Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when the weather has kept you inside — for waking too early

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

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

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

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind? Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.

Your ankles can go loose now. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Stay with the weight of your body.

Sleep. The words can start to blur now. Softer.

Bad weather is a decent excuse to stay in and do this.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.