Sleep story · winter, still
Sleep story: a field under snow, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for the hours after a late shift
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. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
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 places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your hands be completely still.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your palms open if they were closed.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Nothing here needs following closely. Leave it there.
Almost nothing to do now. Slower. Let the quiet be boring.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Just the dark. Let your breathing do the rest.
Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a lake before dawn, after eating too much — for a restless night, A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been putting it off — for jet lag or A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you need something unremarkable — for waking too early.