Can you see it—an old man crouching down on a dusty Persian road, the sun on his back, spilling over his shoulders. His hands, flat in front of him, support the weight of his body. Gravel imbeds into calloused palms. The man’s turban nods down, and with it, a little trickle of sweat leaves a wet imprint in the ground. Beard tickles dirt as he draws nearer, catching particles in wiry white hair. Then his lips, first with the curve of a smile, pucker together and press against raw earth—an act of love, delight, and devotion.
“There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground,” Sufi poet Rumi writes, drawing me in to what his world may have looked like. His words remind me, playfully and tactilely, that the sacred is everywhere.
Similarly, Christian philosopher Paul Tillich says God is the ground of Being—the very ground we stand on, and soil in which we grow. If God brings all of creation into being, and is revealed through creation, then there are infinite ways to kiss and be kissed by Divinity.
When I over-emphasize using my mind—thinking, problem solving, daydreaming—I lose touch with the sacred in my physical reality, which includes my own physical body. My head gets lost in the clouds, pulling me up, out, and away! But when I focus on being in my body and environment, I start to settle in and down. I am calm and rooted.
Being embodied in the natural world allows me to stay firmly planted in myself, and in turn, God. Yet living embodied doesn’t come naturally to many of us, and current or past trauma can make it especially difficult. One way to resolve this dichotomy is through the practice of grounding. When done in a safe environment, grounding cultivates a sense of safety in your body and surroundings. It allows for a closer connection to Divinity, being made known to you in the present moment.
Here are ten simple grounding practices that can help you physically be in your body and the natural world around you (some you may realize you are already doing):
- Walk barefoot on the grass: feel the blades cushion and crinkle against the bottoms of your feet.
- Dig your toes into the sand: feel the sand transition from dry and loose to compact and damp.
- Touch a tree, firmly rooted: feel its strong, immovable trunk, observe its roots pushing into the earth, and admire the free movement of its leaves.
- Drink a big glass of water: feel the liquid pool inside you, as you go from empty to full.
- Hold a stone while meditating: feel its weight and texture, the temperature changing from cool to warm as it presses against the blood circulating under your skin.
- Eat root vegetables like potatoes, carrots, and beets: feel them settle at the base of your belly, noticing the sensation of being well nourished.
- Practice yoga: feel each body part making contact with the hard floor, noting how it feels to be supported; stand firmly, pushing up through your feet to make yourself taller; let your bones sink down into your mat during the final resting pose.
- Sit quietly for five minutes: feel what is taking place in your body during this brief period of time—tight muscles, places you are holding tension, quality of your breathing, or perhaps tingling—and let yourself relax.
- Name objects and colors in your environment: explore your field of vision and state exactly what you see: chair, tree, cat, flowers; search for a specific color: red book, red street sign, red leaves.
Notice how all of these practices are somatic and sensory, they are not mental exercises. You could surely extract deeper meanings, but try not to! Only developing awareness—observing without critically thinking—teaches your mind to let go, allowing you to trust the ground both in and beneath you with greater confidence.
In his poem Spring Giddiness, Rumi begins with kissing the ground, but his final image is floating dust. His metaphor lifts my gaze from the ground beneath me to the space I am inhabiting. Even the air is saturated with Divine Presence, like dust hanging in slants of light—minuscule specks I rarely acknowledge but am always breathing, nonetheless. I hear Rumi’s giddy excitement as an invitation to join him in awareness. I softly inhale, sweet oxygen inflating my lungs. I can taste what I now realize I have been tasting all along—fresh and sacred life, the ground of all Being, carried in my breath.