There are three things keeping you awake tonight. The first is the moon itself. It's a full moon tonight. A full moon genuinely makes sleep harder. And it's not just the light coming in at the edges of your window. It's more subtle than that. Studies have found that around the full moon, people take longer to fall asleep, and they don't sleep as deeply, whether they can see it or not. The brain gets a little more alert, and melatonin dips. So if tonight feels harder than usual, it's not your imagination. Second reason is probably the heat. It's the middle of summer, and to fall asleep, your body needs to cool down slightly. And on warm nights, it's doing its best, and finding that harder than it should. And that's just summer. And the third is your thoughts. Yesterday's thoughts, and tomorrow's thoughts, and the thoughts that don't belong to any particular day. Give your mind silence, and it will fill the silence, usually with the greatest hits of everything you'd rather not be thinking about. So you've got the moon, and the warmth, and a brain that won't stop thinking. No wonder you're still awake. But here's what we're going to do about it. There's a name for the opposite of all that overthinking, and it's mindfulness. It just means being where you actually are, instead of back in yesterday, or ahead in tomorrow. And it turns out that it's one of the most reliable ways there is to fall asleep. A mind that has stopped reaching backward and forward is a mind that's ready to rest. So that's where we're headed tonight. Out of the overthinking and into the actual moment. Which is a warm summer night. And which is a genuinely good place to be. This particular moon outside of your window tonight has a lot of names. And the one I like the most is the raspberry moon. The raspberries are ripe now. And someone a long time ago looked up at this warm, low summer moon and thought of them. And that raspberry moon is not reviewing its day. It's not solving tomorrow. It's just there. Over a warm summer night. The way it has been for longer than anyone can remember. And that's all we're after tonight. This coming back to where you already are. This bed. This warm night. And this moment. And letting sleep arrive on its own. The way it does once the mind stops chasing it. We'll do that tonight. Not by emptying your mind because you can't and trying just makes it louder. But by giving it somewhere quiet to be. First we'll slow your breathing. And then we'll let a kind of warmth settle into your body until it's heavy and still. Then we'll use a little hypnotherapy which is really just a way of quieting the wandering part of your brain. The part that won't settle. And that's usually all it takes to help you find sleep. But before we start. This episode uses hypnotherapy and relaxation techniques. So you always want to be somewhere safe when listening. Preferably your comfortable bed. And not anywhere you need to stay alert. And while you're getting comfortable. If this show has ever helped you sleep. I would be grateful if you could leave a rating or a review. I know it's a lot. You have to remember it in the morning and then actually find the app and type something out. And it is a bit of effort. So I am very appreciative if anyone takes the time. Thank you. And now. Let's get you settled. Take a moment to make yourself as comfortable as you possibly can. If there's a cooler patch of the sheet a little further over. Then move to it. If the blanket feels like too much tonight. Push it down or push it off. Let one foot slide to the edge where the cooler air is if you need to. Turn the pillow over to the side that hasn't been warmed yet. These are small things. But they matter. And now. If you're comfortable. Start breathing a little deeper. Not in any particular pattern. Just slower and fuller than usual. Taking your time with that exhale. You don't have to count. Just let each breath be a little longer. And a little softer. Than the last. And as your breathing slows. Your heart. Will begin to follow it. And that's something bodies do. The heart speeds very slightly as you breathe in. And it slows again. When you breathe out. So long and unhurried exhale. Is a direct instruction to your heart. To slow. And it does. Beat. By beat. It's slowing now. It's settling into a calmer rhythm. And as your heart slows. The pressure in your blood vessels begins to drop. The vessels themselves which narrow when you're tense. Are widening a little. Softening. And as you breathe your muscles are starting to relax. All day they've held a low background tension. That you never asked for. And mostly never noticed. The set of your jaw. The grip in your shoulders. The bracing in your stomach. As the calm signal spreads. Your muscles begin to release. One layer at a time. And somewhere. Beneath all of this. The stress chemistry of your day. Is quietly clearing. You can let your breathing return to its natural rhythm now. In and out. Your chest rising with every slow inhale. Your body relaxing. Even further with every long exhale. Now let something begin to change in your body. A heaviness. As though gravity has quietly turned itself up. While you were breathing. Start with your feet. Let them get heavy. Really heavy. That pleasant sinking weight of a body that has finally stopped holding itself up. Feel your feet settle. Down into the bed. And let that heaviness climb. Into your lower legs. Your knees. And the long muscles of your thighs. All of it growing heavier. Sinking further into the mattress. Pressing down under its own weight. Your hips now. And the base of your spine. Those are some of the largest muscles that you have. And they're letting go. All at once. Spreading and settling. Too heavy now to hold any shape. But this one. The heaviness continues up through your middle. Your back. Releasing into whatever is holding it. Your chest. Rising and falling. Slower now. Each breath. A little heavier. Than the one before. Your shoulders. Let them get heavy and drop. Heaviness spreads down your arms. All the way to your hands. Your hands are so heavy now. You couldn't lift them if you tried. You don't want to. Let them lie exactly where they are. In your head. The heaviest part of you. Sinking straight down into the pillow. Letting the pillow take all of its weight. And your jaw is loosening. Your face growing slack and still. Your whole body. Heavy now. Held. Press down into the bed. By a heavy and comforting weight. Notice how good this is. Your body. Doing what it's wanted to do all day. And hasn't had the chance to. Nowhere to be. Nothing to carry. Just heavy. And warm. And finally still. And from here, all you have to do is listen. My voice is going to lead you somewhere. And your only job tonight is to follow my words. You don't need to think about the day behind you. Or the day ahead of you. Just the words. And the place they're taking you to. And your mind may wander off. And that's okay. Just come back. To my voice. There's nothing left to do now. But listen. Just my voice. And the warm night. And wherever. We're about to go. You're standing at the edge of a meadow. And it's night. A summer night. The air is warm. Warm across the backs of your arms. In the back of your neck. Warm through the thin loose clothes you're wearing. And under your feet the path is cool. Packed earth. Worn smooth and hard by whoever walked it before you. Cool and firm against your feet. Warm air. Cool ground. And above you. The moon has just cleared the trees. It's full and it's low. And it's bigger than you remember it ever being. That trick the moon plays when it sits near the horizon. Looking close enough that you could walk to it. And it's white. So bright it has washed the color out of everything. And left the whole meadow in silver and shadow. The grass ahead of you glows pale. Where the light lands and goes dark in the low places. It's bright enough to see by. The path runs off through the grass. And you follow it. And the meadow closes in around you on both sides. This is not a lawn. Nobody planted this. It's the wild deep of high summer. Everything grown tall and leaning and gone a little to seed. Timothy grass. Tall as your hip. It's narrow seed heads brushing the backs of your hands as you pass. Soft grasses lower down. Feathery against your shins. And here and there a stand of quaking grass. It's little seed heads hung on threads so fine. That the smallest movement of air sets them trembling. A whole patch of them. Shivering silver in the moonlight. The flowers are awake too. Oxeye daisies. Dozens of them. Their white faces catching the moon so they seem almost lit from inside. Red clover. It's scent sweet and green and close to the ground. And along the path taller than the rest. The evening primroses. The ones that stay shut all day and open only after dark. Pale yellow. And giving off a soft lemony sweetness. You stop at one. You take the stem between two fingers and bend it up to your face and breathe in. Sweet. Faint. A little like lemon and a little like nothing else. Overhead a few thin clouds are moving across the moon. Lit silver at their edges. You stop and watch one drift over and thin the light for a moment. So the whole meadow dims and softens. And then it passes. And the brightness comes flooding back. And every daisy and grass head stands out. Sharp. And pale again. You could stand here all night watching that happen and never grow tired of it. There's nothing to understand about it. There's nothing it wants from you. It's just a cloud crossing the moon on a warm night. Well, you happen to be here to see it. Somewhere off in the dark a bird is singing. And you stop to listen. It's a whippoorwill. And you've probably heard one without knowing its name. Three notes over and over. Patient. And even. On and on with no sign of tiring. He isn't lost. And he isn't lonely. He's a night bird. He sleeps all through the bright hours tucked into the leaves and wakes at dusk to hunt for moss that only fly in the dark. While the whole world sleeps, he's wide awake and perfectly content, calling out across the meadow just to say he's here. And as if you'd summoned it, a moth lifts out of the grass in front of you and wanders off toward the moon on that drunken, looping flight moths have. And he's gone. None of it is thinking about tomorrow.Not the bird, not the moth, not the grasses leaning in the dark. Everything here is doing the one thing it's doing and nothing else, and walking through the middle of it, warm and barefoot and unhurried. You get to do the same as nowhere else you're supposed to be. This is the whole of what's being asked of you tonight, to be in a warm summer meadow and to let that be enough. The path leads you to a single tree standing alone in the open, an old one grown out sideways as much as up. As you come close, a slow breath of warm air moves through it and a low, soft rush moves through the branches and the branches themselves shift just slightly and settle again.And then it's still at the foot of the tree in the deep shade of it. The ground is soft with moss. So you sit down.You let yourself down into it slowly and lean back against the wide trunk. The moss is cool, cool against your palms when you rest your hands in it, cool coming up through the thin cloth against your back and it holds the shape of you. The moment you settle, right beside you growing wild against the dark edge in the tree are raspberries grown up on their own, tangled and arching and heavy and loaded with fruit. In the moonlight, the ripe ones have grown almost black and the rest glow dull red in the dark and the whole thicket gives off that warm, sweet, faintly sharp smell of raspberries that have sat in the sun all day. The nearest berry comes loose at the lightest touch of your fingers. It's still warm and when you put it in your mouth it's sweeter than any raspberry you've ever bought in your life because nothing you buy has ever eaten three seconds off the branch, still warm in the dark.And now, sitting here, leaning back into the cool moss with the warm night on your face, you begin to feel how tired you are. Your eyes are heavy and your thoughts, which have run all day and half the night, are beginning to slow down and come apart. So easy to live like that, half here, half gone, and to miss the small lovely things while they happen.The berry, still warm, that one bird singing in the dark. So maybe, after tonight, you'll catch it a little sooner, notice once in a while that you wandered off and come back to whatever small, sweet thing is in front of you. The warmth of the sun on your arms while you're waiting for something else, the smell of cut grass through an open window, the first cold mouthful of a drink on a hot afternoon, the last of the light, stretching long across the floor in the evening, small things, easy to walk straight past.But there, all the time, the whippoorwill has gone quiet and the grass is still. The moon holds its place above the tree and you let your eyes close. You don't open them again.And somewhere between one breath and the next, the meadow begins to loosen its hold. The moss beneath you softens into a mattress and the trunk at your back becomes your pillow. And the warm air becomes your own room in the dark.And the moonlight is only the pale edge of it, coming in past the curtain. And notice this, too, before you go. The bed underneath you, holding all your weight, the dark of the room, soft and complete, the quiet, with nothing in it that needs you.You have a safe place to sleep tonight, a door that closes a roof over you, warmth and stillness and enough dark to rest in. Not everyone lying awake tonight has these things, but you do. And they're not small.The meadow is still there if you want it. The moon is still there. The raspberries keep their sweetness in the dark.And the summer goes on being summer all around you, whether you're watching it or not. But there's nothing left to notice now. Nothing to hold.No path to follow. Nowhere it goes but sleep.