Sleep story · warm, winter

Sleep story: a fire dying down, if you have done this a hundred times — for a racing mind

The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.

Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.

Read it myself

Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.

The story, in full

There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.

The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Stay. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

Softer. You can stop listening properly. Just the weight.

If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.

Let everything get quiet, including this.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.