few pages on that one.
I wanted something more creative instead.
Something that would send my little boat sailing into a sea of imagination.
I decided to trust the journal. and flipped through it with my eyes closed.
When my fingers touched a page that seemed to tingle with importance, I cracked an eyelid and peered down.
I chuckled at the two-word prompt on the page.
It seemed like the other side of the oh well mantra I'd been saying all day.
One that, instead of dismissing the details, let you lean in and develop them. there was a stretch of open pages following the prompt.
And I decided to fill them, no matter what silliness I wrote or how sloppy my writing.
I lifted my pen and uncapped it. set the nib to the page, and began to write, under the prompt, what if.
Sweet dreams.
