Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), when you feel restless rather than tired — for the hours after a late shift
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. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
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 fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let the mattress take all of it.
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.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Slower now. Leave it there.
Stay. Let it all get further away. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. You do not have to count them. Nothing here needs following closely.
Restless is different from tired, and it needs a different approach.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have woken up too early — for the hours after a late shift, A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you have woken up too early — for a night when you do not want to think or A garden in the rain, when you want to finish something — for jet lag.