A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when the house is busy — for waking too early

The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves.

The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel your cheeks let go.

Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your hands be completely still.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Just the dark.

Let the quiet be boring. Slower now. The words can start to blur now.

Sleep. Let the next part go past without you. You can stop listening properly.

It works with other people in the house. You do not need silence.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.