Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone in which nothing much happens. You feel good and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai. I write and read everything you hear on nothing much happens with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim before we step into the village tonight, I'm excited to tell you about something that I've been working on for quite some time. Something created just for you to bring a piece of the village into your homes and guide you into a healthy wind down routine 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 love, along with a few exclusive stories to round out your cozy routine. Each box features products specially selected for your relaxation from Everestia Wellness 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 maker's vellabox. A meditative activity for you by way of a brighter years mini coloring book.

It's a fantastic way to disconnect from your screen and tap into your creative self before bed. There are more mushrooms, this time in chocolate, specially formulated for good sleep from the lovely team behind Alice mushrooms, delicious essential oils that were made to be rubbed on your wrists and neck from my 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. That is such a pleasure to be able to help so many of you with what I do, and I'm excited to create comfort in new ways with our first ever wind down box.

Head over to nothingmuch happens.com for more information.

Now I have a story for you. By giving your mind something to follow along with, you help to direct yourself towards sleep and away from the loop of worries and unfinished business that can keep us up at night. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you find that you are still awake at the end of the second telling, don't worry. That is sometimes how it goes.

Just start back at the beginning of the story and walk yourself through the details that you can remember. This is a kind of brain training, and every time you do it, it will become a bit easier and falling quickly into restful sleep will be your natural response. Our story tonight is called three good things, and it's a story about reminding yourself of some of the simple, happy moments that happen during the day. Sometimes good stuff slips through our brains without leaving much of a trace, while scary, upsetting stuff gets stuck in there, so it helps to notice and highlight sweetness when it shows up, even if that just amounts to us saying to ourselves, oh, that's nice.

Now it's time to turn out the light, set down your work, put away your screens, slip down deep into your covers, and get as comfortable as you can. Make all the adjustments you need to till you find the right position, and then take a slow, deep breath in through the nose and sigh from the mouth.

Nice. One more, please. Breathe in and out.

Good.

Three good things all the way. At the top of my house there's a room just for me.

It's an office. Certainly I get work done there, but it's also a place where I read, where I listen to music, or just am alone.

It's a few steps up and around a corner from the floor below, a big open room with windows facing the trees and wood floors with a few worn rugs spread out on them.

I have a desk and a bookshelf, a small sofa and a lamp, a little table for doing puzzles or painting, and lots of candles.

In the corner, on a soft rug, there is a cushion for meditation.

Today the house was already quiet, a few windows open on a late spring afternoon.

I had made myself a cup of something warm to drink and climbed the stairs up to my room. The trees were budding and I stood at a window and looked out for a while.

I sipped my drink and watched a squirrel sitting in the crook of a branch, her tail flicking. Every now and then I set my drink down and checked a few of my potted plants that I had sitting on shelves and window sills, gave the thirsty ones a drink and set to lighting the candles.

It took a few minutes. It was a sort of ritual.

I liked the feeling of marking a moment and lighting a candle or turning on music or even just taking a big breath. Felt like that.

I hummed a bit, struck a match, and went from candle to candle until the room had a soft glow and felt cozy and friendly.

I set my cup next to my meditation cushion, sat down, and fidgeted around until I figured out where my feet and hips needed to settle in order for me to be upright and relaxed.

I had an old light blanket that I pulled around my shoulders and a bit of it over my head.

I wasn't cold, but it made me feel safe and focused.

I took a few slow breaths and thought back. Over the past 24 hours, I was looking for three good things, three sweet moments to relive in my head.

I found that when I did this, I reset my brain a bit and seemed to notice more sweetness in general. Everywhere I looked for a day or so afterward, in the quiet of my mind, a memory rose up in bed. The night before, my partner had rolled over in between dreams and bumped a hand along my arm without waking. My sweetheart had squeezed my wrist and held on.

I felt a bloom of contentment in my body and listened as slow breathing became a quiet snore.

I had smiled to myself in the darkness and gone immediately back to sleep.

I smiled to myself now wrapped in my blanket, and remembered how good it felt to be touched by the person you love.

I breathed and sat still, looking again for a good moment.

That morning, stepping out into the fresh spring air with my dogs, I had looked up at the sky and stood still for a minute and just looked at the lines of color as they spread and shifted above me. Pinks and blues and a few streaks of bright red.

I was awed and let myself feel it.

The air smelled so clean that breathing deep felt like medicine.

My dogs sniffed around and chased through the grass and I had a feeling of simple joy now on my cushion. I remembered that feeling and traced it back and forth in my mind so that those connections in my brain would be well built and lasting one more time. I dipped into my memory for something sweet and thought of a visit I'd made to a friend at lunchtime.

She had a new baby, just a few weeks old, and I'd brought by a bag of groceries, offered to hold her little girl while she napped and showered.

My friend laid her in my arms and snuck out of the room to take care of herself for a bit.

The baby was so new that sleep came easy to her and she quickly dropped off in my arms.

I leaned back into the sofa and rested her head under my chin.

The weight of her little body on my chest had felt so good that it was like a drug in my system. I was suddenly calm and content.

I tipped my nose down to her head and breathed in her smell.

Sitting in my little room, feeling the afternoon light on my face, I remembered the weight of the baby, the colors of the sky, the touch of my love.

I held it all in my mind and just sat with it.

It filled in places inside me where things had been knocked out or lost.

I felt whole and happy and quiet three good things all the way. At the top of my house there's a room just for me.

It's an office. Certainly I get work done there, but it's also a place where I read or where I listen to music or just am alone.

It's a few steps up and around a corner from the floor below, a big open room with windows facing the trees and wood floors, a few worn rugs spread out on them.

I have a desk and a bookshelf, a small sofa and a lamp, a little table for doing puzzles or painting, and lots of candles.

In the corner, on a soft rug, there is a cushion for meditation.

Today the house was already quiet, a few windows open. On a late spring afternoon.

I'd made myself a cup of something warm to drink and climbed the stairs up to my room.

The trees were budding and I stood at a window and looked out for a while.

I sipped my drink and watched a squirrel sitting in the crook of a branch, her tail flicking. Every now and then I set my drink down and checked the few potted plants I had sitting on shelves or windowsills, gave the thirsty ones a drink, and set to lighting the candles.

It took a few minutes. It was a sort of ritual.

I liked the feeling of marking a moment and lighting a candle or turning on music or even just taking a big breath. Felt like that.

I hummed a bit, struck a match, and went from candle to candle until the room had a soft glow and felt cozy and friendly.

I set my cup next to my meditation cushion, sat down, and fidgeted around until I'd figured out where my feet and hips needed to settle in order for me to be upright and relaxed.

I had an old light blanket that I pulled around my shoulders, a bit of it over my head.

It wasn't cold, but it made me feel safe and focused.

I took a few slow breaths and thought back. Over the past 24 hours, I was looking for three good things, three sweet moments to relive in my head.

I found that when I did this, I reset my brain a bit and seemed to notice more sweetness in general. Everywhere I looked for a day or two afterward, in the quiet of my mind, a memory rose up in bed. The night before, my partner rolled over in between dreams and bumped a hand along my arm.

Without waking. My sweetheart had squeezed my wrist and held on.

I'd felt a bloom of contentment through my body and listened. A slow breathing became a quiet snore.

I had smiled to myself in the darkness and gone immediately back to sleep.

I smiled to myself now wrapped in my blanket, and remembered how good it felt to be touched by the person you love.

I breathed, sat still, looking again for a good moment.

That morning, stepping out into the fresh spring air with my dogs, I had looked up at the sky.

I'd stood still for a moment and just looked at the lines of color as they spread and shifted above me. Pinks and blues and a few streaks of bright red.

I was awed and let myself feel it.

The air smelled so clean that breathing deep felt like medicine.

My dog sniffed around and chased through the grass when I had a feeling of simple joy now on my cushion, I remembered that feeling and traced it back and forth in my mind so that those connections in my brain would be well built and lasting one more time. I dipped into my memory for something sweet and thought of a visit I'd made to a friend at lunchtime.

She had a new baby, just a few weeks old, and I'd brought by a bag of groceries and offered to hold her little girl while she napped and showered.

My friend laid her in my arms and snuck out of the room to take care of herself for a bit.

The baby was so new that sleep came easily to her, and she quickly dropped off in my arms.

I leaned back into the sofa and rested her head under my chin.

The weight of her little body on my chest had felt so good that it was like a drug in my system.

I was suddenly calm, content.

I tipped my nose down to her head and breathed in her smell.

Sitting in my little room, feeling the afternoon light on my face, I remembered the weight of the baby, the colors of the sky, the touch of my love.

I held it all in my mind and just sat with it.

It filled in places inside me where things had been knocked out or lost.

I felt whole and happy and quiet.

Sweet dreams.