I am sometimes teased in a gentle way for always going on about grounding and breathing. My friend Jude would like a photo of me, looking sternly over the tops of my spectacles and pointing to the ground. I write it so often as my status update on Facebook that people must grow tired of my constant carping about it.
Yet, even as I type these words and smile at these memories, I feel my big feet stretching, the heels digging into the carpet below my feet. I start the process of grounding that I was taught so long ago that it has become second nature to me. Tiny roots begin to grow from my heels and wend their way through the carpet and the sub-flooring and past the basement and sink at last into the cool moist earth. As they move into the soil, they widen and strengthen, heading into the darkness of the Earth's rich breast.
I imagine the cares of the day flowing down from my belly and into the strong foundation of the planet I call home. The roots continue on their way as I begin to breathe deeply, each breath filling my lungs all the way to the bottom. Belly full of breath, roots down deep. If I take a moment to check my pulse, I will feel that it is slow, strong, steady.