A garden in the rain, when you need to stop thinking about work — for waking too early

The story, in full

The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. 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.

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. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your ankles can go loose now.

The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Just the dark. Softer.

Let the next part go past without you. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Work thoughts are allowed to be there. They just do not get to drive.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.