Sleep story · rain, green
A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, after a long day — for winding down
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
There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Your chest can be still now. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
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.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
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 toes stop holding on to anything. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.
Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Stay. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
You can stop listening properly. Let it all get further away. The words can start to blur now.
Stay with the weight of your body. You do not have to count them. Sleep.
Use it at the end of a long day, not at the start of one.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow, when you are somewhere noisy — for an overtired night, Sleep story: an attic room, when you have been on screens all day — for the hours after a late shift or A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are cold and want to be warm — for a night when you do not want to think.