Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, when you have been meaning to start — for a racing mind
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 hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. 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.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let the mattress take all of it.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Sleep. Just the weight.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Almost nothing to do now.
You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.