A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of

The story, in full

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. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.

Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out. 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 places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

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

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your ankles can go loose now.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your chest can be still now.

Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Let it all get further away. You do not have to count them. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

They will find their own way out. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay with the weight of your body.

Not being sure it will work is a perfectly good reason to try it once.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.

18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.