Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens.
You feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolai.
I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.
Audio engineering is by Bob Wittershine.
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 -rassed and sweet dreams.
Let me take you behind the scenes for a moment.
I'm here in my recording booth, and with me at all times, is a weighted pillow that I keep on my lap as I read.
The effect of the deep pressure stimulation helps me stay in my body.
And I like it so much, I called up Quiet Mind, the maker, and said, hey, let's work together.
So now available is our very own Nothing Much Happens weighted pillow.
That's the perfect holiday gift for animation fans.
And folks who need extra help feeling calm and grounded.
The first 100 orders will also get two months free of our Premium Plus podcast membership.
Order now through the link in our bio.
Now, I have a story to tell you, and it is a soft place to rest your busy mind.
Just by listening, you'll be training your brain and nervous system for a reliable and swift shift into sleep.
The more you do it, the stronger that response will become.
I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
If you wake again later in the night, turn the story right back on, you'll be asleep again within moments.
Our story tonight is called Winter Evening Yoga, and it's a story about stepping into a safe, soothing space after a long day.
It's also about bolsters and blankets, love notes sent to yourself, low lights and soft music, and feeling completely at ease.
Now, it's time to set things down.
Close -up shop. Feel how good it is to be in your bed right now.
I know that I am just a stranger on the internet, but I hope you can feel how genuinely I am wishing for your rest and relaxation.
Most of us could stand a bit more tenderness in our world, and I want to offer you mine.
So, as you settle in, feel that you are cared for, that you have a friend in me and in the village of nothing much.
Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and sigh through your mouth.
Nice. Let's do one more.
Breathe in. Let it go.
Good. Winter Evening Yoga Ever since the time change a few weeks back, I'd found it more challenging to get out of the house, especially once the sun had set and the darkness had sunk in.
And I didn't force myself.
There were plenty of evenings when I got into my pajamas as soon as I got home and into bed as soon as the dinner dishes were drying in the rack.
But there were a couple of things that could get me back out into the world.
And one was the restorative yoga class at the studio in downtown.
Half of the lure was just knowing that the room would be warm and quiet.
And as I sometimes felt like I'd heard too much for one day, seen too many headlines, talked to too many people, or just thought too many thoughts, the promise of that space where nothing was required of me, where there would be few words and a lot of comfort and relaxation, well, it sounded like exactly
what I needed on every level.
So tonight I'd reminded myself how good I would feel afterward as I got my yoga clothes on.
In fact, I'd left myself a note on the bathroom mirror that I had written after last week's class.
It just said, I'm so glad I went.
Don't hesitate. These little missives sent from past me to present me helped.
It was easy to lose track of how good things were when you were out of the moment, out of step with that experience.
And these little handwritten reminders slipped me back into the groove.
I remembered how relaxed my neck and shoulders had felt as I'd written this.
How the worry lines around my brow had smoothed out.
And how grateful I had been to have made class happen.
I carried the sticky note with me as I gathered my keys, my mat, and water bottle, and put on my coat and boots.
When I got in the car, I stuck it to the center of the steering wheel and it cheered me on all the way into downtown.
This class was still one of the village's best kept secrets.
So I easily found a parking spot right in front of the studio.
I think yoga makes my senses sharper.
And I found that every part of entering the studio struck a chord.
Whether it was the faint maple scent of the old wood floors or the very quiet ambient music playing from the speakers, the air felt warm and soothing on my skin as I shed my coat and hung it up.
I signed in at the desk, just exchanging a smile with the teacher, and went to set up.
This class was a restorative yoga practice and I'd been skeptical at first.
Thinking that it wasn't really something I'd benefit from.
Probably not something that I needed.
But from the very first time I attended, I realized I'd been missing out.
My nervous system needed the deep reset that came with such intentional rest.
And relaxation. And my body moved more smoothly afterwards.
In my regular practice, I often used a block or two, maybe an extra cushion under my knees.
But for this practice, I got all the props.
I had a sturdy cylindrical bolster, a couple of cushions, blocks, blankets, a strap, and even a couple of weighted bean bags.
Once my props were lined up by my mat, I stretched out in the dim room and just listened to my own breathing.
Students were setting up around me, but this studio had a strict no -talking -in -the -yoga -room rule.
And everyone followed it because it felt so good to have that quiet before class.
Eventually, I heard my teacher moving around.
She was just quietly adjusting the music and lights, making sure everyone had all the props they needed and that the heat would stay consistent for us while we practiced.
Then she talked us into our first posture.
We laid on our backs with the bolster under our knees.
She suggested that if we felt a bit restless, we try holding on to those weighted bean bags, letting them pin our cupped palms to the floor.
We wrestled around for a few moments.
Everyone getting into position.
And then there was a collective sigh as we began to let the shape work on us.
I'd learned that using these postures, my breath, and just being in the environment were ways to speak to my nervous system, to communicate that everything was okay.
All danger had passed.
And energy could be spent on restoration.
Sometimes I found myself stuck in red alert after a stressful day, unable to shake a feeling of urgency that just wasn't needed or helpful.
I hadn't been able to think my way out of that, but practices like this moved me out of it.
In the quiet, time passed.
And every few minutes, we'd shift slightly.
We laid with the bolsters under our spines to open our chests and folded forward over cushions to release tight necks and shoulders.
We were encouraged to make adjustments, to find comfortable expressions of each posture, so that ease was constant.
After constructing a little pillow fort of blocks and cushions, and propping one leg up on it, letting the other bend the knee and tip to the side, I felt so comfortable.
My mind was so quiet that I started to doze.
My teacher often said that if we fell asleep during practice, it simply meant we needed sleep.
And that we'd succeeded in making ourselves feel safe enough that it just happened.
From there on out, I dipped into sleep for a few minutes at a time.
And it was a different kind of sleep than I experienced at home in bed.
I didn't dream. I didn't notice anything.
I simply had the awareness, every few minutes, that I had been somewhere, but with no idea of where.
Finally, the teacher encouraged us to set up for shavasana, the final posture of the hour.
And even though we'd been resting throughout, this deep resting shape was meant to seal in all that we had done, so that it stayed even after we ventured back out into the world.
Most of us laid flat, though a few turned to the wall and swung their legs up.
The lights went even dimmer.
There was just a faint orange glow in the room.
And the sound of my teacher's footsteps, as she went from one student to the next, covering each with a blanket.
I remember the first time she had done this for me.
It felt like being a child, tenderly covered as I slept on the sofa.
It had brought tears to my eyes.
Now, as I felt her presence beside me, the quick gust of cooler air as she tossed the blanket across me, and then the soft fabric floating down and settling on my limbs.
I let out one more sigh.
I imagined the sticky note.
I would write for future me tonight.
Dear me, we feel so much better after yoga.
Just go. Winter evening yoga.
Ever since the time change a few weeks back, I'd found it more challenging to get out of the house, especially once the sun had set and the darkness had sunk in.
And I didn't force myself.
There were plenty of evenings when I got into my pajamas as soon as I got home, and into bed as soon as the dinner dishes were drying in the rack.
But there were a couple of things that could get me back out into the world, and one was the restorative yoga class at the studio in downtown.
Half of the lore was just knowing that the room would be warm and quiet.
And as I sometimes felt like I'd heard too much for one day, seen too many headlines, talked to too many people, or just thought too many thoughts, the promise of that space where nothing was required of me, where there would be few words and a lot of comfort and relaxation.
Well, it sounded like exactly what I needed on every level.
So tonight, I'd reminded myself how good I would feel afterward as I got my yoga clothes on.
In fact, I'd left myself a note on my bathroom mirror that I'd written after last week's class.
It just said, I'm so glad I went.
Don't hesitate. These little missives sent from past me to present me helped.
It was easy to lose track of how good things were when you were out of the moment.
Out of step with the experience.
And these little handwritten reminders slipped me back into the groove.
I remembered how relaxed my neck and shoulders had felt as I'd written this.
How the worry lines around my brow had smoothed out.
And how grateful I had been to have made class happen.
I carried the sticky note with me as I gathered my keys, my mat, and water bottle and put on my coat and boots.
When I got in the car, I stuck it to the center of the steering wheel and it cheered me on all the way into downtown.
This class was still one of the village's best -kept secrets, so I easily found a parking spot right in front of the studio.
I think yoga made my senses sharper, and I found that every part of entering the studio struck a chord.
Whether it was the faint maple scent of the old wood floors or the very quiet, ambient music playing from the speakers.
The air felt warm and soothing on my skin as I shed my coat and hung it up.
I signed in at the desk, just exchanging a smile with the teacher.
And went to set up.
This class was a restorative yoga practice and I had been skeptical at first, thinking that it wasn't really something I'd benefit from.
Probably not something that I needed.
But from the very first time I attended, I realized I'd been missing out.
My nervous system needed the deep reset that came with such intentional rest and relaxation.
And my body moved more smoothly afterward.
In my regular practice, I often used a block or two, maybe an extra cushion under my knees.
But for this practice, I got all the props.
I had a sturdy cylindrical bolster, a couple of cushions, blocks, blankets, a strap, and even a couple of weighted bean bags.
Once my props were lined up by my math, I stretched out in the dim room and just listened to my own breathing.
Students were setting up around me, but this studio had a strict no -talking -in -the -yoga -room rule.
And everyone followed it, because it felt so good to have that quiet before class.
Eventually, I heard my teacher moving around.
She was just quietly adjusting the music and lights.
Making sure everyone had all the props they needed and that the heat would stay consistent for us while we practiced.
Then she talked us into our first posture.
We laid on our backs with the bolster under our knees.
She suggested that if we felt a bit restless, we try holding onto those weighted bean bags, letting them pin our cupped palms to the floor.
We rustled around for a few moments, everyone getting into position.
And then there was a collective sigh.
As we began to let the shape work on us, I'd learned that using these postures, my breath, and just being in the environment were ways to speak to my nervous system, to communicate that everything was okay.
All danger had passed.
An energy could be spent on restoration.
Sometimes, I found myself stuck in red alert after a successful day.
Unable to shake a feeling of urgency that just wasn't needed or helpful.
I hadn't been able to think my way out of that, but practices like this moved me out of it.
In the quiet, time passed, and every few minutes, we'd shift slightly.
We laid with the bolsters under our spines to open our chests, and folded forward over cushions to release tight necks and shoulders.
We were encouraged to make adjustments, to find comfortable expressions of each posture, so that ease was constant.
After constructing a little pillow fort of blocks and cushions, and propping one leg up on it, letting the other bend at the knee and tip to the side, I felt so comfortable.
My mind was so quiet that I started to doze.
My teacher often said that if we fell asleep during practice, it simply meant we needed sleep, and that we'd succeeded in making ourselves feel safe enough that it just happened.
From there, on out, I dipped into sleep for a few minutes at a time, and it was a different kind of sleep than I experienced at home in bed.
I didn't dream. I didn't notice anything.
I simply had the awareness, every few minutes, that I had been somewhere, but with no idea of where.
Finally, the teacher encouraged us to set up for Shavasana, the final posture of the hour.
And even though we had been resting throughout, this deep resting shape of the earth was meant to seal in all that we had done, so that it stayed, even after we ventured back out into the world.
Most of us laid flat, though a few turned to the wall and swung their legs up.
The lights went even dimmer.
There was just a faint orange glow in the room, and the sound of my teacher's footsteps as she went from one student to the next, covering each with a blanket.
I remember the first time she had done this for me.
It felt like being a child, tenderly covered as I slept on the sofa.
It had brought tears to my eyes.
Now, as I felt her presence beside me, the quick gust of cooler air as she tossed the blanket across me, and then the soft fabric floating down and settling on my limbs, I let out one more sigh.
I imagined the sticky note.
I would write for future me tonight.
Dear me, we feel so much better after yoga.
Just go. Sweet dreams.
We're going to have our first day of yoga.
