Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you are on your own — for jet lag
Flat water, no wind, and light that has not arrived yet.
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
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your ankles can go loose now.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your hands be completely still.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel your wrists loosen.
You can stop listening properly. Sleep.
You do not have to count them. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Stay with the weight of your body.
Slower. Leave it there. Stay.
Being on your own is not required, but it does make this simpler.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try A boat at anchor, when you want to be left alone — for waking too early, A boat at anchor, when the weather has kept you inside — for a racing mind or Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have tried everything else — for winding down.