Sleep story · rain, green
A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are not sure this will work — for a restless night
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 watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. 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.
Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out. 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.
Feel your cheeks let go. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your hands be completely still.
There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
You can stop listening properly. Softer.
Sleep. Leave it there. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Just the breath. The words can start to blur now. Almost nothing to do now.
Not being sure it will work is a perfectly good reason to try it once.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.
If this story does not settle you, try A fire dying down, before you go back to something hard — for winding down, An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have more time than usual — for an overtired night or A boat at anchor, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for winding down.