Sleep story: a field under snow, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a restless night

The story, in full

The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

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 cheeks let go. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

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.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the mattress take all of it.

The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

You can stop listening properly. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Nothing here needs following closely.

Just the breath. They will find their own way out. Stay with the weight of your body.

Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.

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

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