Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are cold and want to be warm — 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. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. 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.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your palms open if they were closed.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
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.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Stay with the weight of your body. Just the breath.
Just the weight. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the next part go past without you.
Get a blanket first. Being cold defeats the point.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a library at closing time, when you are at home and cannot settle — for a night when you do not want to think, A hotel room somewhere, when you are on your own — for jet lag or Sleep story: an attic room, when you have been on screens all day — for winding down.