Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for jet lag
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 farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
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 everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
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.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your chest can be still now.
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 your ribs stop working so hard. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Just the dark.
They will find their own way out. Let the room get slightly further away. Just the breath.
Slower now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Stay with the weight of your body.
Choosing this over scrolling counts as a good decision, even a small one.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try The house after everyone is asleep, if you have five quiet minutes — for a restless night, An attic room, before you go back to something hard — for a racing mind or A field under snow, when the day has been loud — for the hours after a late shift.