A field under snow (a sleep story), if you are fitting this around other people — for jet lag

The story, in full

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.

Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Let the dark be ordinary. They will find their own way out.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the room get slightly further away. Softer.

It is designed to fit around other people’s schedules.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.