🌧️ ♣️ November Rainstorm | A Cozy Rainy Day Indoors | Bedtime Story

0:02 Welcome to The Slow Life. I'm Jennifer Vino and I create, narrate and design the soundscape of this village of cosy stories to relax and unwind. Each week I share an original story. Read 2 times so you can relax even more during the second reading. I'm happy to announce my website, theslowlife.ca. It provides a space where we can connect and I can bring you all things cozy.

0:43 Let's settle in with some easy breathing at your own pace. With each inhale, let fresh air fill the space around your heart. With each exhale, feel the calm air spread through your body and flow out through your arms and legs, gently in through your heart. Gently out through your body, in through your heart, out through your body. And now let's begin.

1:30 This story is called November Rain Storm, and it's about having no plan at all. A fragile accomplishment and a sweet snack worth waiting for. The rain starts while I'm still lying in bed, a low, steady sound that fills the house. By midmorning, it's a full rain storm that softens everything outside the windows and makes the world feel smaller. There's not a lot of wind, but the branches bend from the drops, drumming down on the leaves that remain.

2:18 It's a November day, one that's perfect for staying in. I get myself up and enjoy my breakfast tucked in at the Bistro table, as close to the windows as I can sit. The rain smooths across the glass until it almost seems clear, the outside looking closer than it really is. There's certainly no one out walking in this. Not even a single car passes from the first sip to the last drop in my mug. Knowing for days that this weather was coming, I've been excited to stay home and have no plan at all. I clear my dishes and walk slowly through the house, not because there's anything to do, but because I want to see it. On days like this, the familiar rooms and objects feel different.

3:26 The hallway darker, the framed photos catching light in a muted way, the plants by the windows seeming greener against the Gray. Each room feels like a small exhibit in the Museum of my own life, a place to pause and look, to quietly notice everything in its place. In the kitchen, I opened the buffet drawer and take out a deck of cards, the box worn at the edges from use. I sit on a big cushion at the coffee table and shuffle them.

4:11 There's the sound of the cards snapping together, then, worrying softly in the hush of the room outside. The rain keeps at it. A soft backdrop to play too ideal myself. A game of solitaire, 1 by 1. They're red and black shapes forming patterns across the table. The movements are automatic, and I find myself watching more than playing, relaxed by the rhythm of the motion. Sometimes I win, sometimes I don't. But of course, the game isn't really about that. It's about the comfort of the familiar sequence, the small satisfactions of chance and order finding their balance. I have no idea how much time has passed, but this time I don't deal another game but begin to try my hand at building a House of Cards instead.

5:22 I use the fabric table runner so the cards will stay in place. I stand to in a triangle, another to a base taking shape. I'm conscious of my breath and try to keep it flowing. Each time I balance a new layer 3 levels, then unbelievably 4, the highest I've ever managed. I leaned back on my hands, half laughing at myself, a small triumph that only I will witness. Funny how much a fragile tower of Kurds can feel like an accomplishment.

6:09 I stand up in hopes that the tower will stay for a few more minutes, but the kittens have a different idea. Oh well, I put a record on for a bit, something old and slow, but after a few songs of swaying with another hot drink, I lift the needle. I'd rather hear the rain. For now. I pull out an old colouring book I'd kept on hand from when my niece was younger, a few pages loose from the staples from the shelf. I take down a cookie tin of crayons, the lid lifting with a faint metallic click. I haven't used them in ages, and when I opened the box, that familiar scent of wax and paper drifts up memories of many rainy days spent doing just this.

7:11 The crayons aren't perfectly sharp, but the colours are still vibrant. Flipping through the book, I come to a page with a parrot perched on a looping vine and begin to fill in the wide shapes. The wax glides over the paper in soft, uneven layers, leaving faint ridges where the strokes overlap. Soon I'm blending colours, as my niece Said taught me, experimenting with shading on the parrot's head and deepening the green of the leaves. It's absorbing, the way colouring can settle the mind, grounding me more firmly in the quiet of the day. Eventually I wander back to the kitchen, snooping for a bite to eat.

8:09 Nothing new has appeared in the cupboards since I last checked, but a new idea comes to mind and I decide to make rice crispy squares. Butter melting is a beautiful thing, then marshmallows folding into it, the mixture turning glossy and pale. A simple but satisfying recipe. The sweet scent starts to drift through the room as I watched the last of the marshmallow disappear into the swirl, then pour in the cereal, the quiet crackle of it meeting the warm mixture. The spoon grows heavy, the sound turning sticky as I press it together until the desired consistency is reached. I spread it into the pan, pressing it flat with the back of the wooden spoon, the surface giving off warmth. It'll take a while to firm up, but that's OK. I make myself a sandwich for a proper lunch before the sweet snack later on.

9:29 The kittens have been restless all day, chasing each other from the window to hallway and back again. When I crouched behind the pantry door, they freeze, tails twitching. The game starts there. I slip from room to room, trying to outsmart them. They dared after me, skewed on the floor, leaped sideways at shadows. It's our version of hide and seek and by the end of it they collapse in a heap on the Chesterfield, purring like tiny engines cooling down.

10:12 I get myself some hot chocolate and a rice crispy square and settle in beside them, not wondering what to do next, just sitting and listening. The colouring book lies open, a crayon still on the page. The cards are scattered across the coffee table, rain taps at the windows keeping me company and is forecast to continue on until tomorrow morning. November Rain storm. The rain starts while I'm still lying in bed, a low, steady sound that fills the house.

11:04 By mid morning it's a full rain storm that softens everything outside the windows and makes the world feel smaller. There's not a lot of wind, but the branches bend from the drops, drumming down on the leaves that remain. It's a November day, one that's perfect for staying in. I get myself up and enjoy my breakfast tucked in at the Bistro table, as close to the windows as I can sit. The rain smooths across the glass until it almost seems clear, the outside looking closer than it really is.

11:53 There's certainly no one out walking in this. Not even a single car passes from the first sip to the last drop in my mug. Knowing for days that this weather was coming, I've been excited to stay home and have no plan at all. I clear my dishes and walk slowly through the house. Nah, because there's anything to do, but because I want to see it. On days like this, the familiar rooms and objects feel different. The hallway darker, the framed photos catching light in a muted way, the plants by the windows seeming greener against the Gray.

12:46 Each room feels like a small exhibit in the Museum of my own life, a place to pause and look, to quietly notice everything in its place. In the kitchen, I opened the buffet drawer and take out a deck of cards, the box worn at the edges from use. I sit on a big cushion at the coffee table and shuffle them. There's the sound of the cards snapping together, then, worrying softly in the hush of the room outside. The rain keeps at it.

13:29 A soft backdrop to play too ideal myself. A game of solitaire, 1 by 1. They're red and black shapes forming patterns across the table. The movements are automatic, and I find myself watching more than playing, relaxed by the rhythm of the motion. Sometimes I win, sometimes I don't. But of course, the game isn't really about that. It's about the comfort of the familiar sequence, the small satisfactions of chance and order finding their balance.

14:15 I have no idea how much time has passed, but this time I don't deal another game but begin to try my hand at building a House of Cards instead. I use the fabric table runner so the cards will stay in place. I stand to in a triangle, another 2A base taking shape. I'm conscious of my breath and try to keep it flowing. Each time I balance a new layer 3 levels, then unbelievably 4, the highest I've ever managed.

14:59 I leaned back on my hands, half laughing at myself, a small triumph that only I will witness. Funny how much a fragile tower of cards can feel like an accomplishment. I stand up in hopes that the tower will stay for a few more minutes, but the kittens have a different idea. Oh well, I put a record on for a bit, something old and slow, but after a few songs of swaying with another hot drink, I lift the needle. I'd rather hear the rain. For now.

15:42 I pull out an old colouring book I'd kept on hand from when my niece was younger, a few pages loose from the staples from the shelf. I take down a cookie tin of crayons, valid lifting with a faint metallic click. I haven't used them in ages, and when I opened the box, that familiar scent of wax and paper drifts up memories of many rainy days spent doing just this. The crayons aren't perfectly sharp, but the colours are still vibrant.

16:24 Flipping through the book, I come to a page with a parrot perched on a looping vine and begin to fill in the wide shapes. The wax glides over the paper in soft, uneven layers, leaving faint ridges where the strokes overlap. Soon I'm blending colours, as my niece Said taught me, experimenting with shading on the parrot's head and deepening the green of the leaves. It's absorbing, the way colouring can settle the mind, grounding me more firmly in the quiet of the day.

17:09 Eventually I wander back to the kitchen, snooping for a bite to eat. Nothing new has appeared in the cupboards since I last checked, but a new idea comes to mind and I decide to make rice crispy squares. Butter melting is a beautiful thing, then marshmallows folding into it, the mixture turning glossy and pale. A simple but satisfying recipe. The sweet scent starts to drift through the room as I watched the last of the marshmallow disappear into the swirl, then pour in the cereal, the quiet crackle of it meeting the warm mixture.

18:01 The spoon grows heavy, the sound turning sticky as I press it together until the desired consistency is reached. I spread it into the pan, pressing it flat with the back of the wooden spoon, the surface giving off warmth. It'll take a while to firm up, but that's OK. I make myself a sandwich for a proper lunch before the sweet snack later on. The kittens have been restless all day, chasing each other from the window to hallway and back again. When I crouched behind the pantry door, they freeze, tails twitching.

18:51 The game starts there. I slip from room to room, trying to outsmart them. They dared after me, skewed on the floor, leaped sideways at shadows. It's our version of hide and seek and by the end of it they collapse in a heap on the Chesterfield, purring like tiny engines cooling down. I get myself some hot chocolate and a rice crispy square and settle in beside them, not wondering what to do next, just sitting and listening.

19:32 The colouring book lies open, a crayon still on the page. The cards are scattered across the coffee table, rain taps at the windows, keeping me company and is forecast to continue on until tomorrow morning. I wish you sweet dreams.