Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you are waiting for something — for waking too early

The story, in full

The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.

The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.

If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Just the weight. Stay.

Let your breathing do the rest. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Stay with the weight of your body.

Waiting is dead time you can spend on this instead.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.