Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have more time than usual — for waking too early
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 air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. 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.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your wrists loosen.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
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.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the room get slightly further away.
Slower. Nothing here needs following closely. Just the breath.
You do not have to count them. Sleep. Let your breathing do the rest.
This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow (a sleep story), when you feel restless rather than tired — for jet lag, A garden in the rain, when you need to stop thinking about work — for waking too early or A bus at night (a sleep story), when you want to finish something — for a night when you do not want to think.