Another Day in the Country
Good grounding
© Another Day in the Country
This early morning, I’ve been out walking barefoot in the yard — giving a drink of water to flowers and herbs in my garden.
The grass was heavy with dew, so walking on it was like a ceremonial foot wash and pretty chilly.
When I finally came inside with an armful of zinnia blooms, my feet were cold and what most folks would call dirty with grass clippings sticking to my toes.
My sister, who has been reading “The Earth Prescription” by Laura Koniver about the necessity of “grounding yourself on the Earth,” has been walking barefoot in the grass, too.
I do this barefoot meander by habit. I’m always barefoot and always losing shoes somewhere or other — at the door, under a desk, in front of the couch, or in the bathroom. They are hard to keep track of when you are slipping them off and on.
I do wear shoes — lots of different types. The dividing line between barefoot and shoe has to do with what I’m going to be doing or where I’m going.
If it’s crossing the paved road or walking on gravel, I go for my shoes. If I’m going to be shoveling or carrying, going out of my yard or out of town, it’s shoe time.
On the other hand, if it’s duck watching, egg gathering, flower picking, vegetable gleaning, plant watering, or drinking tea on the porch, it’s barefoot.
I just love the freedom of bare feet — except for one day this summer in my early morning spritzing across the yard when my toes crossed paths with a bee in the clover, and I got stung.
Quite a few years ago, Jess began mowing what we call crop circles in her yard, which has a big expanse of grass stretching half a city block.
This lawn art started out with one big circling maze. To commemorate the event, she put up an artsy globe in the center.
Then she tried a second circle.
“That’s an even number,” I said. “Every artist knows that uneven numbers are more pleasant to look at.”
So, she mowed a third set of concentric circles. Then she did a fourth and, of course, I suggested a fifth, but its placement was problematic for mowing, so she’s settled on four mazes of varying size, despite all my advice.
Sometimes, when bonus grandkids come over, they play in that maze of circles. I’d mowed them but never walked them until Jess found this book on grounding, and the backyard maze took on new meaning.
“Why not walk the maze,” I asked her, “and do it barefoot? That would be grounding. That heavy grass in your yard is like walking on a soft carpet.”
She wasn’t so sure. Her feet were tender. Walking barefoot was something she seldom did. But she’s doing it now — every morning, barefoot on the grass, in the maze.
It’s a ritual celebrating life, another day, the sun coming up and we’re all still here.
I still haven’t caught sight of her treading around those circles, probably because I’m not up and outside early enough, but one of these mornings I’ll catch her.
“It’s not just walking around the circles,” my sister said when I questioned her. “You leave your phone in the house, as well as your shoes, and quiet your mind as you walk. And then, when I get to the center, I put my hands on the Earth and just stay there for a minute or two.
“To bow down to the Earth is quite profound — to stop and think that here I stand on a spinning sphere, held upright with gravitational pull, and we’re coordinated with other planets, integrated into galaxies. It’s a gentle reminder of my place in the order of things.
“I often claim the land, the house, and gardens as mine, but in truth, I am simply the caretaker for a while.”
I’ve worked in the dirt, one way or another, all of my life — stooping to plant, kneeling to weed, standing to dig, stopping to catch my breath, but I’ve never bowed to the Earth.
We kneel in church usually. Some kneel by their bed to pray. We bow our heads or nod them to acknowledge reverence or kinship. But to bow to the Earth changes us — giving thanks, stopping for a minute to acknowledge our dependence on this land.
We hear things in science class at school and then promptly get busy and forget about the mystery of our existence in this never-ending cosmos.
Did you know that if the sun were as tall as a typical front door, the Earth, in comparison, would be the size of a nickel?
Think about that this week as you enjoy the weather. And here we stand, indebted to that sun, clinging to our magic five-cent piece, for another day in the country.