Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — for an overtired night
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 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. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel your wrists loosen.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
You do not have to count them. Slower now.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let it all get further away. Almost nothing to do now.
Stay. They will find their own way out. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are doing this for the first time — for an overtired night, The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are fitting this around other people — for a racing mind or Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when the day has been loud — for waking too early.