A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), if you have five quiet minutes — for a racing mind

There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your hands be completely still.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there. If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel your wrists loosen.

Let the quiet be boring. Let them.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.