Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for a night when you do not want to think
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 sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
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.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your cheeks let go.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Your chest can be still now. Let your hands be completely still.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
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.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
You do not have to count them. Leave it there.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the quiet be boring. Let your breathing do the rest.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Almost nothing to do now. Slower.
Scattered attention is the raw material, not an obstacle.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you want something simple — 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 The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, after eating too much — for a racing mind.