Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. I read and write all the stories you hear on nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. Today marks six years of telling you bedtime stories, which has become the most exciting, gentle adventure of my life. And it seems fitting that today I can share something I've been working on for quite a while, something created just for you to bring a piece of the village into your homes and to guide you into healthy wind down routines that will feel so good. This month we are releasing the nothing much happens wind down box, a wellness box of hand selected products that I personally use and that I love, along with a few exclusive stories to round out your cozy routines. Each box features products specially selected for your relaxation, from Everestio Wellness's chill now a high potency organic certified reishi mushroom extract to nutrichamps tart cherry gummies, great for sleep and reducing inflammation. And they taste great. There's a lavender candle to mark your moment of calm from our favorite small batch candle makers vellabox, a meditative activity for you by way of a brighter years mini coloring book.

A fantastic way to disconnect from your screen and tap into your creative self before bed. Then more mushrooms, this time in chocolate, specially formulated for sleep from the lovely team behind Alice mushrooms and some delicious essential oils to rub on your wrists and neck from our friends at Woolsey's. And of course, some melatonin for those who need an extra helping hand to rest by way of new strips. Place it on your tongue and it dissolves in seconds. Like everything in this village, we took our time to create this for you. It's such a pleasure to be able to help so many of you, to tuck you in at night and to keep watch till the morning. And I'm excited to help create comfort in new ways with our first ever wind down box. Head over to nothingmuch happens.com. For more information.

I have a tried and true method for quieting down your brain and easing you into sleep. I'll tell you a bedtime story. It's simple and soothing, and I'll tell it twice, going a little slower on the second read through. All you have to do is listen. Let your mind follow along with the shape of the story and the sound of my voice. And before you know it, you'll be waking up tomorrow feeling rested and ready for another day. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could always listen again. Or just think back through any bits of the story that you can remember. Over time, you will create a go to response that will make falling asleep and returning to sleep easier and easier. Our story tonight is called Petrichor, and it's a story about things getting greener as the spring rain falls. It's also about a record player with a favorite album on the turntable, deer dozing in the grass and making a habit of enjoying yourself. Now turn everything off, slide down into your sheets, and get your favorite pillow in just the right spot. The day is over. I'll be here watching over with my voice so you can really let go.

Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Nice. Do that one more time. Breathe in and out. Good, Petrichor. From the window in the highest room of my house, I could look down into the gully where the river was running fast and high. It always did at this time of year. The snow and ice melting in rivers far north of here fed it, and often it overflowed its banks and made a little pond around the roots of the maple and elm trees, where migrating ducks stopped for a float. I could just see them if I squinted, and I imagined their feet kicking through the cold water as they groomed their feathers with their beaks. It was raining, and it had been for a day or two, and even in the dim light you could see the landscape changing almost by the hour. Everything was turning green. There were daffodils and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees, and there was sort of an emerald sheen, like a color filter on a photograph. Wherever you looked, it was buds on branches and the first blades of grass. There was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail barely a foot wide, where generations of bucks and does and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place to another.

I often saw a wrangle of does clustered on a dry patch. In the afternoons some would sleep while others ate lazily or just rested and gazed into the distance. I called them my ladies, who lunch and looked out for them every day and felt sort of honored that they came to my yard for their r and R. There was rain but no wind, which meant that the drops were falling straight down, and I eased the old window open a few inches. The air that rolled in was cool but brought with it the pure, sweet smell of spring rain. Gosh, there really is nothing like that smell after the winter, all those frozen still days, then the melt and days of drying winds and warmer air, and then this rain. It was like a perfectly formulated recipe to evoke the most pleasing scent. And I liked thinking that my ancestors would have smelled the same thing after their own long winters. Some things are universal, some things you can count on, and this was one of them. I stepped back from the window and looked around the room. It was only early afternoon, but the room was full of shadows.

I had a row of candles on a desk, and I struck a match and lit them one by one and set them around the room till the space felt cozy and welcoming. I had a little warm light, the scent of Petrichor, of rain after dry weather. Now I needed music. I flipped through the records on my shelf. I'd had the same album on my turntable for the last two weeks, summertime music that felt like driving around with your windows down, and long evenings where the sun didn't set till very late. It had been perfect while everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers. But now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious, maybe a little soulful. I reached for the albums that my folks listened to when I was a kid, singer songwriters whose music I had heard on car trips to the cottage and that had played in the kitchen while dinner was cooked. I tipped one of the records out of its sleeve and carefully caught it by its edges. I set it on the turntable and turned it on. I remember as a kid when we'd upgraded our stereo and suddenly had a record player that at the flick of a switch would lift the arm and set the needle on the record.

We'd all watched it in action the first time. Wowed by such automaticity, I must have reached more than once to help it into place, probably wanting to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how it worked. Because I'd been told to keep my hands to myself enough times that even now I had an impulse to put them in my pockets and stepped back. I smiled at the urge as the first guitar chords played from the speakers. I hummed along, sometimes slipping into song with the woman on the record. I knew all the words. Now I had music to go along with the scent of spring rain, the glow of the candles. What else could make this moment really enjoyable? It was something I was practicing lately, reminding myself that I was meant to enjoy my life. I'd been quite good for many years at making other people comfortable, helping others to enjoy when there was nothing wrong with that, to see my loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made or feeling at home in the space I created. It was all its own kind of satisfaction. But I'd forgotten about me along the way, and now I was in the business of reminding myself daily to make a priority of the things I enjoyed.

So I stood a minute in my little room at the top of the house and closed my eyes and sort of scanned through my body, looking for an answer as to what I wanted next. What would feel good? Was it a snack? A nap? To get out my drawing pencils? I remembered turning the last page of a book the night before, closing it with a sigh, and sliding it onto my bedside table, wondering which of the books from my to be read stack would come next. So that's what I wanted, to start a new book, to get lost in a new story. I went over to my bookshelves and squatted down to look at the spines in my stack. I was frugal about some things, but not books. I bought them, generously shared them, gifted them, borrowed them, kept them too long without any guilt. I liked to know as little about a book as possible before I started it. I didn't want to know any of the twists or turns until I was actually taking them, so I relied on my bookseller, my librarian, and friends. If one of them said, I think you would like, I cut them off right there and just said, yes, please.

It rarely failed me, so as I picked up each book and turned it over in my hands, I was going on instinct, reacting to the title, to the COVID art, the font, and the way that it felt. There was one with a cover the color of poppies, a title that sounded like an idiom I had always known but just never actually heard, and the solid weight of many hours of reading in it. I carried it to the chaise longue by the window and climbed in. The room was a little cool with the fresh air coming in, so I tossed a throw over my legs and settled back, as comfortable and happy as I could be. I took a slow breath and let it out and started with chapter one Petrichor from the window in the highest room of my house, I could look down into the gully where the river was running fast and high. It always did at this time of year. The snow and ice melting in rivers far north of here fed it, and often it overflowed its banks and made a little pond around the roots of the maple and elm trees where migrating ducks stopped for afloat.

I could just see them if I squinted when I imagined their feet kicking through the cold water as they groomed their feathers with their beaks. It was raining, and it had been for a day or two and even in the dim light you could see the landscape changing almost by the hour. Everything was turning green. There were daffodils and hostas coming up in clumps around the trees when there was a sort of emerald sheen, like a color filter on a photograph. Wherever you looked, it was buds on branches on the first blades of grass. There was a path worn through the woods, a deer trail barely a foot wide, where generations of bucks and does and fawns had walked as they crossed from one place to another. I often saw a wrangle of does clustered on a dry patch. In the afternoon some would sleep, while others ate lazily or just rested, gazed into the distance. I called them my ladies, who lunch and looked out for them every day and felt sort of honored that they came to my yard for their r and r. There was rain but no wind, which meant the drops were falling straight down, and I eased the old window up a few inches.

The air that rolled in was cool but brought with it the pure, sweet smell of spring rain. Gosh, there really is nothing like that smell after the winter, all those frozen still days. Then the melt and a few days of drying winds and warmer air, and then the rain. It was like a perfectly formulated recipe to evoke the most pleasing scent, and I liked thinking that my ancestors would have smelled the same thing after their own long winters. Some things are universal, some things you can count on, and this was one of them. I stepped back from the window and looked around the room. It was only early afternoon, but the room was full of shadows. I had a row of candles on a desk, and I struck a match and lit them one by one, then set them around the room till the space felt cozy and welcoming. I had a little warm light, the scent of Petrichor, of rain after dry weather. Now my needed music. I flipped through the records on my shelf. I'd had the same album on my turntable for the last two weeks, summertime music that felt like driving around with your windows down and long evenings where the sun didn't set till very late.

It had been perfect while everyone was out riding bikes and planting their flowers, but now I needed something a little softer, less ambitious, maybe a little soulful. I reached for the albums that my folks listened to when I was a kid, singer songwriters whose music I had heard on car trips to the cottage and that had played in the kitchen while dinner was cooked. I tipped one of the records out of its sleeve and carefully caught it by its edges. I set it on the turntable and turned it on I remember as a kid when we'd upgraded our stereo and suddenly had a record player that at the flick of a switch would lift the arm and set the needle on the record. We'd all watched it in action the first time. Wowed by such automaticity, I must have reached more than once to help it into place, probably wanting to feel the force behind the motor, wondering how it worked. Because I'd been told to keep my hands to myself enough times that even now I had an impulse to put them in my pockets and stepped back. I smiled at the urge as the first guitar chords played from the speakers.

I hummed along, sometimes slipping into song with a woman on the record. I knew all the words. Now I had music to go along with the scent of the spring rain, the glow of the candles. What else could make this moment really enjoyable? It was something I was practicing lately, reminding myself that I was meant to enjoy my life. I'd been quite good for many years at making other people comfortable, helping others to enjoy, and there was nothing wrong with that. To see my loved ones at ease, pleased by a meal I'd made or feeling at home and the space I created. It was its own kind of satisfaction. But I'd forgotten about me along the way, and now I was in the business of reminding myself daily to make a priority of the things I enjoyed. So I stood a minute in my little room at the top of the house and closed my eyes and sort of scanned through my body, looking for an answer as to what I wanted next. What would feel good? Was it a snack? A nap? To get out my drawing pencils? I remembered turning the last page of a book the night before, closing it with a sigh and sliding it onto my bedside table, wondering which of the books from my to be read stack would come next.

So that's what I wanted to start a new book. To get lost in a new story. I went over to my bookshelves and squatted down to look at the spines in my stack. I was frugal about some things, but not books. I bought them, generously shared them, gifted them, borrowed them, kept them too long without any guilt. I liked to know as little about a book as possible before I started it. I didn't want to know any of the twists or turns until I was actually taking them. So I relied on my bookseller, my librarian, and friends. If one of them said, I think you would like, I cut them off right there and just said, yes, please. It rarely failed me. So as I picked up each book and turned it over in my hands. I was going on instinct, reacting to the title to the COVID art, the font, and the way that it felt. There was one with a cover the color of poppies, a title that sounded like an idiom I had always known, just never actually heard, and the solid wait of many hours of reading in it. I carried it to the chaise long by the window and climbed in.

The room was a little cool with the fresh air coming in, so I tossed a throw over my legs and settled back, as comfortable and happy as I could be. I took a slow breath and let it out and started with chapter one, sweet dreams.