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 window pane, a sofa turned into a nest for afternoon napping and the calm and quiet that comes when mother nature takes over.
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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 Nikolay. I write and read all the stories you hear and nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to Sea Turtles. They help the sea turtle community connect, grow and thrive by supporting community based conservation efforts. Learn more about them in our show notes. I'd like to thank some recent subscribers to our Premium plus channel. Thank you Kevin, Thank you Bettina, Thanks Alex, and thank you Caitlin. And if you are a subscriber and I have never said your name, please know that I thank you. I just can't fit everyone's name into our intro. We really would not be able to continue to do this show without our subscribers. A lot of work goes into making each episode. It's not AI, it's people, and we are grateful that you support people making art and helpful content. If you'd like to join our supporters, go to Nothing Much Happens dot com or click on the link in our show notes. 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 window pane, a sofa turned into a nest for afternoon napping, and the calm and quiet that comes when mother nature takes over. No 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 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 eighty degrees out, and I don't plant pansies until we are fairly sure that the hard frosts are over. Not always patient enough to wait, especially when the pole 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 snow storm, or my desire for full body vitamin D replenishment lands on a bright, cloudless day to spend sprawled at the beach. So to day when I found myself overstretched from a week full of work and small talk and showing up, when I felt a deep need to be quiet and inside myself, and I began to hear the rain falling outside my window, I sighed with deep automatic relief. I might have even whispered aloud, oh 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 petrocore 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 rain drops. 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 cell for a few moments. My slid a ribbon into my journal and closed it for the week, and set my pen and penciled 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 Thunderson games would be canceled at the fields by the high school, and the pond in the park at the edge of down Tone might swell and run into the walking path. When I guessed that no one minded downstairs. I closed the last window and opened a cabinet to take down a big round mog, a kind fur 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 chay 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 it 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 its steam in the quiet kitchen. When my cup was full I went into the living room. I needed maximum comfort to day. 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 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. 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 midstep, 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, wow, I really didn't mind losing power to day. 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 window sill and watched the reflection of its flame flickering in the glass. Beside the sofa was another 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 chaie 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 tried to wait for a snowy day to bake Christmas cookies. I don't visit the pumpkin patch when it's still eighty 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 straight closing snow storm, or my desire for full body vitamin D replenishment lands on a bright, cloudless day to spend sprawled out at the beach. So to day when I found myself overstretch'd from a week full of work and small talk and showing up when I felt a deep need to be quiet and inside myself, and I began to hear the rain falling outside my window. I sighed with deep automatic relief. I might have even whispered aloud, ah, thank you. I'd been at my desk, my planner opened on the blodder 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 in 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 petrocore came 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 rain drops. The compounds changed a bit with the seasons, so this early autumn rain smell 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 penciled down on the desk. I stepped over to feel the breeze and missed coming through the skies. All around the house were dark gray like curtains bowled 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 Thunderson 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. My closed the last window, 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 chay 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 cardamum, and it warmed me through. I'd had to have a bottle to take home, but now it warmed down 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 to day. 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 chi 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, and 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 back yard. I stepped over to the windows and watched the rain. It was barreling down now, bringing acorns and loose leeves down from the trees to carpet the lawn. I counted slowly, waiting for the rumble. When it came, the slow crushon though 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 came back on, and I decided that, well, I really didn't mind losing power to day, 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 to match out. And I liked the feeling of the grit on the striking surface, the smell of the antimony as it came to life. I let the candle on the kitchen window sill and watched the reflection of its flame flickering in the glass. The sofa was another, but smeled 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 chi 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,