What were you doing just before you hit play on this podcast? Were you lying awake for a while, tossing and turning, and starting to worry about how long it's taking to fall asleep? And your mind, has it been busy thinking about that problem from today and that thing you need to do tomorrow? Or maybe you're reviewing your personal greatest hits of embarrassing moments collection. You know, the one that you've been archiving since fifth grade. This type of thinking is what sleep experts call analytical thinking.It's when our minds get stuck solving problems, making lists, or replaying conversations. And why does this happen right when we're trying to sleep? Well, bedtime is often the first quiet moment we've had all day. And without the distractions of work and family and screens, our mind finally has space to process everything it's been doing. It's like your brain is saying, great, finally some quiet time to think about all the things. But what this analytical mode of thinking does is keep our minds alert and active. It's the opposite of what we need for sleep.Tonight, I want to show you how to shift away from this busy thinking into something called sensory awareness. It engages different neural networks than analytical thinking. It naturally slows brainwave patterns towards those compatible with sleep.I'm going to read a narration that's been written in a specific way. It's calming and full of sensory details. When we immerse ourselves in sensory descriptions, our brains naturally begin to quiet those analytical parts that keep us awake.As you listen, you might find your breathing naturally slowing to match the rhythm of the story. You might notice the weight of your body on your bed becoming more prominent than your thoughts. And this is exactly how we prepare for sleep.Not by forcing it, but by gently shifting our attention. But first, a little housekeeping. If you're a regular listener, you can probably recite this part with me by now. Always listen to these episodes from a place where you can safely fall asleep. There's also a full disclaimer in the show notes for the lawyers among us. And now for a simple request.If you enjoy drifting off with these episodes, consider following the show. Think of it as leaving a nightlight on for your future insomniac self. Each episode is different.Some nights you need a bedtime story. Others you need a guided meditation. And occasionally you need someone to talk you down from reviewing every embarrassing thing you've ever said at a party.When you follow the show, all these sleep solutions will be waiting in your podcast library. So now we're going to shift away from busy thinking into something more restful. We'll do this by exploring Rome through an artist's eyes. Specifically, Elena. An artist who's rediscovering herself after ending a very long-term relationship. For the first time, she's putting her own needs first and is fulfilling a lifelong dream of travel. Elena's artistic perspective is perfect for our needs because artists are professional noticers. They stay present with what's immediately around them. So let's begin by finding a comfortable position.Whatever feels best for you. Allow your body to be fully supported by your bed and feel the weight of your body sinking downward, supporting you completely. Take a deep, slow breath in through your nose, filling your lungs completely, and then exhale gently through your mouth, releasing any tension you might be holding. Breathe in, hold for just a moment, and then exhale. Beautiful. And if you're ready, let's start.Elena woke before dawn in her small room near the Piazza Navone. The window was cracked open and she could hear the gentle sounds of Rome awakening, the distant call of a street vendor, and the soft flutter of pigeons' wings, the unhurried footsteps on cobblestone streets that had held the weight of history for thousands of years. The light here in Rome had a quality she had never seen before.It didn't just illuminate, it transformed. This morning, it crept across her room in shades of amber and gold, touching the simple white walls with warmth that seemed to breathe life into everything it touched. She watched the play of light on her bedsheets for a moment, how the cream-colored linen caught the early glow, creating soft shadows in its folds.She dressed slowly, savoring the quiet. Her sketchbook, a leather-bound book with thick cream-colored paper that had just enough texture to catch the graphite perfectly, went into her worn leather satchel. The book had been a gift to herself when she first decided to come to Rome, a promise of dedicated time for art after years of putting it aside.The leather was beginning to soften with use, conforming to her touch in that way meaningful objects do when they become extensions of ourselves. She packed her favorite set of watercolors in a small tin box, the colors arranged in a spectrum that always brought her satisfaction just looking at them. Each half pan of color had its own personality.The cadmium yellow that seemed to hold sunshine within it, the crimson that could be bold or delicate depending on how much water she used, and the ultramarine blue that reminded her of summer skies and deep water. Elena added her collection of brushes, each with its own personality and purpose. From the delicate sable brush with a tip fine enough to paint a single eyelash, to the broader wash brush that could sweep color across the sky in one confident stroke. She ran her fingers along the smooth wooden handles, feeling their familiar shapes, a reminder of the connection between hand and tool, artist and medium. The streets were just beginning to fill as she stepped outside. The air held the promise of warmth, but for now it was cool against her skin.With that particular freshness that belongs only to early morning, she could smell fresh bread from a nearby bakery, and somewhere the rich aroma of coffee brewing. These scents mingled with the earthier notes of the city itself. Old stone warmed by centuries of sun, and the faint mineral smell of fountains, and the green scent of potted herbs on windowsills.She followed her nose to a tiny cafe tucked between two ancient buildings, their facades worn by centuries of sun and rain. The doorway was low, built in an era when people were shorter, and she ducked slightly to enter. Inside the space was warm and golden, lit by both morning sun through the windows, and warm amber lights strung along rough wooden beams overhead.The coffee here was not something to rush. It was thick and rich, served in a small porcelain cup that felt pleasantly warm against her fingers. The first sip was always her favorite, that initial explosion of flavor, deeply roasted but without bitterness, that seemed to awaken every sense at once.Elena sipped slowly, watching the morning light play across the piazza through the cafe's open door. She opened her sketchbook, feeling the satisfying weight of the paper as she turned to a fresh page. The sound of the pages turning was a quiet whisper, like a confidante waiting for secrets. The first marks were always the most important, not rushed but deliberate, finding the composition that would capture not just the scene but the feeling of the moment. She began with a soft pencil, a 4B that allowed for both precision and softness, and she began with gentle sweeping lines, establishing the architecture of the piazza. Her graphite pencil, a 6B that left rich velvety marks, moved with confidence across the page. Elena didn't try to capture every detail. Instead, she sought the essence of the place, the way the morning light caught the edge of a centuries-old fountain, the graceful curve of an archway, the texture of weathered stone. It was a profound joy in the process, in translating three dimensions into two, in deciding what to include and what to leave to the imagination.A cat appeared beside the fountain, pausing to groom itself in a patch of sunlight. Elena smiled and quickly added it to her composition. Just a few curved lines, suggesting its arched back, the tilt of its head, the elegant sweep of its tail.Sometimes, the unplanned elements made a drawing come alive. The cat, satisfied with its morning routine, stretched slowly and moved off into a shadowed alley, disappearing like a secret. As the morning progressed, the light shifted, growing stronger and more golden. Elena reached for her watercolors, mixing a wash of ochre and burnt sienna to capture the warm tones of the building. She tested the color on the corner of her paper, watching how it behaved. Watercolor always revealed its true character when it dried slightly, lighter than when wet.Satisfied with the tone, she applied it with deliberate strokes, water beaded on the surface before sinking in, creating those beautiful soft edges that she loved about this medium. She added cerulean blue to the shadows, letting it mingle with the warm earth tones. A touch of permanent rose for the flowers spilling from a balcony above. Viridian green, muted with a touch of burnt umber for the patina on the bronze fountain. With each color she added, the scene became more fully to life. Not as an exact reproduction, but as her experience of this moment in Rome. Elena sat back, assessing her work. It wasn't perfect. Watercolor never was. But it had captured something true about the morning light, about the weight and presence of the ancient stones, about the feeling of being here, now, in this city that had witnessed so much of human history. It was a freedom in accepting imperfection, in valuing expression over precision. It had taken her years to learn this lesson, to silence the inner critic that often kept her from fully engaging with her art. The weight of the sketchbook on her lap, the faint scratch of pencil on paper, the cool touch of water as she cleaned her brush between colors. These sensations anchored her in this present moment. For so long, her mind had been elsewhere when creating art. Thinking about Mark's schedule, about her students' needs, about all the practical concerns that had slowly edged out the pure pleasure of creation. Here, in Rome, she was remembering what it felt like to be truly immersed, to lose track of time in the best possible way. The sun climbed higher, and Elena found herself drawn to the cool shadows of a small side street. Here, the buildings leaned toward each other as if sharing secrets, creating a channel of deep blue shade. The temperature dropped noticeably as she stepped into this narrow passage, and the sounds of the busy piazza faded. The contrast between the sun-drenched piazza and this cool, quiet alley was like moving between different worlds. She found a small stone bench, cool and smooth beneath her, worn by centuries of people pausing, just as she was doing now. Sitting there, Elena looked up at the sliver of sky visible between the buildings, an intense ribbon of blue framed by the warm terracotta of the walls. The visual contrast was striking, the kind of natural composition that artists had been drawn to for centuries.From her bag, Elena took out a smaller sketchbook, this one with rougher paper that had more tooth and would catch pastels beautifully. She ran her fingers over the surface, feeling the gentle resistance it would offer to her pastels. The set of soft pastels she carried came in a wooden box.Opening it revealed rows of color, each stick worn at different angles from use. She loved the directness of pastel, how her fingers would make contact with the pigment, and how the color could be layered and blended with a touch. She selected a deep purple blue, breaking off the paper wrapper to expose more of the stick, and began to capture the shadows of the alley.The pastel made a soft, whispering sound against the paper, not scratchy, but velvety. Building up color with each stroke, she added a warm terracotta for the sunlit upper portions of the buildings, letting her fingers smudge the edge where light met shadow. An old woman appeared at a window above, shaking out a small rug.The movement caught Elena's eye, and she quickly captured it. The shape of the window frame, the gesture of arms extended, and the small cloud of dust catching the light. The woman noticed her drawing and smiled down, offering a small wave. Elena waved back, feeling that wordless connection that sometimes happens between strangers. A moment of acknowledgement, of shared humanity across language barriers. The woman disappeared inside, but a moment later, the window opened wider, and she reappeared with a small bunch of herbs, rosemary and basil, tied with twine.She gestured toward Elena, and then made a tossing motion. Elena stood and held out her hands, and a small bundle came sailing down, a gift from above. The scent of the herbs was immediately apparent, sharp, green, intensely aromatic. Elena called up her thanks, and the woman smiled again, before retreating, closing the shutters against the midday heat that would soon be building. Elena tucked the herbs into her bag, their scent mingling with the smell of paper and pastels. This unexpected gift would find its way into her lunch, or perhaps into a glass of water to flavor it.These small, serendipitous connections were part of what made traveling alone so rewarding, the space it created for unexpected exchanges, for noticing, and being noticed. As afternoon approached, hunger finally pulled her away from her work. She found a small tretoria, with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk, shaded by canvas awnings in faded red and orange stripes.The awnings rippled gently in the slight breeze, creating ever-changing patterns of shadow and light on the tables below. Elena chose a spot near the edge, where she could watch the steady stream of people passing by while she ate. The owner, an older man with expressive hands and eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, recommended a simple pastel with fresh tomatoes.Elena watched as he gestured to the kitchen, the same expansive movements she had been trying to capture in her sketches all morning. The food arrived, steaming. The pastel was perfectly al dente, the sauce bright with the flavor of tomatoes that had actually ripened in the sun.A drizzle of olive oil caught the light, creating tiny golden pools on the surface of the dish. And Elena ate slowly, savoring each bite, allowing herself to be fully present in the simple meal. There was a profound joy in this too, in nourishment, in flavor, in participating in the centuries-old rituals of food and community.The waiter brought a small glass of house white wine without her asking, slightly effervescent with notes of green apple and minerals. It complemented the acidity of the tomatoes perfectly. Elena thanked him, and he nodded with a slight bow, as if to say that such pairings were simply the natural order of things requiring no special thanks. After lunch, with the afternoon sun casting longer shadows, she made her way to the Villa Borghese Gardens. The transition from stone streets to green space brought a noticeable shift in the air, cooler, fragrant with pine and flowers. After the hard surfaces of the city, the soft give of earth beneath her feet felt like a different kind of homecoming. Elena found a bench facing one of the small lakes, where the surface of the water was perfectly still. Reflecting the surrounding trees like a mirror, she sat for a moment, simply breathing. Letting the sensory shift from urban to natural sink in fully, the quality of sound was entirely different here.Less bounded, more layered with rustling leaves, bird calls, and the soft background chorus of insects. From her bag, she took out a different set of materials, oil pastels in a metal tin, and a pad of toned paper in a warm gray that would let both light and dark colors stand out. The paper had a slight texture that would grip the oil pastels, allowing her to build up layers of color.Oil pastels had a different quality than the soft ones she'd used earlier. They were more saturated, more resistant. Elena began with the reflection in the lake.Using a deep blue-green that she worked into the paper with firm pressure, the oil pastels left a glossy mark, rich with pigment. She added a bright white for the highlights where sun touched the water, the contrast creating that perfect sparkle that suggested movement even in the still surface. For the trees, she layered greens, olive, forest, and a yellow-green that captured how the late afternoon sun illuminated the leaves from behind.She worked with absorption, losing track of time as the image emerged beneath her hands. A set of narrow steps descended to the water's edge across the lake, the reflection creating a perfect symmetry broken only by the occasional ripple when a leaf fell onto the water's surface. Elena captured this with a series of horizontal lines, slightly wavered, suggesting the movement without overemphasizing it. Elena felt a sense of harmony, of being exactly where she needed to be, doing exactly what she was meant to do after the end of her relationship, after years of putting marks career ahead of her own art, of shrinking her dreams to accommodate his, of hearing his subtle dismissals of her creative ambitions - this feeling was like rediscovering a part of herself that had been set aside for too long.

Coming to Rome had been her first act of reclamation. She'd used part of her savings - money she'd been setting aside for "someday" - to rent a small apartment for two months. The decision had felt both terrifying and exhilarating, like stepping off a cliff and discovering she could fly.

As twilight approached, Elena gathered her materials and began the walk back to her small apartment. The streets took on a different character in this light - warming from golden to amber, shadows deepening to indigo. She walked slowly, still noticing - the way light caught the rim of a fountain, how shadows pooled in doorways, the gesture of an elderly couple walking arm in arm ahead of her.

The sounds of the city changed with evening as well - more voices as people emerged for their evening passeggiata, the clinking of glasses from outdoor cafés, occasional bursts of music from open windows. The scents shifted too - less of the day's heat and dust, more of cooking food, of perfume, of the cool stone walls releasing the warmth they'd absorbed during the day.

Elena paused at a small piazza where a string quartet had set up, their music floating out across the gathering crowd. She leaned against a stone wall, feeling its textured surface against her back, and closed her eyes for a moment, just listening. When she opened her eyes again, she saw how the last light was catching the copper-colored hair of the cellist, turning it to fire as his bow moved across the strings.

Back in her room, Elena spread out the day's work on her small table. Each piece captured something different - morning light in watercolor, deep shadows in soft pastel, afternoon reflections in oil pastel. Together, they told the story of one day in Rome, not through words but through color, light, and form.

Elena opened the window wider, letting the evening air flow in. The sounds of Rome continued below - conversations, distant music, the occasional passing scooter. She sat on the windowsill, feeling the stone still warm from the day's sun against her legs. Tomorrow would bring new light, new scenes, new discoveries. For now, she simply breathed in the night air, feeling content, connected, and once again attuned to the creative pulse that had always been her truest guide. Her fingertips were still slightly stained with pastel colors - blue from the sky, green from the trees, ochre from the buildings. These temporary marks were like souvenirs of the day's journey, reminders of where her hands and heart had traveled. Eventually, they would wash away, but the experience they represented had already become part of her, impossible to erase.

And now, as our journey through Rome with Elena comes to a close, take a moment to notice how your body feels. Perhaps your breathing has slowed to match the unhurried pace of those Roman streets. Your muscles have softened, releasing any tension they were holding.

There's no need to hurry sleep. Your only task right now is to enjoy the simple, sensory pleasure of rest.

Notice the weight of your body against your bed. Feel how the surface beneath you supports you. Your breath has found its natural rhythm now. Notice the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the subtle movement of air in and out of your body. 

In the darkness behind your eyelids, you might notice subtle patterns of light and shadow, shifting and changing like the play of afternoon sun through leaves. There's no need to focus on these images or make sense of them. They're simply part of the natural transition from wakefulness to sleep.

Your body knows perfectly how to fall asleep. Your mind just needs to step aside and trust in this ancient wisdom that lives in you, in the steady rhythm of your heart.

You are completely safe in this moment. deepest wisdom remains within you, even when temporarily forgotten. 

Release any pressure to fall asleep right now. Instead, simply rest. Rest your body. Rest your mind. Rest your attention. In this restful state, sleep arrives naturally, like a friend who knows they're welcome without needing an invitation.

The gentle weight of your limbs... the soft sound of your breath... the darkness cradling you... these simple sensations are enough. There is nothing else you need to do, nothing you need to accomplish. This moment of rest is complete in itself.

I’m Suzanne. This is your ticket to snoozeville.

Sleep now. Sleep deeply. Sleep well.