Sleep story · rain, green
Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when you are doing this for the first time — for a racing mind
Steady rain on leaves, and a chair under an awning that stays dry.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step. 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.
The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. 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.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.
Feel your cheeks let go. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
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.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your chest can be still now.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell.
If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Stay with the weight of your body. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay.
Let the quiet be boring. Just the breath. Softer.
If this is your first go, stay with the plainest version of the instructions.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.