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 waking too early
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 on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. 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.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Your chest can be still now.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
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 the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your hands be completely still.
The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Slower. Let the dark be ordinary.
They will find their own way out. Sleep. Let your breathing do the rest.
Softer. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. You do not have to count them.
Not being sure it will work is a perfectly good reason to try it once.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.