On Staying Grounded
Musings on connecting to our ancestral environment while living in a concrete jungle.
I HATE shoes. At work, I’m the girl who pads softly down the corridor to the kitchen with no shoes. Socks are okay, but usually, I rip them off as soon as it’s socially acceptable. Same with hats. And masks. If I must wear shoes, I prefer thin soles that still transmit the detailed motion of each foot engaging with the ground.
I prefer the feel of organic cotton or woollen clothing on my skin. Often I find my body is too sensitive to polyester, plus it makes me feel like I’m trapped inside a balloon. I’ve never used fake tan despite being an exceedingly pale female. I generally dislike daily make-up and shaving and things that dissociate me from my primal form.
I’ll often write cross-legged on the floor sitting at a coffee table, rather than on a chair at a desk. And sometimes I prefer sleeping on a mattress on the floor, rather than floating up in space on a bedframe.
I feel better when I can tell what plant or animal my foods come from, rather than hyper-processed futuristic stuff. Like, what the hell are bubble-tea balls? And pop-rocks?! They’re for sure not “paleo”.
I love walking. There’s a joy to the rhythmic motion, and how each muscle contracts and relaxes in perfect sequence to propel me forward across the earth. Cycling for the same reason. I especially love taking walks through nature, parks or anywhere with greenery. The more complex and diverse the habitat I’m in, and the further removed from the buzz of the city, the better. One of my favourite pastimes is to just lie on the grass, staring up at the sky. It’s meditative. I feel viscerally connected to the great planet below me and humbled by the weather systems rolling across the skies above.
I always feel a little giddy in a room with no plants and no view outside of a tree. I infinitely prefer to live on the ground floor. I’m not scared of heights; I just feel disconnected. I can only hack living upstairs if there are trees out the window and I turn the interior space into a jungle.
I really dislike temperature control. Keeping the interior at a steady 22 degrees Celcius year-round grosses me out. In summer I close the windows and try to insulate the house as best I can, and maybe I’ll blast the aircon for 20 minutes before bed to cool the space enough to sleep. In winter I simply retreat to the warmth of my Oodie and drink soup a lot. With the exception of a wood-fired heater, which I love. When your heat comes from the work of having to chop wood and light a fire and you can hear the crackle as it burns and smells the oxidising timber. That’s beautifully satisfying. There is value in engaging with the ebb and flow of the seasons like this and feeling the pulse of the natural cycle as the planet circles our star. Somewhere in the back of my mind, this helps me to really feel what time of year it is, more than reading a date on a calendar.
I feel infinitely calmer in moving air. I often leave a door or window ajar, no matter the weather, just to feel the breeze pass over me. I’m a lifelong sufferer of motion sickness but I’ve found that having an open window almost always solves the problem. Which is why I hate planes. Trains and buses will often have temperature control and be barred from the whoosh of the outside air to increase commuter comfort. But really, I’d feel better if I was riding on the roof.
I like to – need to – feel the ground, smell the earth, hear the birds, taste real food and be immersed in beautiful landscapes.
Why?
Because it reminds me that I’m human. More than that, it forces awareness. It promotes humility and maintains my connection to the nature that we come from.
In our time, being human means we must confront our inevitable technological future, but not without remembering the Earth that we came from, and remaining grounded.