Our stories today take us out to the big house on the edge of town where a bench is waiting in a sunny spot to help you recharge your battery in The Solarium, then to a snug apartment with big windows that look all the way out to the park where the kettle is just about to boil in Cold Snap and Crosswords. Finally we’ll sit in the quiet of the yoga room for a bit, noticing the sounds of the present in Breathe in, Breathe out.
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Welcome to Stories from the Village of Nothing Much like easy Listening, but for fiction. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you'll hear on the Village of Nothing Much. Audio engineering and sound design is by Bob Wittersheim. The days are getting short and chilly in the Village of Nothing Much. Our neighbors are finding ways to make the most of the winter, and I'd love to tell you all about it. So before we begin, and just because it feels good, let's take a long inhale through the nose and sigh from the mouth nice one more time, Breathe in and out good our stories today. Take us out to the big house on the edge of town, where a bench is waiting in a sunny spot to help you recharge your battery in the solarium. Then to a snug apartment with big windows that look all the way to the park where the kettle is just about to boil in cold snap and crosswords. Finally, we'll sit in the quiet of the yoga room for a bit, noticing the sounds of the present, and breathe in, breathe out 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 hardy 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 a 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, naval oranges, mandarins, yuzoos, and tart lemons, and drank it from a fancy glass. I served frozen drinks, and during the summer I had a solo dance party in my kitchen and sing 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 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 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, passed the koy pan 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 and 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 had laid in an underfloor heating system that would keep it warm in the winter, and planted not just tropical and desert plants 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 welcomed 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 cashews, then drove out to the 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. Yes, 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 said, 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 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 Mandarin and ate the sections as my battery charged. This one would last me a good long while cold Snap and crosswords. I've always loved small spaces. Even as a child, I found myself crawling into cabinets and pulling pillows into the space under desks. I'd happily curl up with a book or a toy and spend an hour or two snug in my makeshift nest. So when I found this apartment on the top floor of an old brick building on the edge of downtown, it immediately felt like home. It was a studio, and I liked doing all my living in the one space. It had coved ceilings and tall windows that looked all the way into the park. It had a small kitchen with a built in banquette, space for my big bed, a bathroom tiled in black and white, and very best of all, a fireplace. It had been a wood burning hearth when the building was first built in the Art Deco style one hundred years before, but had been converted to gas before I'd moved in. I loved the smell of a wood fire, but I had to admit that being able to turn it on by remote from the comfort of my still warm bed was a luxury I enjoyed, and that's what I did today. We had a cold snap that had started the evening before. It had already been cold, but as the sun went down, the temperature dropped steeply, and when I'd come home with a couple bags of groceries around seven, the chill had followed me right into the elevator, and I'd had to drink a whole pot of tea to warm up, and it had gotten even colder overnight. I'd slept well, though my little apartment just a little cooler than usual. When I woke a little past sunrise, I'd plumped the pillows and sat up in bed, pulling the comforter closer around me, and clicked down the fireplace. A line of blue flame skirted along the bottom of the ceramic logs, then sprung up into orange and red fire, and I let out a sigh. I stayed in bed for a while, letting the room warm up, and sipping from the cup of water on my nightstand. There were plenty of days when I had to get right up and out when lounging in bed wasn't an option, But today was a lazy Sunday and I didn't have any plans, and with the icy wind blowing against my windows, I decided I wouldn't make any Eventually, the craving for coffee nudged me out of bed, and I pulled back the blankets and stepped down into my slippers. I filled my kettle at the sink and set it on the stove and listened to the click click of the gas lighter turning on. I took my french from the drying rack and put the pieces of it together. I ground coffee beans and dumped them into my pot, using a small paint brush to get all of them from the crevices of the grinder. While I waited for the water to boil, I strolled over through the windows and looked down into the street. It certainly looked cold. I saw a few brave souls in the coffee shop and wondered if the usual meeting of grandfathers at the big table along the back wall would still happen. The diner was opened down the street, and the bakery kitty corner to it had its lights on. The kettle whistled behind me, and I left the window and poured the water into my press, letting the steam curl around my neck as it filled. I set the plunger on top and took my favorite mug from the cupboard. While it brewed, I fished through my bag hanging from the coat rack by the door. I'd gotten a gift from my brother over the hollow, a box that had showed up on my doorstep, wrapped in brown paper. Inside were a couple books of crosswords and Sudoku puzzles. I hadn't done any in years, but over the last few weeks I'd become a regular puzzler. I stuck to the easy and medium puzzles. I didn't have anything to prove, and I just liked filling them in, though I still got stuck from time to time. I'd even worn through the eraser on my pencil and had to stop at the stationery shop to buy a few of those pink eraser caps to extend its usefulness. I pressed the plunger down on my French press and poured a cup to the brim. I set it on my nightstand and dropped my crossword book and puzzle on the coverlet and crawled back into bed. I tucked the covers tight around me, and rested back against the pillows. I would stay in bed as long as I wanted. This morning, in my snug apartment, with the fire burning and my puzzles, I had one of those moments of pure glee, simple joy at how happy I was with my situation, and it made me laugh and wriggle against the sheets. I flipped open my book and propped it in my lap, took a long sip of coffee, and read the first clue one across voice above tenor four letters. That was alto. I'd noticed that there were a few handy clues that puzzle makers used over and over again. What was the best cookie for dunking an oreo? How did you join the poker game? Auntie? What foil did fencers use? EPI and I'd learned a few things as I worked the puzzles. Who did leanderlove? It was Hero who was the Roman goddess of the dawn Aurora four cross historical period. This one came up a lot too. Usually it was three letters, but this one was asking for five oh epic. The wind blew in a strong gust, and I looked up to see snowflakes cascading past my window. Even better to be home and snug in bed and watch it come down. I drank more coffee. Twenty one down. Took it very easy. Five letters, and it started with an L. Well, this one was right up my alley. I thought it must be something to do with laying down, and checked the cross clue on the third letter, an alignment of celestial bodies. I'd had this one before, and I'd had to look it up when i'd finally surrendered, because it was a very tricky one. A word I'd never heard before, sciss agy, so that put a Z in the middle of Took it very easy. Lazed, yep, that's sure fit. The snow was falling even thicker outside, and I rested my pencil in the crease of the book and reached for my cup It was nearly empty. I'd have another one for certain, then maybe some toast or oatmeal or both. The rest of the day would be more of the same, puzzles, movies, a long bath in my tub, a pot of soup, playing records, enjoying the fire. Just like when I was a child, Tucked inside my cupboard, I was content to be nestled inside, to enjoy my own company and only emerge when I was ready. Breathe in, breathe out. Before I turned the open sign and unlocked the door, I always sat for a few minutes by myself in the quiet of the yogur room. Today I had a cup of tea with me and a little cushion I pulled down from a shelf in the big open space. I gravitated to a corner where I felt tucked in and unobtrusive, which I suppose was strange since I was completely alone. It's a feeling you have, though sometimes, isn't it that you'd just rather not be observed. That privacy recharges you. That's why I liked these minutes. Before opening the studio. I heard the word ambivert once, describing someone who moved back and forth between extraversion and introversion, who could be the center of a or in my case, the teacher in the room, and then retreat inward and with the same comfort and ease, be alone. I had a feeling that was probably something most people could relate to. We are different people. One hundred times a day. I shifted on my cushion so that I could sit up tall and roll my shoulders down my back. I set my cup down beside me and let my eyes close. I took a slow breath down into the bottoms of my lungs, let it bloom up into my chest, and then side it out through my lips. I listened to the sounds in the room. Sometimes my whole meditation was just listening, and not only here on my cushion, but when I rode the bus or stood on the corner by the cafe, I listened to the sounds around me, the hiss of the bus door, the people walking past or right now, the atmospheric hum in the room. The yoga room is warm, not overly hot, but warm enough to not need a sweater, to feel like you can stretch out on your mat in complete comfort, even when a blizzard is blowing outside. And I could hear the furnace and a slight, tiny ring of the air register vibrating as the heat flowed through it. I could also pick out the sound of the humidifier. It made a soft, staticky hiss as it softened the air. When my mind revved back up and started off in another direction, I pivoted back to the present by listening again. I listened for the sound of my own breath. It was very quiet but perceptible, and I noticed the touch of it on my upper lip. I smiled as I sat, thinking of a story we tell at yoga about a frog set down in the center of a plate, and how he hops off in an instant and when you set him back in the center of the plate a second later, he hops off in another direction. And so is your mind, and so is mine. With practice, we can lose some of our froggier characteristics, recentering ourselves in the middle of each moment and learning to not hop away, even if it's just for a fraction of a second longer than last time. So I reset, I didn't hop. Minutes passed, and I reset a few more times. Then I just felt ready and done. So I took another long breath in and out and let my eyes blink open. I reached for my tea and took a drink of it, holding it in my mouth for a moment. It was green tea with lemon, and it tasted bright and citrusy. I stood and put my cushion away and got the room ready for my students. I was teaching a restorative yoga class this afternoon and It had become one of my favorites on the schedule. It was a whole hour dedicated to resting and rebuilding. We used big cushions, sturdy bolsters, phone blocks, and small weighted bean bags to settle our bodies into the most comfortable and comforting shapes we could find, and then just let time pass, breathed, let our nervous systems find their own level. It was becoming a popular class, and as a teacher I found that quite heartening. Sometimes students come in with one idea in mind, of pushing, of always doing more, working harder, and it could take some convincing to help them see the benefits of softness and doing less. But maybe the world was doing that convincing for me these days, because each week I had a few more students willing to try this class. I adjusted the lights low enough to make the room feel snug in private, and put on some quiet music that my students would probably only notice if it stopped. I set out the props we'd need, and took one more big breath in the room. It was something I noticed students doing naturally when they came here. They might have rushed to get here and carried that haste right up onto their mats, but once they settled down for a moment, they breathe in and breathe out, and their back in the center of their plates. I stepped out of the room and into the lobby. I flipped the open sign hanging in the front window and unlocked the door. It was a clear, cold day, and I was grateful to be in this warm space. The old wood floors felt friendly under my bare feet. I stood behind the desk and laid a pencil on the sign and sheet, and watched people walking past on the sidewalk across the street. The tea shop looked busy, and I wrapped my hands around my own mug, eking out the last bit of its warmth. Students began to arrive, and I liked having a few moments with each one to chat and say hello, but also to gauge their mood and learn a bit about what they were coming in with. Some were cheery and excited to get in the yoga room. Some were quiet, just signing their name and giving me a small nod. One student stood shyly back, and when I waved her up to the desk, said she hadn't been to class in years, a note of embarrassment in her voice. I just said, you're here today and smiled at her. She smiled back, and I walked her into the yoga room and got her set up with a bolster and the props she'd need for class. I looked up at the clock and saw that it was time to begin. I stepped over to the front door and looked up and down the sidewalk. I always check before we begin, and sure enough I spotted one of my regulars rushing toward me. I held open the door for him and ushered him in. He pulled his hat off and hopped around, trying to yank on his boots, saying I'm late. I touched his arm and said, in a quiet voice, you made it. You're here now. Then he chuckled and took in a breath and let it out. Thank you for spending some time with us here in the village of nothing much. We hope you find moments this week to feel the sun on your face, to pause with a cup of something hot, and to take a few deep breaths and enjoy the days as they pass.