Sleep story · rain, green
A garden in the rain, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for an overtired 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
Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell.
The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. 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 shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your cheeks let go.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
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.
Your chest can be still now. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let it all get further away. Nothing here needs following closely.
They will find their own way out. Leave it there. The words can start to blur now.
Slower. Let your breathing do the rest. Sleep.
Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.
If this story does not settle you, try A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, after a difficult conversation — for a racing mind, The house after everyone is asleep (a sleep story), when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for waking too early or A kitchen late at night, when you are not sure this will work — for an overtired night.