Sleep story · water, slow
Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you need to stop thinking about work — for jet lag
A small harbour, a rope that creaks, and a boat that moves about a metre in the night.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your chest can be still now.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel your wrists loosen.
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let them.
The words can start to blur now. Let the room get slightly further away. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
You do not have to count them. Slower. Let the dark be ordinary.
Work thoughts are allowed to be there. They just do not get to drive.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.