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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone in which nothing much happens.
You feel good and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nicolai.
I create everything 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 Pasadena Humane.
Pasadena Humane is more than an animal shelter.
They are a community -supported animal resource center, providing compassion and care for all animals.
You can learn more about them in our show notes.
To subscribe to our premium feed, buy some cozy merch, or be reminded of promo codes for our lovely sponsors, head to our show notes.
Over on our premium feed, we just released our spring favorites episode of Much More Happens.
That's over nine hours of sleepy storytelling to see you through the night.
And a pro tip, if you listen to Premium on Spotify, you can build out a playlist of all of our Much More Happens episodes.
Start it at a different story each night and you'll have something new and soft to listen to for ages.
All of this, plus the complete catalog, Seven Years of Nothing Much Happens ad -free, for about a dime a day.
I think it's a steal.
Links to everything in our notes.
Now, busy minds need a place to rest, and that's exactly what I have for you.
And for this to work, all you need to do is listen.
Let your attention rest on my voice like an upturned leaf resting on the current of a river.
Before you know it, you'll be fast asleep.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn a story back on.
It'll rock you right back to sleep.
This is brain training and improves with use, so be patient if you are new to this.
Our story tonight is called Tiny House, and it's a story about a snug, small space to relax in.
It's also about impatience for the flowerbed, sunny days on the edge of the woods, hammocks and reading nooks, and the relief of having fewer decisions to make and more time to enjoy.
So lights out campers, set everything down.
Even your thoughts and worries, set them down for now.
If they are useful, you can pick them up tomorrow.
But most likely, you'll forget them as you dream.
Notice how good it feels to be in bed, to be at the end of this day, feel your jaw softening, your shoulders relaxing.
All is well. Take a deep breath in through the nose, and sigh.
Once more, breathe in, and release it.
Good. Tiny House Ever since I was a child, I've loved snug spaces, the cupboard under the stairs, the space between the sofa and the wall, pillow forts and reading nooks.
And even as I grew up, I loved the corner booth at the diner, a window seat with a curtain that you can pull closed, the interior of my small car, parked on the edge of the park on a rainy, chill day, with the heat running and some music playing from the radio.
I think it's the simplicity of small spaces that make them feel so soothing to me.
Caring for them, cleaning and organizing, and being in them comes with a pared -down list of options.
So the overworked, decision -making part of my brain gets a break when I'm in them.
Instead of wearing myself out with a dozen what -ifs or should -is, There is just a simple, clear path.
Do this, the small space says.
Yes, that feels like a relief to an overworked mind.
So, a few months ago, I decided to make simplified spaces a way of life, rather than an occasional escape.
Just before the holidays, I bought a tiny house, sold, or gave away most of my things, Took what was left and moved in.
And I loved it. It felt like the safest little space I'd ever known.
Small, uncomplicated, and all mine.
It sat near a patch of thick woods, a mile or two outside of town, just before you get to the orchards, more like the privacy and the quiet out here.
From my bed in the sleeping loft, I could see a pond in the distance, where deer and fox came to drink.
All around my tiny house were shrubs and garden beds that I was planning to fill with pretty annuals and small trees.
Since I'd moved in at the end of autumn, all I'd had time for outside had been hanging a few strands of Christmas lights on the porch, and a wreath on my door.
But this year, I would spend a lot of time outside, making the most of my garden.
Already, I used the porch every day.
That was something I'd noticed, about living in a smaller space.
In my last house, there were whole rooms I barely ever used, only entered to or store things.
In this house, I used every space nearly every day.
And it gave me a sense of not wasting.
Not wasting space and not wasting time.
The porch gave off of my front door, which was painted a cheery yellow among the antique blue of the house exterior.
It held just my comfortable chair and the small table for my coffee and a book.
I sat outside as soon as it was warm enough in the mornings and watched the world wake up around me.
It had become a kind of meditation to sit there, listen to rain dripping from the eaves and tree branches or the birds singing on sunny days, to taste the deep strong flavor of my coffee and smell the woods and the grass as spring arrived.
I'd often carry my cup with me as I stepped down from the porch and circle my house slowly, stopping to pull weeds from the beds, or pluck a few stems of lily of the valley from around the oak tree roots.
Inside my little house, I'd shed my shoes at the door, and find a small vase for the flowers, and clean the whole kitchen in less than a minute flat.
In fact, my whole home could be cleaned in less than an hour.
So keeping it just the way I liked it, in order and welcoming, was something I did every day.
I found, living here, that I had more time to do things I loved, felt less overwhelmed by the list of chores and to -dos that used to dominate my days.
I read more books, went for more walks, listened to more music, and slept better than I had in years.
When I'd first told friends about my plans for this tiny house life, many had asked, And what about dinner parties?
What about guests? Wouldn't I just need more space at certain times?
And I know I haven't lived here long.
Just six months. But so far, their concerns hadn't proved worth worrying over.
For the brick patio, at the back of the house, I'd ordered a nice -sized outdoor table.
If I wanted to have a dinner party, I could do it any day the weather allowed. As for guests, well, they were welcome to come, to have a cup of tea with me.
I'd even take an extra chair out onto the porch for them.
But when the visit was over, I'd send them on to the next stop in their journey.
I'd spent many years making myself less comfortable, to make others more so, and now I was in a different season of my life, and real friends appreciated that and never resented it.
I guess there could be times when I would want some extra space, but the world was full of space, and I'd realized it didn't all have to live in my home.
I could be in town in five minutes, wandering through the open streets, meeting a big group of friends for a movie or dinner, watching a soccer game with hundreds of others at the high school stadium, listening to a band play at the clamshell concert stage in the park.
In fact, today seemed a good day to step out into the world and find a few things I'd been thinking of from my home.
I'd go to the plant nursery and look for a few flats of impatience for the bed beside the porch. I'd stop by the gift shop to buy a candle scented for spring, and I just might go to the hardware store, where I'd seen a display of hammocks in the window.
This smaller, simpler approach to living was making more space in my life for little pleasures — more time to just rest and notice and enjoy.
And when I came back home today and set the flowers on the patio for tomorrow's planting, lit the candle on my single table, and locked the door behind me, I'd feel a rush of gratitude for taking this step, to move my life more deliberately in the direction of my dreams. Tiny house.
Ever since I was a child, I'd loved snug spaces.
The cupboard under the stairs.
The space between the sofa and the wall.
Pillow forts and reading nooks.
And even as I grew up, I loved the corner booth at the diner.
A window seat, with a curtain that you can pull closed.
the interior of my small car parked on the edge of the park on a rainy chill day with the heat running and some music playing from the radio.
I think it's the simplicity of small spaces that make them feel so soothing to me.
Caring for them, cleaning and organizing, and being in them comes with a pared -down So the overworked decision -making part of my brain gets a break when I'm in them.
Instead of wearing myself out, with a dozen what -ifs or should -ais, there is just a simple, clear path.
Do this, the small space says.
Yes, that feels like a relief to an overworked mind.
So, a few months ago, I decided to make simplified spaces a way of life, rather than an occasional escape.
Just before the holidays, I bought a tiny house, sold or gave away most of my things, took what was left and moved in.
And I loved it. It felt like the safest little space I'd ever known.
Small, uncomplicated, and all mine.
It sat near a patch of thick woods, a mile or two outside of town.
Just before you get to the orchards, I liked the privacy and the quiet out here.
From my bed in the sleeping loft, I could see a pond in the distance, where deer and fox came to drink.
All around my tiny house were shrubs and garden beds that I was planning to fill with pretty pretty annuals and small trees.
Since I'd moved in at the end of autumn, all I'd had time for outside had been hanging a few strands of christmas lights on the porch and a wreath on my door.
But this year I would spend a lot of time outside, making the most of my garden.
Already, I used the porch every day.
That was something I'd noticed about living in a smaller space.
In my last house, there were whole rooms I barely ever used.
Only entered to dust or store things.
In this house, I used every space nearly every day.
And it gave me a sense of not wasting.
Not wasting space. And not wasting time.
The porch gave off of my front door, which was painted a cheery yellow among the antique blue of the house exterior, and it held just my comfortable chair and a small table for my coffee and a book.
I sat outside as soon as it was warm enough in the mornings and watched the world wake up around me.
It had become a kind of meditation to sit there, To listen to rain dripping from the eaves and tree branches.
To taste the deep, strong flavor of my coffee, and smell the woods and grass as spring arrived.
I'd often carry my cup with me as I stepped down from the porch, and circle my house slowly, stopping to pull weeds from the beds, or pluck a few stems of lily of the valley, from around the oak tree roots.
Inside my little house, I'd shed my shoes at the door and find a small vase for the flowers and clean the whole kitchen in less than a minute flat.
In fact, my whole home could be cleaned in less than an hour.
So keeping it just the way I liked it, in order and welcoming, was something I did every day.
I found, living here, that I had more time to do things I loved, felt less overwhelmed by the list of chores and to -do's that used to dominate my days.
I read more books, went for more walks, listened to more music, and slept better than I had in years.
When I'd first told friends about my plans for this tiny house life, many had asked, What about dinner parties?
What about guests? Wouldn't I just… need more space at certain times?
I know I haven't lived here long.
Just six months. But so far, their concerns hadn't proved worth worrying over.
For the brick patio at the back of the house, I'd ordered a nice -sized outdoor table.
If I wanted to have a dinner party, I could do it any day the weather allowed. As for guests, well, they were welcome to come, to have a cup of tea with me.
I'd even take an extra chair out onto the porch for them.
But when the visit was over, I'd send them on to the next stop in their journey.
I'd spent many years making myself less comfortable to make others more so, and now I was in a season of my life and real friends appreciated that and never resented it.
I guessed there could be times when I would want some extra space, But the world was full of space, and I realized it didn't all have to live in my home.
I could be in town in five minutes, wandering through the open streets, meeting a big group of friends for a movie or dinner, watching a soccer game with hundreds of others at the school stadium, listening to a band play at the clamshell concert stage in the park.
In fact, today seemed a good day to step out into the world and find a few things I'd been thinking of for my home.
I'd go to the plant nursery and look for a few flats of impatiens for the bed beside the porch. I'd stop by the gift shop to buy a candle scented for spring.
And I just might go to the hardware store where I'd seen a display of hammocks in the window.
This smaller, simpler approach to living was making more space in my life for little And when I came back home today and set the flowers on the patio for tomorrow's planting, lit the candle on my single table and locked the door behind me.
I'd feel a rush of gratitude for taking this step to move my life more deliberately in the direction of my dreams. Sweet dreams.
