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If you've been listening to me for a while, you know how much I value rest.
Sleep is really the foundation for everything else we do.
Our creativity, our relationships, our mood.
And like you, I've had stretches where sleep just didn't come easily.
And that's why I want to share something that's made a difference for me.
CBN night caps from Cured Nutrition.
These capsules are formulated with 30 mg of CBD and 5 mg of CBN, two cannabinoids that work together to support deep restorative rest.
What I've noticed is that I fall asleep really quickly, and I stay asleep longer.
And maybe most importantly, I wake up without feeling heavy or groggy.
Instead, I just feel rested and clear.
There's no psychoactive effect, just a gentle calm that helps my body and mind unwind.
For me, taking one an hour before bed has become part of my wind-down ritual, right alongside tea and a book.
It feels natural, not forced, and that's why it works.
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I am definitely a blanket person.
I'm surrounded by them, while I write and record, while I snuggle with the dogs, while I wind down at night.
But nothing compares to my Lola blanket.
The first time I opened it, I couldn't believe how soft it was.
It has this weight and stretch that just melts stress right off your shoulders.
I even sent one to a friend who just had a baby.
She told me that wrapping up in it while holding her newborn was the most comforting thing for both of them.
And that's what makes Lola special.
It's not just another blanket.
It's a little daily ritual of comfort.
For a limited time, our listeners are getting a huge 35 off their entire order at lolablanketscom when you use code NOTHINGMUCH at checkout.
Just head to lolablankets.com and use code NOTHINGMUCH for 35% off.
After you purchase, they'll ask where you heard about them.
Please support our show and tell them that we sent you.
Wrap yourself in luxury with Lola Blankets.
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, here's how this works.
I'll tell you a soft, soothing story.
And just by listening you'll shift your brain activity from the wandering tornado of thought that is default mode to the systematic and sleep-appropriate task-positive mode.
It might sound fancy or complicated, but it just means paying attention to something can help you fall asleep.
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 an episode right back on.
Our story tonight is called Thunder and Lightning.
And it's a story about slowing down and getting comfortable as the rain comes down.
It's also about cinnamon and clove a candle's flame reflected in a windowpane, a sofa turned into a nest for afternoon napping, and the calm and quiet that comes when Mother Nature takes over.
Now snuggle down, friends.
Make your own comfort a priority.
Maybe it's the first time today that you've really had the space and the time to notice how your body feels and respond to its needs.
So get the right pillow in the right spot.
Let your muscles soften and relax and draw a deep breath in through your nose And sigh from your mouth.
Nice.
Again, in.
And out.
Good.
Thunder and light.
I don't like to step on a season's toes.
I try to wait for a snowy day to bake Christmas cookies.
I don't visit the pumpkin patch when it's still 80 degrees out.
And I don't plant pansies until we are fairly sure that the hard frosts are over.
I'm not always patient enough to wait, especially when the pull of a new season is strong.
But when I do, what a feeling of harmony.
When my need for a day at home lines up with a street-closing snowstorm, my desire for full body vitamin d replenishment lands on a bright, cloudless day to spend sprawled at the beach.
And I began to hear the rain falling outside my window.
I sighed with deep, automatic relief.
I might have even whispered aloud, thank you.
I'd been at my desk, my planner open on the blotter in front of me, struggling to switch between a pencil and a pen, both clumsily held in my writing hand.
It was something I did at the end of each work week to look over the week coming up and lay out needful chores and goals, to pencil in some things and ink in others.
I was just smoothing the page and jotting down a plan for the following Wednesday to spend the morning at the library and the afternoon clearing out the shed at the back of the garden when the rain began.
The window beside me was pushed as wide as it would go, and as the drops fell I noticed the zing in the air of ozone, the scent rising up from the dry grass and dying perennials in the yard.
I'd read that that lovely smell of petrichor comes from the oils and minerals released from plants, which settle in dry times over stones and soil and pavements and then are dispersed into the air when struck by raindrops.
The compounds changed a bit with the seasons, so this early autumn rain smelled differently from its sister in the spring.
This one was spicy and darker, like amber and ashes and pine, and I let it rain in on my sill for a few moments.
I slid a ribbon into my journal and closed it for the week and set my pen and pencil down on the desk.
I stepped over to feel the breeze and mist coming through.
The skies all around the house were dark gray.
My curtains pulled across a wide window.
I felt my shoulders softening away from my ears and my jaw relaxing.
I took a few deep breaths of the fresh, cool air before easing the window shut and walking through the house to close the others.
From the hall upstairs, where I climbed into the window seat to nudge one shot.
I looked down and spotted my next-door neighbor shaking his umbrella out on his front step.
He stopped before going through the door to take his own deep breaths.
And I wondered if the whole neighborhood, the whole village, was glad for this rain.
By the look of the clouds, there would be lightning and thunder soon.
Games would be canceled at the fields by the high school, and the pond in the park at the edge of downtown might swell and run into the walking path.
And I guessed that no one minded.
Downstairs.
I closed the last window and opened a cabinet to take down a big round mug, a kind for afternoon tea or hot chocolate that held enough to savor for a good long time.
In the fridge, I had a beautiful glass bottle bought at the farmer's market.
It was chai concentrate.
And when I'd sampled it, my arms had been full of bags of tomatoes and red onions, with an awkward stem of Brussels sprouts poking out.
I'd been on my way out, sure that my shopping was complete.
But when I'd passed the tea stand and smelled the cinnamon and clove, I'd shifted my shopping in my arms and found a way to sip a sample.
The man who made it told me it was a family recipe, one that had been handed down to him.
It was rich, less sweet than the kind in a coffee shop with black pepper and cardamom, and it warmed me through.
I'd had to have a bottle to take home.
And now I warmed it on the stove with the same amount of oat milk, letting it steam in the quiet kitchen.
When my cup was full, I went into the living room.
I needed maximum comfort today.
I needed the rest of this afternoon and well into the evening to be full of my favorite sensations.
I already had the sound of the rain, the smell of the chai.
Now I needed the sofa to be laid out just right.
I pushed the ottoman up against the edge of the sofa so that it almost made a bed, then went to my bed because I wanted my favorite pillows and my comforter.
I plumped them into place, tossing the comforter out over the sofa, found the remote and set it beside my cup of chai, and was just about to climb into my nest when I saw a flash of lightning in the backyard.
I stepped over to the windows and watched the rain barreling down, now bringing acorns and loose leaves down from the trees to carpet the lawn.
I counted slowly, waiting for the rumble.
When it came, a slow crescendo of sound rising from somewhere out there.
I was at seventeen.
I remembered to divide by five and estimated that that put the strike between three and four miles away.
I was glad to be safe in my house while the storm rolled through.
I only had a few lights on.
The dark was so soothing to me right now.
I didn't want to spoil it.
But on my way back to the sofa, I saw the reading lamp beside the bookcase flicker.
I paused mid-step watching the light over the stove likewise guttering.
After a moment everything went out.
And then, a few moments later, it came back on.
And I decided that, while I really didn't mind losing power today, it might be wise to light a few candles.
I took the box of green-tipped strike-anywheres from the drawer beside the stove and fished a match out.
I liked the feeling of the grit on the striking surface, the smell of the antimony as it came to life.
I lit the candle on the kitchen windowsill and watched the reflection of its flame flickering in the glass.
Beside the sofa was another.
It smelled of fallen leaves, raked into piles.
And finally, I lit the one by my bed, which was lavender mixed with rosemary.
Once the matches were back in the drawer, I climbed into the soft airy that was my sofa.
I arranged my pillows stretched out long with my legs on the ottoman, and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
My cup of chai was now the perfect temperature for sipping.
More lightning, more thunder, more time curled up in this safe, soft space.
I had everything I wanted.
Thunder and lightning, I don't like to step on a season's toes.
I try to wait for a snowy day to bake Christmas cookies.
I don't visit the pumpkin patch when it's still 80 degrees out.
And I don't plant pansies until we're fairly sure that the hard frosts are over.
I'm not always patient enough to wait, especially when the pull of a new season is strong.
But when I do, What a feeling of harmony when my need for a day at home lines up with a street-closing snowstorm, or my desire for full-body vitamin D replenishment lands on a bright, cloudless day to spend sprawled out at the beach.
And I began to hear the rain falling outside my window.
I sighed with deep automatic relief.
I might have even whispered aloud, thank you.
I'd been at my desk, my planner open on the blotter in front of me, struggling to switch between a pencil and a pen, both clumsily held in my writing hand.
It was something I did at the end of each work week to look over the week coming up and lay out needful chores and goals, to pencil in some things and ink in others.
I was smoothing the page and jotting down a plan for the following Wednesday.
To spend the morning at the library and the afternoon clearing out the shed at the back of the garden when the rain began.
The window beside me was pushed as wide as it would go.
And as the drops fell, I noticed the zing in the air of ozone.
The scent rising up from the dry grass. undying perennials in the yard.
I'd read that that lovely smell of petrichor came from the oils and minerals released from plants which settle in dry times over stones and soil.
And then are dispersed into the air when struck by raindrops.
The compounds changed a bit with the seasons.
So this early autumn rain smelled differently from its sister in the spring.
This one was spicy and darker, like amber and ashes and pine.
And I let it rain in on my sill for a few moments.
I slid a ribbon into my journal and closed it for the week and set my pen and pencil down on the desk.
I stepped over to feel the breeze and mist coming through.
The skies all around the house were dark gray, like curtains pulled across a wide window.
I felt my shoulders softening away from my ears and my jaw relaxing.
I took a few deep breaths of the fresh, cool air before easing the window shut and walking through the house to close the others.
From the hall upstairs where I climbed into the window seat to nudge one closed.
I looked down and spotted my next-door neighbor shaking his umbrella out on his front step.
He stopped before going through the door to take his own deep breaths.
And I wondered if the whole neighborhood, the whole village was glad for this rain.
By the look of the clouds, There would be lightning and thunder soon.
Games would be canceled at the fields by the high school.
And the pond in the park at the edge of downtown might swell into the walking path.
And I guessed that no one minded.
Downstairs, I closed the last window and opened the cabinet to take down a big round mug.
The kind for afternoon tea or hot chocolate. that held enough to savor for a good long time.
In the fridge, I had a beautiful glass bottle bought at the farmer's market.
It was chai concentrate, and when I'd sampled it, My arms had been full of bags of tomatoes and red onions, with an awkward stem of Brussels sprouts poking out.
I'd been on my way out, sure that my shopping was complete.
But when I'd passed the tea stand and smelled the cinnamon and clove, I'd shifted the shopping in my arms and found a way to sip a sample.
The man who made it told me it was a family recipe. one that had been handed down to him.
It was rich, less sweet than the kind in a coffee shop with black pepper and cardamom, and it warmed me through.
I'd had to have a bottle to take home, But now it warmed on the stove with the same amount of oat milk steamed in the quiet kitchen.
When my cup was full, I went into the living room.
I needed maximum comfort today.
I needed the rest of this afternoon and well into the evening to be full of my favorite sensations.
I already had the sound of the rain and the smell of the chai.
Now I needed the sofa to be laid out just right.
I pushed the ottoman up against the edge of the sofa so that it almost made a bed, then went to my bed because I wanted my favorite pillows and I wanted my comforter.
I plumped them into place, tossing the comforter out over the sofa, found the remote and set it beside my cup of chai, and was just about to climb into my nest when I saw a flash of lightning in the backyard.
I stepped over to the windows and watched the rain.
It was barreling down now, bringing acorns and loose leaves down from the trees to carpet the lawn.
I counted slowly waiting for the rumble.
When it came, the slow crescendo of sound rising from somewhere out there.
I was at 17.
I remembered to divide by five and estimated that that put the strike between three and four miles away.
I was glad to be safe in my house while the storm rolled through.
I only had a few lights on.
The dark was so soothing to me right now.
I didn't want to spoil it.
But on my way back to the sofa, I saw the reading lamp beside the bookcase flicker.
I paused mid-step, watching the light over the stove, likewise guttering.
After a moment, everything went out.
And then, a few moments later, came back on.
And I decided that, while I really didn't mind losing power today, it might be wise to light a few candles.
I took the box of green-tipped strike-anywheres from the drawer beside the stove and fish to match out.
I liked the feeling of the grit on the striking surface, the smell of the antimony as it came to life.
I lit the candle on the kitchen windowsill and watched the reflection of its flame flickering in the glass.
Beside the sofa was another.
It smelled of fallen leaves raked into piles.
Finally, I lit the one by my bed. which was lavender mixed with rosemary.
Once the matches were back in the drawer, I climbed into the soft airy that was my sofa.
I arranged my pillows stretched out long with my legs on the ottoman, and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
My cup of chai was now the perfect temperature for sipping.
More lightning.
More thunder.
More time curled up in this safe, soft space.
I had everything I wanted.
Sweet dreams.
