grounding practices

A few days ago we made ravioli. The simple tomato sauce brewed with our home grown fruit, coupled with the parcels of spinach, ricotta and chicken, made the long, slow hard way, was not only culinarily spectacular, but it reminded me who we are. It grounded me because this dish conjures up memories of special occasions with our kids and indeed, Maria’s family roots. It made me ponder why some things play a role that is more deeply significant than the activity appears at face value. In the same way that exercise keeps me physically fit, some activities keep my soul fit.

Some grounding practices connect me with my true self. Others connect me with those I love and the community in which I belong. And some practices remind me that I belong to the earth, that I am simply an expression of a particular wave of humanity.

My grounding practices are characterised by:

1. Mindfulness, bodyfulness & spiritfulness. They engage multiple dimensions and in that sense are integral.

2. Connection. Connection with my true self, other humans and the earth. They are not about achievement, or improvement. And not recognition, certainly not social media likes on Strava, Instagram, or whatever.

Most things I do are not grounding practices. Most things in my day are the normal activities of life and work, of living with loved ones and among others. Grounding practices are activities that I have committed to as ritual, with purposes that include but surpass enjoyment, recreation or friendship. They center and ground me, connecting me with my true self, others and the earth.

Not every time I engage in one of these practices it is significant. I’ve found it is the consistent, unspectacular commitment, integrated into daily and weekly life, that accumulate significance over time. My inner compass, and sense of peace is cultivated through these practices, and when they feature consistently in my living, it overrides the reactional emotional responses I have to the fears and hopes associated with external realities. They act like a keel or ballast to keep me upright in the turbulence of life.

Some grounding practices are easily identified. They include journaling (consistent time and place), a commitment to pick up litter in my home village as an expression of care and respect for the land I call home, regular bushwalking, and eating ‘real food’ at meal times.

Here are a few other examples, in narrative form. Each narrative contains multiple practices that have meaning on their own, but fold together to enhance each other. There are more, but these examples cluster together at the start and end of the day:

Mornings

• Every morning, I rise early (no alarm). I walk from my bed to an east facing window where I pause to take in the pre-dawn sky. I drink a glass of water. I lie on my back on the floor with my arms above my head to open myself physically. I have six questions / affirmations that I have developed over time, that form the basis of some brief meditation. Once my spirit experiences calm, I begin some light stretching and strength exercises to prepare my body. I ritually pack my backpack with a towel and a warm top and jog through town, over the bridge to the beach. As I run I try to be as observant as I can, taking in the patterns of colour & sound & people moving about. Recognising the patterns connects me with the rhythms and cadence of early morning village life. I arrive at the beach to the warmth of friendship and shared loves. We each have a preparatory routines, followed by a 20m walk down a path to the sand. As we walk, I continue my attention to patterns and as conversation allows, I express gratitude and acknowledge country. The ocean is the morning’s main course. Its mood and physicality trumps everything else that is going on in life. I submit to it. I guess it’s like a daily baptism in that post-swim there is a shift in energy … our banter is lighter and has more energy. Getting changed in the open air whatever the weather conditions feels like a mini practice itself … it is certainly ritualised and patterned. From the absolute exposure of the beach, we transition to the relative shelter of an outdoor café table. We have a smallish high table with stools, around which we huddle and commune. It is our confessional, our celebration, our ordinary, our comedy stage, our couch and our family brag book platform. It is where we give and where we get, in random and unpredictable quantities and for that matter, unpredictable quality too - haha.

Evenings

(less consistently but typically …)

• I start pottering in the kitchen. Pottering means opening the fridge and surveying. Pottering means reaching for a tumbler and half filling it from the bottle of organic shiraz cabernet that sits permanently on the sill. Pottering means slowly clustering on the bench ingredients and utensils. She says, “Is there anything you want me to do?” I say, “A decent bunch of parsley would be great. Thanks.” I chop. I saute. I stir. I lean my head over the pan and inhale deeply. I look over to her and she’s got her feet on the arm of the couch with her constant companion the King Charles spaniel laying under her bent legs. I turn off the rangehood fan. I turn off the music. I put the crockery on the bench and transfer food from the pan with my Muji spoon. We sit at the table facing the floor to ceiling window out into the garden. We eat slowly (it’s a stage of life thing when there are no kids - haha). She brings fruit to the table and I push back my chair at an angle so I’m facing her. We linger. We ask. We share. We clean up. We separate. I read. I write (like now). I ponder. I scroll. I check the weather conditions for the morning. We come together. We connect. I snore.