Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, on a day that started badly — for a restless night
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
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 calves spread out and flatten. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your wrists loosen.
Stay with the weight of your body. Almost nothing to do now.
Sleep. Let the dark be ordinary. They will find their own way out.
A day that started badly does not have to stay that way.
Let everything get quiet, including this.