Sleep story · rain, green
A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when your attention is scattered — for the hours after a late shift
Steady rain on leaves, and a chair under an awning that stays dry.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.
There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your hands be completely still.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your ankles can go loose now.
Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.
Feel your wrists loosen. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it.
Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the quiet be boring. Let your breathing do the rest.
Sleep. Let them. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Scattered attention is the raw material, not an obstacle.
The end. Sleep well.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been putting it off — for a racing mind, A kitchen late at night, when you have just finished work — for a night when you do not want to think or A lake before dawn, when you have been meaning to start — for a night when you do not want to think.