Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you are not in the mood — for a night when you do not want to think
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.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the mattress take all of it.
Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Slower. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the next part go past without you. Almost nothing to do now.
Not being in the mood is a normal starting point.
Let everything get quiet, including this.