Okay,
Let's see if we can't make drifting off to sleep tonight a little smoother than usual.
You can start by bringing to mind a time when you fell asleep really easily.
Recall how effortless that felt.
How naturally your body settled into rest.
You didn't have to try hard.
You just trusted that your body knew what to do.
Trust that it still knows,
At the deepest level,
Exactly how sleep comes.
And to help it along,
Deliberately yawn a couple of times.
Fake yawns are perfectly fine.
All you need to do is open your mouth wide and let your body take over.
One or two yawns should do it.
But if another one wants to come,
That's fine too.
Now,
Let your body sink a little deeper into the mattress.
Or just imagine that it's sinking deeper.
As though you've had a long tiring day and your whole body just wants to collapse downward.
As though each and every muscle wants to switch off.
Your head sinking into the pillow.
Your legs sinking into the mattress.
Your hips becoming heavy.
Your torso heavy.
And take your time.
You might notice the way your body begins to let go.
Even if it's just a subtle relaxation of the shoulders.
Or the recognition that your muscles are tired.
Savor the touch or temperature of the air on your face.
The feeling of permitting yourself to rest.
And of surrendering to the downward pull of gravity.
As though your bed were saying,
Don't worry,
I've got you.
You can let every muscle go loose and limp.
Letting the mattress take every ounce of your weight.
And you can let go of the need to do any of this perfectly.
Trust that with patience,
Things will settle of their own accord.
You don't have to rush the process.
In fact,
Let's take a little time out.
Give yourself a break from listening to or trying to follow my instructions.
And just let your attention drift freely.
Not caring where it goes.
And you might imagine that you're staring into the flames of a campfire.
Mesmerized by the dancing light.
The coals glowing red.
And the soft crackling.
Like someone whispering in your ear.
Or perhaps imagine yourself in a cozy cabin by the beach.
On a calm,
Quiet night.
A cool breeze brushing across your skin.
And the sound of waves lapping quietly on the shore.
And if you drift into thought,
Let that be okay.
In this practice,
The more you accept your thoughts,
The more likely you are to accept them.
To fall asleep.
So you can just let them drift in and out like the waves on the beach.
Coming and going with a regular rhythm.
They come in.
They go out.
And maybe the same thought over and over.
Or maybe a new thought each moment.
All of them permitted to flow.
And you make no effort to stop those waves.
You just let them lull you into sleep.
Each thought,
Or memory,
Or image.
A sure sign that sleep will come.
And there's no hurry.
Because it's okay just to listen to the waves.
And if you like,
You can tune into your breath.
It too moving in a gentle wave-like rhythm.
In.
And out.
In.
And out.
In.
Unhurried.
Rhythmic.
Soft.
Subtle.
And you can pause here for a while.
Savouring the moment.
Enjoying this space in which there's nothing you have to do.
Giving your body a chance to slip slowly into deeper and deeper rest.
Allowing yourself these small comforts.
And if there's any part of you that feels impatient,
Or restless,
Or annoyed.
Imagine that the wiser part within just says,
Never mind,
That's all right.
You can feel whatever you feel.
You can think whatever you think.
Knowing that if you can be slightly kinder to yourself,
Slightly more patient with the process,
Then that will help.
That will help a lot.
And you might imagine that as the night goes on,
The waves become smaller and smaller.
The sound of the waves,
Just a murmur in the distance.
A tiny splash on the sand.
And you might find your attention drawn to a still place within the body.
Perhaps to the sensations in your hands.
And you notice exactly where the hands lie.
Their temperature.
Perhaps you can feel a pulse in the thumbs.
Or a tingling in the fingertips.
Or palms.
Or perhaps you feel nothing at all.
Or maybe you focus on the feet.
Noticing whether they're warm or cool.
Making no effort to relax.
Not trying to fall asleep.
Just aware of your feet.
Your sense of where they are.
And how they feel.
And you can rest here for a moment.
Not worrying if your mind is worrying.
Knowing that sleep comes more naturally when you accept things as they are.
And you can notice your ears.
The left.
And the right.
And your nose.
And your nose.
You can soften the forehead.
As though a cool towel were resting there.
And you can soften the muscles around and behind your eyes.
Feeling the weight of your eyelids.
The contact made between your upper and lower lip.
And you might allow the teeth to part slightly.
Letting the jaw hang heavy.
Then imagine that you're back in the cabin by the beach.
Looking out the window,
You can see moonlight reflected on the calm water.
And there's a boat way out on the horizon.
Its hull a deep blue.
Its sails a soft white.
You watch as it slowly moves across the sea from left to right.
Over the course of a couple of lazy breaths it moves right to the edge of your vision.
And disappears from view.
But then it reappears.
You follow it again.
As it moves back across the horizon.
This time from right to left.
Your eyes follow its steady progress.
As it sails smoothly through the night.
And after a breath or two.
It disappears from view again.
Only to reappear once more.
And you follow it with your eyes once again.
And you can almost feel what it's like to sail so smoothly across the moonlit waters.
Just the gentle rustle of a light breeze.
The slight lapping of water against the hull.
And the cool night air on your skin.
And the movement seems to make you sleepy.
Such that you can hardly keep your eyes open.
And you feel them becoming heavier and heavier.
Your eyelids impossibly heavy.
And you allow all the muscles of the face to soften.
The muscles around the eyes.
Behind the eyes.
The jaw.
The tongue.
The forehead and brow.
And the eyes themselves.
As though everything becomes darker and darker.
As though you're looking up into the night sky.
Perfectly black.
Sprinkled with sand.
And stars.
And there's nothing to do.
Nowhere to go.
Just the waves.
And the night.
And perhaps you allow yourself to drift.
Not trying to fall asleep.
Not trying to stay awake.
Not trying to follow my directions.
Not trying to listen along.
Just letting your attention move freely.
Like a gentle breeze.
Perhaps imagining your body becoming slightly heavier.
Or softer.
Or you could let everything become a fraction quieter.
Your breath like a whisper.
Slow.
Slower.
Or barely there at all.
Letting go of expectations.
And just noticing how things unfold.
And if thoughts appear,
Let them appear.
If they fade,
Let them fade.
If they loop,
Let them loop.
And if you like,
You can let yourself drift into your own world.
Not listening to me.
Just resting.
You might drift into that soft in-between place.
Where you're not quite sure if you're awake or dreaming.
You can let the night take over.
As though the darkness were soft and spacious.
The night a warm blanket except for the darkness.
Accepting everything just as it is.
Nothing to do.
Nowhere to go.
Just this steady,
Patient embrace of the moment.
Just this slow descent into rest.
Into quiet.
And whatever you notice.
Whatever you hear.
Or see.
Or feel.
Or sense.
Let it be a step on the path towards deeper and deeper rest.
You can let go of expectations and of all effort.
Just drifting.
Drifting Drifting Drifting Drifting until sleep comes in its own time in its own way.
