Winter Views (Encore)
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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 Katherine 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. Just by listening to my voice and following along with the general shape of the story,
you'll be able to create a reliable response in your brain and nervous system. So that when you lie in bed at night, when it's time to sleep, you just will. The more you practice it, the stronger the response will become. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a bit slower the second time through. If you wake again in the night, don't hesitate to turn this or another story right back on. Or just think through any detail that you can remember. Our story tonight is called Winter Views. And it's a story about some different things to enjoy or look forward to in the winter. It's also about a cardinal singing from the branches. a jar of huckleberry jam, and the extra minutes of light that come with each day after the solstice.
Okay, lights out campers. It's time.
Set everything down and prioritize your own comfort. How do you need to arrange yourself to feel the most relaxed? Whatever you did today, it was enough. Enough has been done. So take those last lingering thoughts. Let them go. They only have the power you give them. Now, slow breath in. And sigh. Again, in through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Good. Winter views.
Winter isn't just one thing. One feeling. one temperature, one scent. And that was something I always forgot from the distance of July. If I thought of it then, all I could come up with was bitter cold, a memory of icy air stinging my nostrils, one shade of white coating everything. And so when I was actually there, moving through midwinter, it was always a sweet surprise when the morning air didn't sting, but instead made me feel awake and alive. And I gulped it down in deep, greedy breaths. just as I had the scent of lilacs in the spring or summer tomato vines. Yes, the light was sometimes gray, the days shorter, but there is something special that happens at sunset in the winter that is uplifting and affirming right when you need it most. As the sun drops in the sky, right before it sets fully, it dips below the cloudy haze that blocked it for much of the day, and the sky actually gets brighter for a wonderful half hour or so.
The orange light cuts through the windows, It will find you where you sit, with your cheek propped in your hand, listless from the winter monotony. And it will dazzle you, make you sit up straight and come to the window and look out. You might even put on your coat and boots and step outside and let it shine on your face for a minute or so. And as long as you're out there, why not take a brisk walk around the block? Flush your lungs out and fill yourself up with fresh air. These are the bits of winter I forgot about through the rest of the year that made me glad to be in this season as it progressed. The snow had melted for a few days and the sidewalks had run with water. The hard ground not able to keep up with how fast things had changed. That first day out, my boots had gotten muddy and sodden, though I barely noticed. I was looking up, spotting nests and abandoned hives in the treetops. A cardinal sat chirping in the branches, and I laughed angrily. wondering if he ever looked down at us and sang out, ooh, a human. Fair enough.
Few of us could sing like he did. In another day or so, the pavement had dried up, and everyone was out, taking advantage of the break in the weather. Dogs in sweaters, children on bikes they'd gotten for Christmas or Hanukkah. And I felt that this, too, was something I forgot about when I thought of winter. It breeds a sort of fellowship.
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