Notes on Grounding

I don’t know where I stand, he says.

I massage his aged feet, 
hoping to ease the furrow in his brow.

I dream a lot of what I’ve done; where I’ve been.

He looks around. The world seems familiar but not quite.

As he talks of what was, I deepen my roots.

I want to fly away; not be trapped. I get scared.  

I hold this woman’s hands and invite her to stand.

We explore how her heels; the balls of her feet 

touch the ground. How they connect.

I invite her to breathe, to follow the exhale as it 
travels down her body.

I ask her to notice, with hands enjoined,

how it feels to experience this earth, together.

I enter the forest.

The need pulls me forward, a child seeking nurturance, 
her mother nearby. The trees open their branches and
embrace my heart.

I fill with a love that has no name.

I am home.

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