A field under snow, when you are somewhere noisy — for a racing mind

Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. 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. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Your chest can be still now.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

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.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let the mattress take all of it.

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Slower now. The words can start to blur now.

Sleep. Just the breath. Let the room get slightly further away.

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

Noise is fine. You are not trying to hear anything subtle.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.