Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), after eating too much — for jet lag
A small harbour, a rope that creaks, and a boat that moves about a metre in the night.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let it all get further away. Let the quiet be boring.
Just the weight. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let your breathing do the rest.
Do this sitting up, not lying down, if you have just eaten.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.