Grounding In Nature

The past few weeks have been exponentially harder than any I’ve had in a while. I’ve had more work stress than I can remember in a very long time and a feeling of inadequacy. I’ve had concerns about friends and family in Texas effected by the storms, excitement about finishing my vaccine that will allow me to more confidently rejoin the world but sadness that I’ll be leaving the cocoon I’ve created over this past year and anxiety about the effects of the vaccine. I was grateful to celebrate my Mom’s 91^st birthday but ever-so-aware that birthdays don’t go on forever. I’ve been appreciative that I don’t have to balance the demands on my productivity with the needs of another at this time, but have also felt profoundly alone in moments. I’ve been heartbreakingly close to the desperation of another human. I’ve been sad-angry-content-overwhelmed-afraid-wishful-anxious-depleted-frustrated-hopeful, sometimes all in the space of a day. I’ve felt nearly broken more than once. It seems that a lot of people have recently hit this kind of wall. We do collectively all have one enormous anniversary coming up. Almost a year ago the Big Stillness descended upon us and life as we knew it was forever changed.

It is times like these—the times of the really big difficult feelings like sorrow and massive stress and rage—that there isn’t much more powerful than grounding myself in nature. In fact, when quarantine first began, I remember feeling so grateful for the evolving spring and the fact that we were still able to go out into the green and blooming world. Once again, I return to noting and honoring all of the little details that we really must be present to observe.

When I take an intentional break and pay close attention, this is what I notice that grounds me in the present and gives me the capacity for one more task, one more breath before reacting or one more or wake-up.

Birdsong is returning and nest construction is beginning. I hear mating calls of red-winged blackbirds and general noisy chatter of all of my yardbirds. I’ve seen crows flying overhead carrying sturdy sticks.

Trees all along the interstate are getting just perceptibly nubby and seem on the verge of becoming fuzzy. I even saw what looked to be a cherry tree (or maybe a redbud?) beginning to blossom!

Cheery little yellow crocus are pushing up through the earth to dot the otherwise brown beds that line my walkway.

When the gray-making rain finally stopped, I could see that the days and their light are noticeably stretching further into the evening.

And tonight, when I drove away from another very long day at work, the full moon had risen in the darkening sky. This is the moon that my sister told me to look to so that I could find her spirit after she had gone on ahead. And so, every month, I look to the moon in the sky and say, “Hello Sister! Thank you for your presence.” It’s just one peaceful point in a continuous cycle.

There is still cold and gray and isolation and darkness to endure, but grounding myself in nature always reminds me that change and cycles of dormancy and renewal are inevitable. Warmth and connection and joy and happier hearts are guaranteed when we take the time to notice and name the signs.