Tonight we're in the Scottish Outer Hebrides in the 1930s, following a woman on a supply boat. And I know that life was harder then. To be honest, I'm not sure I'd actually want to go back.I like life comfortable. But I would like, just for a little while. The change of pace.Because everything moved slower then. It had to. You couldn't check your email at midnight, because there was no email.You couldn't scroll through your phone in bed, because there was no phone. There was no 24-hour news cycle, telling you everything that was going wrong, everywhere in the world, all at once. When the sun went down, the day was done.And your brain knew it was done, because nothing was coming in to tell it otherwise. We've lost that. Sometimes I think we are not designed for the amount of information that we take in every day.We're not designed to carry it all to bed with us. But we do. And then we wonder why we can't sleep.So tonight, just for a little while, we're going to leave all of that behind. We're going back to a time when the evening was quiet. And the work was physical.And the world got smaller after dark, instead of bigger. And the story will do the rest. I've written it using techniques from hypnotherapy.Weaving them into the pace and rhythm of the narrative. You just have to follow a woman and her dog and allow sleep to finally find you. But before we start, please ensure that you are somewhere safe for sleep.Preferably your comfortable bed. There is a full disclaimer in the show notes. And it's funny how I started the episode by talking about how we are less connected.Because when it comes to this show, I feel very connected to you. Especially with anyone who's ever taken the time to comment. To send me an email and tell me a bit about what keeps you up.Or what you'd like to hear down the road. Thank you for being a part of this little project of mine. So now, let's help you get settled.Make your room as dark as you can. If there's a light on anywhere, turn it off. Adjust your pillow.And pull your blankets out until the weight of them feels right. When you're comfortable, bring your attention to your breathing. Just notice it. Notice the rise and the fall of your chest. And the way the air is moving in and out. And then, when you're ready, let your next breath be a little deeper than the last.Fill your lungs slowly. Easily. And then, when you let that breath go, make it a long, slow exhale.That longer exhale is what activates your vagus nerve. Which is your body's own way of telling itself. The day is done.And then your heart rate slows. Your muscles start to relax. Everything begins to quiet down.Just keep breathing like that. In slowly. And out long and steady.Letting everything go with it. The tension in your jaw. Your shoulders.Your hands. Let it leave with the breath. You don't need any of it where we're going.And eventually, just let your breathing find its own pace. You don't need to think about it anymore. And follow my voice.We're heading to the Scottish Islands on a cold, clear evening. The water is calm. The boat is loaded.And Agnes is ready to go. The engine holds its low, steady note beneath everything. It has sounded exactly the same for as long as Agnes can remember.A deep thrum that comes up through the deck and into the soles of her boots. Clover is not a fast boat. And she has never been a pretty one.She is 26 feet of painted wood. Wide in the beam. Heavy in the water.Built for carrying. Her hull is black below the waterline and dark blue above it. And the blue has been touched up so many times over the years.That it has become its own color. The cargo is loaded and sorted. Four heavy cans of lamp oil sit tied against the port side.Two for the first stop. And two for the second. They are square metal cans.With small handles. Dented from years of use. Agnes can tell by weight alone whether a can is full or half empty.Beside the oil, in a wooden crate lined with straw, sits tins of corned beef and condensed milk. A bag of oats. A small sack of potatoes with the dirt still on them.Jar of marmalade packed in newspaper. And on top of the crate, tied with string, are the letters. Each bundle is a lighthouse.Agnes sorted them this morning on her kitchen table. She knows the handwriting of wives and mothers and sisters. She knows which keeper gets the most letters.And which gets almost none. Moss is in the bow. He takes out most of it.He is an enormous deer hound with a long face and a muzzle that went white years ago. He lies with his front paws crossed, watching the water pass. He has been making this run with Agnes for nine years.And he has never once shown any interest in the cargo, the keepers, or the lighthouses themselves. Only the water. He watches it the way some dogs watch birds.The water is the color the Hebrides turn it. Not blue. Not gray.Not green. But something that contains all three. And changes depending on where the light falls.Right now, with the sun still an hour from setting, it has a dark silver quality. Like the back of a wet stone. The grass on the lower slopes has gone gold.And where the evening light catches it, the color is bright against the dark rocks. The hills rise into bare rock and scrub. And above that, clouds are moving in from the west.Their undersides lit copper and pink. Agnes checks her course. The first lighthouse is 40 minutes ahead.Visible now is a white mark on the horizon. Just a shape. She has been making this round twice a month for 11 years.And the root is in her hands more than in her head. She reaches for the tin cup wedged beside the throttle and drinks the last of her tea. The engine holds its note.The swell lifts and settles. Moss watches the water. What was a white mark becomes a tower.Not the grand pillar that people picture when they think of lighthouses. But a squat, practical structure, built low to the ground. The walls are thick and whitewashed.A walled yard surrounds it with a few small outbuildings. A short stone jetty extends just far enough for a boat like Clover to come alongside. Agnes eases the throttle back and the engine note drops.She brings Clover alongside the jetty. She holds the boat a foot off, lets the water bring her in, and steps onto the jetty with the bow rope in her hand. The rope goes around the mooring post.Once. Twice. A half hitch that she ties without looking down.The door of the yard opens and a man comes down the path. He is perhaps 70. Tall.Slightly stooped. His face is weathered and his hands when he takes the rope Agnes throws down are enormous. This is Callum.He's been keeping this light for longer than Agnes has been running the boat. He nods. She nods.He ties off the stern rope and stands with his hands in his pockets while she climbs back into the boat and begins lifting out his supplies. Two cans of lamp oil first. She swings them up onto the jetty one at a time and Callum takes each one by the handle and sets it aside.Then the provisions crate. She passes it up and he tucks it under one arm. As though it weighs nothing.Then the letters. Callum's bundle is the thinnest of the three. Two envelopes.He puts them in his back pocket without looking at them. But his hand stays there for a moment, pressing them flat. He will read them later by the lamp with his tea.They stand for a moment on the jetty. Callum asks after her engine. She says it is fine.She asks after his light and he says it is fine. This is the conversation. It is the same conversation they have had for 11 years and it contains all it needs to contain.I am well. You are well. We are not alone out here. Callum reaches down and rubs Moss behind the ear. Then he straightens up and lifts the crate and the oil cans and walks back up the path toward the lighthouse. He does not need to say goodbye.She will be back in two weeks. Agnes steps back into the boat, unties the rope and pushes off with one foot against the stone. Behind her, the lighthouse stands white and squat against the darkening headland.She does not look back. The light is changing now. The sun is lower.Moss has not moved from his position on the bow. His ears are flattened by the breeze and his eyes are half closed but still watching the water. The air is cooler now.Agnes can feel it on her face and across the backs of her hands. The second light is ahead of her now. A faint white shape on a darker island and Agnes adjusts her course and lets Clover carry her toward it.The swell is bigger here. Long, deep rolls that come from somewhere far to the west. The cans of lamp oil slide an inch and stop. Moss braces his front legs slightly wider. The second lighthouse sits on a smaller island. Barely more than a rock with enough flat ground for the tower and a cottage beside it.The cottage has a light in the window. Agnes can see it from half a mile out. A small yellow square against the gray.The lit window says someone is home and has put the kettle on and is probably wondering whether the engine sound carrying across the water is Clover or something else. The jetty here is shorter and more exposed. Agnes has to time her approach.She waits for a lull and then brings the boat in quickly, stepping out onto the wet stone. The keeper is already coming down from the cottage. He is younger than Callum, maybe 40 with a reddish beard and a knitted hat.His name is Duncan and he has been on this rock for two years. He walks quickly and talks the same way. Words coming out of him as though they have been saved up. He has seen a basking shark this morning. It's fin cutting through the water for a full minute and there is something wrong with the privy door. The hinge is gone and does she by chance have a hinge? Agnes brings out his supplies.The other two cans of oil. A crate of tins. A bag of coal.A box of candles. And his letters. Duncan's bundle is the thickest.He takes them and holds them against his chest for a moment. Agnes knows that one of these envelopes is from his wife. He will read it tonight at the table.And he will read it again tomorrow. And probably the day after that. She passes up the bag of coal and he swings it over his shoulder.He asks if she wants tea. She always says no. There is one more stop and the light is going. But she stands on the jetty for an extra minute while he tells her about the shark. Agnes listens. Duncan does not get many chances to tell someone about a shark. Then she unties the ropes and pushes off and Duncan stands with the coal over his shoulder and watches her go. Clover swings out into the swell and the small yellow window of the cottage grows smaller behind her. Until it is just a point of warm light on a dark rock in a dark sea.The third light is the furthest out. It sits on a rock that barely qualifies as an island. No cottage.No yard. No chickens. Just the tower and the rock and the sea on every side.Agnes can see its beam now, just beginning to show against the sky. A slow sweep of white light that appears and disappears and appears again. The third keeper is a woman.Agnes does not know her well. She arrived six months ago from the mainland and she keeps to herself. Her name is Fiona and she is perhaps 35. She meets Agnes at the jetty without a word. And takes the supplies as Agnes hands them up. A single can of oil, a small box of provisions, a bundle of three letters. Agnes asks if she needs anything else. Fiona thinks for a moment and asks if Agnes could bring a warmer blanket next time. Agnes says she will. Fiona nods and picks up the provisions. And walks back up the steep path toward the lighthouse. The stop has taken less than five minutes. Agnes unties and pushes off and the rock falls away behind her. Now there is only the beam of light sweeping slowly above her as she clears the jetty. She watches it go. The round is done. The cargo is delivered. Every lighthouse on her route has oil for its lamp and letters for its keeper and food for the weeks ahead. She turns clover south toward home. The sea has changed while she was making her stops. The swell has flattened to almost nothing. It is the time of night when the water looks like something you can reach into. Agnes has always loved this. The 20 minutes when the sea stops being a surface and becomes a depth where you can feel how far down it goes just by looking at it. The sky above her is filling with stars. The Milky Way is showing now. Broad river of light running from one horizon to the other. Beneath it, the dark shapes of the islands sit low on the water. The lighthouse beams are all visible from here. Three of them.Each turning at its own pace. Each sweeping its own arc of sea. She reaches into the small locker beside the tiller and takes out a tin of tea, a tin cup, and a box of matches. The stove in the wheelhouse is a tiny thing. She fills the small kettle from the water can and lights the burner. And the flame catches. With a soft blue pop. And hold steady, the kettle will take a few minutes. Agnes stands in the wheelhouse doorway with one hand on the tiller and waits. Moss has moved from the bow. He has come back along the deck with the slow steps of an old dog on a moving boat. And settled himself against Agnes's legs. He does this every night on the return leg. The work is finished, and now he wants to be near her. Rather than near the water, the kettle makes a small sound. A faint hum that Agnes knows means the water is ready. She pours it into the cup over the tea, and the smell rises into the cold air. Sharp and brown and familiar. She wraps both hands around the cup. Clover moves through the dark water at her own pace. The bow wave is a quiet sound, a soft, continuous folding of water against wood. And the stars are fully out now. The moon is rising behind the eastern islands. The air is cold. Clean, ahead of her, she can see the harbor light. A fixed point of yellow marking the entrance to the channel. She adjusts her course toward it. Moss is sleeping against her legs. His breath is deep and so calm that Agnes finds her own breathing slowing to match it. It is the same rhythm as the swell. The same rhythm as the engine. The same rhythm as the water against the hull. The harbor light is closer now. She can see the dark shapes of other boats on their moorings. The movement of masts against the sky. The village behind the harbor isn't mostly dark. A few windows still lit. Someone up late with a book or a baby. Agnes will be home in 15 minutes. She will hang her coat on the hook by the door and fill Moss's bowl. And put the kettle on and drink one more cup of tea before bed. Clover slips into the channel and Agnes eases the throttle back. And the boat drifts the last hundred yards. The engine stops and the silence that follows is the silence of a finished journey, of a task done. Moss is still asleep. Agnes has to touch his shoulder to wake him. And he raises his head slowly, blinking. She helps him onto the jetty, his long legs stiff from the cold. And he stands there, swaying slightly while she ties Clover down and checks the ropes. She does not rush any of this. There is no one waiting for her. They walk up the harbor path together, Agnes and Moss. The village is almost entirely dark now. One window lit in the house by the post office. Agnes's cottage is the third one along the lane. She opens the door and Moss goes straight to his bed by the stove. He turns twice and lies down. He is asleep before Agnes has hung up her coat. She fills his water bowl anyway. She puts the kettle on the stove and stands in her kitchen while it heats. Her hands still smelling of rope. And salt. And lamp oil. The kitchen is warm. She makes her tea and sits at the table. And drinks it slowly. And she thinks about nothing in particular. The bed is cold when she gets in. But it will warm. She pulls the blankets up to her chin. And Moss's breathing reaches her from the kitchen. Slow.And deep. And steady. Agnes closes her eyes. The round is done. Lights are burning. The keepers have their oil. And the letters. And their provisions. There is nothing more she can do for any of them tonight. Her part is finished. And she has put it down. And she will pick it up again in two weeks. But between now and then. It is not hers to carry. Listen to how quiet it is. Not Agnes's quiet. But yours. Your room. Your bed. Your own darkness. Whatever it looks like tonight. You have been somewhere far away. On the water. In the cold salt air. And now you are back. You are here. In your own bed. Which is warm. And soft. And holding you the way Clover held her cargo. You have done enough today. Whatever you carried. And you carried things. Everyone carries things. Every single day. You carried them. You did your part. Maybe it was not everything. Maybe there are still cans of oil. Still on the dock. And letters still unsorted. And a keeper on a rock somewhere. Waiting for something that you did not get to. And that's all right. It'll be there in the morning. You will pick it up again. You are good at picking things up. You've been doing it your whole life. You've never once failed to show up. When needed. But tonight. Your part is finished. Put it down now. All of it. You did it well enough. And now you can rest. The harbour is still. The dog is asleep by the stove. And somewhere in a cold cottage. On a dark island in the North Atlantic. Agnes is sleeping. The deep, easy sleep of a person who knows there is nothing left to do. You are warm. You are held. You are home. And sleep is here if you let it come. It is as close as your next breath out. And it is as simple as putting something down.