Sleep story · rain, green
Sleep story: a garden in the rain, if you have done this a hundred times — for winding down
Steady rain on leaves, and a chair under an awning that stays dry.
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
There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.
The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your hands be completely still. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
You do not have to count them. Let the next part go past without you.
Slower now. Let the room get slightly further away. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Sleep. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Almost nothing to do now.
If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.
If this story does not settle you, try A boat at anchor, when you want to be left alone — for waking too early, A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, after a difficult conversation — for waking too early or A fire dying down (a sleep story), if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for waking too early.