Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when you are at home and cannot settle — for winding down

The story, in full

Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly.

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. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your palms open if they were closed.

The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Your chest can be still now. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line.

Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your wrists loosen.

The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.

If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Softer. Let the room get slightly further away.

They will find their own way out. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let your breathing do the rest.

Just the dark. Let them. You do not have to count them.

Being at home and unable to settle is a very specific problem.

No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.