Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), before something difficult — 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.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your cheeks let go.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Your ankles can go loose now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your hands be completely still.
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.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Let the dark be ordinary. You do not have to count them.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Softer. You can stop listening properly.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let them.
It works best in the hour before something difficult.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.