Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), when you feel restless rather than tired — for jet lag
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 sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Your chest can be still now. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your palms open if they were closed.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your hands be completely still.
If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. The words can start to blur now.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. You do not have to count them.
Slower now. Let the dark be ordinary. Stay with the weight of your body.
Restless is different from tired, and it needs a different approach.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.