Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — for a racing mind
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Let the mattress take all of it. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Your chest can be still now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Slower. Let it all get further away. You can stop listening properly.
Just the weight. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the next part go past without you.
If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A library at closing time, when you have already had a long week — for a restless night, A bus at night (a sleep story), before something difficult — for a racing mind or A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you are not in the mood — for an overtired night.