Sleep story · rain, green
Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when you are doing this for the first time — for a restless night
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
Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. 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 watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your wrists loosen.
The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your cheeks let go.
The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. There is nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Just the dark. Just the weight. Let the room get slightly further away.
Stay. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let them.
If this is your first go, stay with the plainest version of the instructions.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
21 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 need something unremarkable — for the hours after a late shift, Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have tried everything else — for the hours after a late shift or A fire dying down, when your attention is scattered — for winding down.