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

The story, in full

A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. 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.

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

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.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.

Let your hands be completely still. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

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.

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

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.

Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.

Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your wrists loosen.

The words can start to blur now. Just the dark.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. You can stop listening properly.

Let the room get slightly further away. Stay. They will find their own way out.

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.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.