Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), before something difficult — for a night when you do not want to think
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel your wrists loosen.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice. Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Almost nothing to do now. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay. Just the weight.
It works best in the hour before something difficult.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.