A field under snow, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for waking too early

The story, in full

The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. 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. 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.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.

Feel your wrists loosen. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let the mattress take all of it.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay with the weight of your body.

Slower. Let the room get slightly further away. You can stop listening properly.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Choosing this over scrolling counts as a good decision, even a small one.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.