Sleep story · rain, green
A garden in the rain, when you have more time than usual — for a night when you do not want to think
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 leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. 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.
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. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let the mattress take all of it.
The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter.
Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Let the room get slightly further away. Leave it there.
They will find their own way out. Let your breathing do the rest. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Just the dark. Let them. The words can start to blur now.
This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a bus at night, on a day that started badly — for the hours after a late shift, Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you feel restless rather than tired — for waking too early or Sleep story: an attic room, when you need something unremarkable — for a racing mind.