Sleep story · rain, green
Sleep story: a garden in the rain, if you have done this a hundred times — for jet lag
Steady rain on leaves, and a chair under an awning that stays dry.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
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. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.
The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your chest can be still now.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out. Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter.
Feel your wrists loosen. Feel your cheeks let go.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The words can start to blur now. Slower.
Stay. You do not have to count them. Let the room get slightly further away.
Let the quiet be boring. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay with the weight of your body.
If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.