A garden in the rain, when you have more time than usual — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.

The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let the mattress take all of it. Your chest can be still now.

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.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your cheeks let go.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

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.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.

Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Let the next part go past without you. They will find their own way out.

Let it all get further away. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Let them. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Stay.

This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.