Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story) for winding down
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 bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your hands be completely still.
Stay with the weight of your body. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
You can stop listening properly. Almost nothing to do now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Do this sitting up, not lying down, if you have just eaten.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.