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You already know how much good sleep matters.
Because when you sleep well, everything feels a little easier.
Your mood, your focus, even how your body feels the next day.
And when you don't, it can feel like you're dragging that tiredness with you everywhere.
That's why I want to tell you about the Sleep Bundle from Cured Nutrition, which I've been using as part of my own wind-down routine and which I gifted to another friend today.
What I appreciate about it is that it's designed to help your body ease into rest, rather than knocking you out or leaving you groggy the next morning.
The Sleep Bundle combines two formulas that work together to support deeper, more restorative sleep.
It includes their Zen capsules, which are made with calming botanicals like valerian root chamomile, ashwagandha and magnesium, along with broad-spectrum CBD to help quiet the mind and relax the body.
The bundle also includes their CBN night caps or night oil, which support deeper sleep quality through the night.
I take them about an hour before bed, usually while I'm dimming the lights, getting into my reading.
I like that they work with my natural sleep rhythms.
I wake up feeling rested, not foggy, and that makes a big difference.
Right now, the sleep bundle is already 10 off and you can take an additional 20 off with my code SWEETDREAMS.
The discounts stack.
Plus, all orders over $100 automatically qualify for free shipping, including the sleep bundle.
Visit curednutritioncom.
Slash nothingmuch and use my code SWEETDREAMS at checkout for the extra savings.
That's C-U-R-E-D nutrition dot com slash nothingmuch.
Coupon code SWEETDREAMS.
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 are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past.
It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location.
And since I'm a person and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different.
But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly.
And our wishes for you are always deep rest and sweet dreams.
Now, let's get ready to sleep.
I'll read you a story.
It's a place to rest your mind, like an upturned leaf resting on the surface of a river.
Your mind will follow along with the moving current of my voice and our story.
And before you know it, it will ease you into a deep sleep.
I'll read the story twice, and I'll go a little slower on the second read.
Take yourself back into the story, thinking back through any bit you can remember.
This interrupts your brain's tendency to cycle through thought and will put you right back into sleep mode.
It's brain training, and it might take a bit of practice, so be patient if you are new to this.
Our story tonight is called The Solarium, and it's a story about a sunny break in a cold month.
It's also about sweet-smelling citrus, a warm, bright place to read a book and taking the time to charge your battery all the way.
Did you know that nearly three out of four US homes have toxic chemicals in their tap water?
Even when water looks clear and tastes fine, it can still contain things we don't want in our bodies.
Things like chlorine, lead, and so-called forever chemicals.
Over time, exposure to contaminants like these has been linked to fatigue, hormone disruption, cognitive issues and more.
What surprised me most is that standard fridge and pitcher filters don't remove any of these contaminants.
And bottled water isn't the solution either, because it often contains microplastics.
As someone born and raised in Flint, Michigan, this is very important to me.
That's why I have an AquaTrue system on my counter and have for a year now.
I genuinely love it.
There's no plumbing or installation.
And it gives my family clean, great-tasting water that we can actually trust and enjoy drinking every day.
AquaTrue uses a patented four-stage reverse osmosis system, and it's tested and certified to remove up to 84 contaminants, including chlorine, lead, forever chemicals, and microplastics.
This goes far beyond what ordinary filters can do.
AquaTrue has been featured in Business Insider and Popular Science and it was named Best Countertop Water Filter by Good Housekeeping.
98% of customers say their drinking water is cleaner, safer, and healthier.
Right now, you can go to AquaTrue.com and get 20% off your purifier with the promo code NOTHINGMUCH.
AquaTrue even comes with a 30-day best-tasting water guarantee, or your money back.
That's AquaTrue.com, A-Q-U-A-T-R-U.com.
Promo code NOTHINGMUCH.
Take the guesswork out of truly purified, great-tasting water.
Now, it's time to switch off the light.
Set aside anything you've been looking at or working on.
Adjust your pillows and comforter until at ease.
You have done enough for today.
It is enough, I promise.
And all that remains now is a good, long rest.
So let's take a deep breath in through your nose and sigh out of the mouth.
Again, breathe in and let it go.
Good.
The solarium.
This was the part of the winter when the snow just stayed, when a few inches piled onto the few inches below them, and so on.
When the top layer was gently warmed by the noontime sun and froze over again at dusk into a crust that crackled in a satisfying way when a boot stepped through it.
When the drifts grew taller and taller alongside the path in the park and the pond was covered with a thick layer of sturdy ice all the way to its center.
I'd come to look forward to this part of the winter, the coldest, quietest part, as a time to draw a line around myself to unabashedly curtail anything that seemed extraneous or even unpleasant.
Deep winter was a time of needs must, and my needs in these weeks and months were small and simple.
Good hearty food, full nights of sleep, Walks in the cold air.
Books.
So many books.
And sunshine.
It was the sunshine that had been lacking lately.
We'd had a week or more of thick, low clouds.
And with the days still being rather short, I was feeling the shortfall of brightness inside me.
I looked for other ways to feel sunny.
I juiced a pitcher full of citrus fruits navel oranges mandarins, yuzus and tart lemons and drank it from a fancy glass I served frozen drinks in during the summer.
I had a solo dance party in my kitchen and sang along to Stevie Wonder as I bopped around on the wood floor.
I'd booked an hour in the sauna at the spa downtown and sat alone in the steamy heat with my eyes closed and daydreamed about far off places with long stretches of sand beside the ocean and turquoise water to paddle in.
It had all helped, But still I found myself feeling like I couldn't quite get my battery to charge all the way up.
Then last night, as I was drifting between dreams, I heard the wind blowing hard and fast around my house.
And when I woke up today, I found that, while we had four or five fresh inches of snow to add to our growing piles, those winds had eventually blown the clouds away and the sun was making a bright climb up out of the line of the horizon.
After days of not seeing it, I was giddy as I watched from my window.
The sunrise was bright orange against all of the snow and dark tree branches.
It reflected off my window panes and I imagined someone on the street watching the sunrise mirrored there, doubling the effect.
That was what I needed, I thought, a double dose of sunshine.
And that's when I remembered the solarium.
It was part of the big house down those dirt roads on the south side of town.
Nobody lived there anymore, but it was open to the public for tours and lectures and had acres of walking paths that I'd made good use of in the summertime.
In fact, I usually just kept to the paths when I visited and had almost forgotten about the house itself, till one day, as I was arriving, I found a tour that was just about to begin in the gardens beside the tall oak front doors.
Did I want to join? asked a man with a lanyard around his neck and a stack of pamphlets in his hand.
Why not?
I'd followed the group through the gardens. past the koi pond and into the great house.
I'd listened to the story of the portraits and stained glass windows and was very tempted to try pulling on the books in the library in case the fireplace might swing around and reveal a hidden passage.
On the top floor, I'd been mesmerized by a room full of maps, some preserved under glass in cabinets and some carefully kept in giant books that had to be laid flat on a table and opened by two people to show the pages.
We'd finished the tour back on the ground floor.
Beside the huge kitchen, where copper pans were still hanging from hooks in the ceiling, was a passage that led to a place called a solarium.
I'd never heard of one before. but was immediately charmed by it.
A room made of glass, a large one that our tour guide told us had been completely rebuilt a few years before.
It had been a hefty project to turn the space which had become a cold place into of broken panes and stashed garden tools into a beautiful and inviting conservatory.
They'd laid in an underfloor heating system that would keep it warm in the winter and planted not just tropical and desert plants though there were plenty of those but whole fruit trees that would winter over happily in the warm air.
Palms and orange trees and olive trees and lots of sweet-smelling flowers.
There had been benches to rest on and even a small table where folks were welcome to eat a packed lunch.
As we were ushered back out into the grounds, the guide had told us that the solarium was particularly nice in winter.
So, that was where I would charge my battery today.
I remembered the table and packed a bag with some of those mandarins and a sleeve of crackers and a packet of salted cashews, then drove out to the big house.
Not many people were on the roads, which were still a bit snowy.
I liked the idea of us all tucked in at home like squirrels and rabbits in their burrows and guessed that, as eager as I was to get out and feel the sun on my face, I'd be happy to get back home in a few hours and return to my cozy nesting.
I was worried, as my car trundled down the dirt road, that the house might not be open today.
But the tall gates were pushed back, and I saw a few cars and even a brave fat tire bike in the lot.
The sunlight was magnificent. brighter than it had been in weeks.
And now that it was bouncing off all of that snow, it made me close my eyes as I stepped out of the car and just feel it warm and uplifting on my face.
That was how it felt uplifting, like a pat on the back, a small encouraging gesture to keep faith through the long nights.
I kept to the shoveled paths and knocked the little bit of snow off my boots at the front door.
Behind a desk in the entryway, wrapped in a long fuzzy sweater, was a woman I'd seen before guiding tours and walking the labyrinth on the far side of the house.
She smiled at me as I entered and rested her finger on a spot in her book.
I held up my packed snack and asked, Is the solarium open?
It is, she said, as she gestured down the hall, and it's the perfect day for it.
I'd brought my own book, thinking I might read all afternoon in the sunlight.
But once I was in that space...
All I wanted to do was feel the warmth on my face.
So I found a spot on a bench and slowly peeled my mandarin and ate the sections as my battery charged.
This one would last me a good long while.
The solarium.
This was the part of the winter when the snow just stayed.
When a few inches piled on to the few inches below them and so on.
When the top layer was gently warmed by the noontime sun and froze over again at dusk into a crust that crackled in a satisfying way when a boot stepped through it.
When the drifts grew taller and taller alongside the path in the park and the pond was covered with a thick layer of sturdy ice all the way to its center.
I'd come to look forward to this part of the winter, the coldest, quietest part, as a time to draw a line around myself to unabashedly curtail anything that seemed extraneous or even unpleasant.
Deep winter was a time of needs must, and my needs in these weeks and months, were small and simple.
Good, hearty food, full nights of sleep, walks in the cold air, books, so many books, and sunshine.
It was the sunshine that had been lacking lately.
We'd had a week or more of thick, low clouds.
And with the days still being rather short, I was feeling the shortfall of brightness inside me.
I looked for other ways to feel sunny.
I juiced a pitcherful of citrus fruits navel oranges mandarins, yuzus and tart lemons and drank it from a fancy glass I served frozen drinks in during the summer.
I had a solo dance party in my kitchen and sang along to Stevie Wonder as I bopped around on the wood floor.
I'd booked an hour in the sauna at the spa downtown and sat alone in the steamy heat with my eyes closed and daydreamed about far-off places with long stretches of sand beside the ocean and turquoise water to paddle in.
It had all helped, but still.
I found myself feeling like I couldn't get my battery to charge all the way up.
Then last night, as I was drifting between dreams, I heard the wind blowing hard and fast around my house.
And when I woke up today, I found that while we had four or five fresh inches of snow to add to our growing piles, those winds had also eventually blown the clouds away and the sun was making a bright climb up out of the line of the horizon.
After days of not seeing it, I was giddy as I watched from my window.
The sunrise was bright orange against all of the snow and dark tree branches.
It reflected off my window panes and I imagined someone on the street watching the sunrise mirrored there, doubling the effect.
That was what I needed, I thought, a double dose of sunshine.
And that's when I remembered the solarium.
It was part of the big house down those dirt roads on the south side of town.
Nobody lived there anymore, but it was open to the public for tours and lectures and had acres of walking paths that I'd made good use of in the summertime.
In fact, I usually just kept to the paths when I visited and had almost forgotten about the house itself.
Till one day.
As I was arriving, I found a tour that was just about to begin in the gardens beside the tall oak front doors.
Did I want to join? asked a man with a lanyard around his neck and a stack of pamphlets in his hand.
Why not?
I'd followed the group through the gardens, past the koi pond, and into the great house.
I had listened to the stories of the portraits and stained glass windows and was very tempted to try pulling on the books in the library in case the fireplace might swing around and reveal a hidden passage.
On the top floor, I'd been mesmerized by a room full of maps, some preserved under glass in cabinets and some carefully kept in giant books that had to be laid flat on a table and opened by two people to show the pages.
We'd finished the tour back on the ground floor.
Behind the huge kitchen, where copper pans were still hanging from hooks in the ceiling, was a passage that led to a place called a solarium.
I'd never heard of one before, but was immediately charmed by it.
A room made of glass, a large one that our tour guide told us had been completely rebuilt a few years before.
It had been a hefty project to turn the space, which had become a cold place of broken panes and stashed garden tools, into a beautiful and inviting conservatory.
They'd laid in an underfloor heating system that would keep it warm in the winter and planted not just tropical and desert plants though there were plenty of those but whole fruit trees that would winter over happily in the warm air, palms and orange trees and olive trees and lots of sweet-smelling flowers.
There had been benches to rest on and even a small table where folks were welcome to eat a packed lunch.
As we were ushered back out into the grounds, the guide had told us that the solarium was particularly nice in winter.
So that was where I would charge my battery today.
I remembered the table and packed a bag with some of those mandarins and a sleeve of crackers and a packet of salted cashews, then drove out to the big house.
Not many people were on the roads, which were still a bit snowy.
I liked the idea of us all tucked in at home like squirrels and rabbits in their burrows and guessed that, as eager as I was to get out and feel the sun on my face, I'd be happy to get back home in a few hours and return to my cozy nesting.
I was worried, as my car trundled down the dirt road, that the house might not be open today.
But the tall gates were pushed back and I saw a few cars and even a brave fat tire bike in the lot.
The sunlight was magnificent, brighter than it had been in weeks.
And now that it was bouncing off all of that snow, It made me close my eyes as I stepped out of the car and just feel it warm and uplifting on my face.
That was how it felt uplifting, like a pat on the back, a small encouraging gesture to keep faith through the long nights.
I kept to the shoveled paths and knocked the little bit of snow off my boots at the front door.
Behind a desk in the entryway, wrapped in a long fuzzy sweater, was a woman I'd seen before guiding tours and walking the labyrinth on the far side of the house.
She smiled at me as I entered and rested her finger on a spot in her book.
I held up my packed snack and asked, Is the solarium open?
It is, she said, as she gestured down the hall.
And it's the perfect day for it.
I'd brought my own books. thinking that I might read all afternoon in the sunlight.
But once I was in that space, all I wanted to do was feel the warmth on my face.
So I found a spot on a bench and slowly peeled my mandarins and ate the sections as my battery charged.
This one would last me a good long while.
Sweet dreams.
