A garden in the rain (a sleep story), on a day that started badly — for a racing mind

The story, in full

Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.

There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your ankles can go loose now.

The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel your cheeks let go.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell.

Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your chest can be still now.

Slower. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

Let the next part go past without you. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Nothing here needs following closely.

A day that started badly does not have to stay that way.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.