Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), when you feel restless rather than tired — for winding down
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
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. 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 the mattress take all of it. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Your ankles can go loose now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
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.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Slower. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Let the next part go past without you. You do not have to count them. Sleep.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let the dark be ordinary. Let your breathing do the rest.
Restless is different from tired, and it needs a different approach.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when you are not in the mood — for an overtired night, An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been putting it off — for a racing mind or Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you need to stop thinking about work — for the hours after a late shift.