Kathryn Nicolai

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories and ad free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. If you've ever wondered what actually helps us feel better in our bodies and live a little longer, Chasing Life is a really thoughtful listen. Dr. Sanjay Gupta explores the science behind well being, from brain health to everyday habits in a way that feels grounded and doable. It's smart, practical, and might give you something small to try in your own life. Follow chasing life with Dr. Sanjay Gupta wherever you listen. Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Everyone in which Nothing Much Happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Kathryn Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you as 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. Before we settle in, I have some exciting news. Today is the day the Nothing Much Happens app is officially open and already thousands of people have joined, ready to become neighbors, to make friends, and to build a gentler daily life together. To celebrate, we're hosting our very first live event tonight at 6pm Eastern. I'll be talking with Bob Wittersheim, our producer and sound designer behind the podcast, and we'd love for you to join us. And one more gift. Anyone who joins with an annual Premium membership during the next three weeks will receive a free copy of my new audiobook on the street where you live. We'd love to welcome you to the village. Visit nothingmuch happens.com to get started.

Bob Wittersheim

Your mind needs a place to rest. That's what the story I'm about to tell you is. It's a nest to lay your attention in. In order to stay in the nest, all you need to do is follow along with the sound of my voice and the simple shape of the story. I'll tell it twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, you can climb right back into that nest just by thinking through any parts of the story you remember. Over time, your sleep response will improve. You'll find that you fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer. When you wake, you'll feel rested and relaxed. Our story tonight is called in the Map Room and it's a story about the pleasures of looking at the world drawn out on paper. It's also about a gasp of koi fish in a pond, a bike ride that leads somewhere surprising, and the view from the upper room of an old house.

Kathryn Nicolai

One of my favorite little rituals in the summer is climbing into bed after a warm day and feeling cool, breathable sheets. That's one of the reasons I love Quince. I've been sleeping on their European linen bedding. We got a really pretty green gingham pattern and it's soft, lightweight and just seems to get better every time I wash it. If linen isn't your style, they also have beautiful organic cotton bedding that's cool and comfortable for warm nights and I appreciate that Quince works directly with Ethical Factory, so you're getting really high quality pieces without the usual markup. Make your summer bedding feel better. Go to quince.com nothingmuch for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. Now available in Canada too. That's Q-U-I-N c-e.com nothingmuch for free shipping and 365 day returns. Quince.com nothingmuch

Bob Wittersheim

now put down anything that you've been working on or looking at. It's time to settle down into your bed, to pull the blanket over your shoulder and relax into your favorite sleeping position. If you find that you clench your jaw when you sleep, start building a new habit here. As your body gets heavier, you feel sleep coming on. Rest the tip of your tongue at the place where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. That will help keep your jaw relaxed.

Kathryn Nicolai

Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth.

Bob Wittersheim

Nice.

Kathryn Nicolai

One more. Breathe in and out.

Bob Wittersheim

Good. In the map room, in between tours, when folks have wandered out through the old oak doors and begun to circle through the grounds, I go to the map room. It was secretly why I joined the team of docents in this historic house, though I hadn't put down slyly spend time with maps in the why do you want to work here? Section of my volunteer application. Truthfully, I loved every part of the days I got to spend here. Unlocking the doors in the mornings and setting the A frame sign out in the Circle Drive, opening the old casement windows on the third floor and standing in the quiet landing outside of the library while I listen to catch the echo of the people who once lived here or who have walked through the halls or added to or admired the collections in them. It is for many who come here, a delightful surprise when they drive down the long, twisting drive and through the gardens up to the house. Maybe they see a sign on the highway or heard from someone about the labyrinth in the courtyard or the room at the top floor full of maps, and they come on a sunny Saturday to see for themselves. But they aren't prepared for how lovely the house is. They don't expect to find grounds so full of trickling fountains, smooth stone sculptures, and narrow gravel paths that lead to more unexpected places and things. I hadn't expected them the first time I'd been here. Out on a long bike ride and turning down a back road, I found myself riding under a canopy of willow branches and caught a glimpse through the tree trunks of the house set far back. I'd pedaled down the long drive and slipped the front tire of my bike into the stand with a few others and wandered shyly into the front garden. I wasn't sure that I was supposed to be there when a guide passed by, explaining the story of the house, who had built it, and who had filled it with so many treasures to a small group of attentively listening folks trailing behind her. I'd slipped in among them and followed along for the next hour or so. She'd led us to a spot on the far side of the house where the land fell away and you could look down into a clear pond ringed with irises. She waited quietly as we looked at the water till someone pointed out and we all saw a school of bright orange fish, a hundred of them, if not more, swimming to the surface, then shifting and dropping down into the depths again. It was like watching the sun rising and setting in the water, and as I'd stood there I thought about how many hidden treasures like this place are just waiting to be witnessed and appreciated again. The tour had ended at the top of the house, in a long room with shelves full of shallow drawers running to the ceiling and wide library tables. It was the map room, and for me it was the cherry on top, the sweetest and least expected surprise of the afternoon. I've always loved maps, and to have a whole room dedicated to them, to know someone else had felt like I did and made sure to leave behind a place where people could come just to look at the formation of continents and the lines that we draw through them, to consider the distance from one point to another and the lakes and the rivers in between them. It felt like a connection across a century, and I was so glad it had survived. Soon I was finding an hour here or there, a few times a week to park my bike in the rack and walk the grounds and stray up to the map room. I'd worked my way through the drawers, sometimes with a magnifying glass pressed to my eye and a notepad tucked into my back pocket. I found local maps with crumbling edges that showed trails that would eventually become the streets that I grew up on. I found maps of farms and emerging cities, and I'd read the names of the families that were farming in the parks as they were built. Some had intricate hand drawn compass roses in their corners, and I used them to orient myself by the angle of the sun toward their capital city or featured body of water. The oldest were covered in a web of connecting pinwheels, rhum lines or ioxodromes that intersected with meridians on their way to true north. Maps can show you how people thought about the world at a certain moment in time, or at least how the mapmaker thought. Sometimes they show how people tried to spin a story that wasn't true or puff themselves up to seem bigger than they were. And all of that is a useful lesson, even when what they show in their lines and place names aren't true, I'd found, as I'd gone through them, so many gaps in my own knowledge, and while everything I'd learned hadn't stuck permanently and would need to be occasionally refreshed, I found seeing the world from so many angles had changed the way I thought about myself. I felt connected just by looking at the shape of a city or the name of a mountain or the contours of a coastline, to the people who walked and ate and lived in those places every day. I'd heard someone say once that there isn't a person in the world who is anything less than your 20th cousin. Looking at the spaces we all shared, it felt true. Eventually a guide had slipped me a volunteer application suggesting that as I was here so much anyway, I should just make it official. And now it was. I was here through the seasons,

Kathryn Nicolai

leading

Bob Wittersheim

others over to spot the koi fish in the pond, pointing out the hidden faces in the tiles on the east wall and telling stories of the people in the painting over the fireplace. Some days I'd spot someone standing shyly in the garden, wondering if they were supposed to be here, and I'd smile, thinking about them taking their first step into the map room. In the map room, In between tours, when folks have wandered out through the old oak doors and begun to circle through the grounds, I go to the map room. It was secretly why I joined the team of docents in this historic house, though I hadn't put down slyly spend time with maps in the WHY DO you want to work here? Section of my volunteer application. Truthfully, I loved every part of the days I got to spend here, Unlocking the doors in the morning and setting the A frame sign out in the circle Drive, opening the old casement windows on the third floor and standing in the quiet landing outside of the library while I listen to catch the echo of the people who once lived here or who have walked through the halls or added to or admired the collections in them. It is, for many who come here, a delightful surprise when they drive down the long, twisting drive and through the gardens up to the house. Maybe they see a sign on the highway or heard from someone about the labyrinth in the courtyard or the room on the top floor full of maps, and they come on a sunny Saturday to see for themselves. But they aren't prepared for how lovely the house is. They don't expect to find grounds so full of trickling fountains and smooth stone sculptures and narrow gravel paths that lead to more unexpected places and things. I hadn't expected them the first time I'd been here myself. Out on a long bike ride and taking a turn down a back road, I found myself under a canopy of willow branches and caught a glimpse through the tree trunks of the house set far back. I'd pedaled down the long drive and slipped the front tire of my bike into the stand with a few others. And wandered shyly into the front garden. I wasn't sure that I was supposed to be there when a guide passed by, explaining the story of the house, who had built it, and who had filled it with so many treasures to a small group of attentively listening folks trailing behind her. I'd slipped in among them and followed along. For the next hour or so. She'd led us to a spot on the far side of the house where the land fell away and you could look down into a clear pond ringed with irises. She waited quietly as we looked at the water till someone pointed and we all saw a school of bright orange fish, a hundred of them, if not more, swimming to the surface, then shifting and dropping down into the depths again. It was like watching the sun rising and setting in the water, and as I'd stood there I thought about how many hidden treasures like this place are just waiting to be witnessed and appreciated again. The tour had ended at the top of the house, in a long room with shelves full of shallow drawers running to the ceiling and wide library tables. It was the map room, and for me it was the cherry on top, the sweetest and least expected surprise of the afternoon. I've always loved maps, and to have a whole room dedicated to them, to know someone else had felt like I did and made sure to leave behind a place where people could come just to look at the formations of the continents and the lines that we draw through them, to consider the distance from one point to another and the lakes and rivers in between. It felt like a connection across a century, and I was so glad it had survived. Soon I was finding an hour here or there, a few times a week, to park my bike in the rack and walk the grounds, stray up to the map room. I'd worked my way through the drawers, sometimes with a magnifying glass pressed to my eye and a notepad tucked into my back pocket. I found local maps with crumbling edges that showed trails that would eventually become the streets that I grew up on. I found maps of farms and emerging cities, and I'd read the names of the families that were farming in the parks as they were built. Some had intricate hand drawn compass roses in their corners, and I used them to orient myself by the angle of the sun toward their capital city or featured body of water, The oldest, or covered in a web of connecting pinwheels, rhumb lines or ioxodromes that intersected with meridians on their way to true north. Maps can show you how people thought about the world at a certain moment in time, or at least how the mapmaker thought. Sometimes they show how people tried to spin a story that wasn't true, or puff themselves up to seem bigger than they were. And all of that is a useful lesson, even when what they show in their lines and place names aren't true, I'd found as I'd gone through them, so many gaps in my own knowledge, while everything I'd learned hadn't stuck permanently and would need to be occasionally refreshed. I found seeing the world from so many angles, I changed the way I thought about myself. I felt connected just by looking at the shape of a city or the name of a mountain or the contours of a coastline to the people who walked and ate and lived in those places every day. I had heard someone say once that there isn't a person in the world who is anything less than your 20th cousin. Looking at the spaces we all shared, it felt true. Eventually a guide had slipped me a volunteer application suggesting that as I was here so much anyway, I should make it official. And now it was. I was here through the seasons, leading others over to spot the koi fish in the pond, pointing out the hidden faces in the tiles on the east wall, and telling the stories of the people in the painting over the fireplace. Some days I'd spot someone standing shyly in the garden, wondering if they were supposed to be here, and I'd smile, thinking about them taking that first step into the map room. Sweet dreams.