Sleep story · warm, winter
Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you are not sure this will work — for jet lag
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Your chest can be still now. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Your ankles can go loose now. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Softer. You do not have to count them.
Let the quiet be boring. They will find their own way out. Slower.
Not being sure it will work is a perfectly good reason to try it once.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.