“I am a universe in a handful of dirt,” writes thirteenth century poet, Rumi, “whole when totally demolished.” 

The whole of our spirit is greater than the pieces of who we (think we) are.  We are a reflection of the very earth.  Her mountains, her endless abundance, the ever renewing sustenance of the Great Mother Gaia lives within each of us as a solid connection to strength, peace, and resilience. 

Grounding is the practice of connecting our energy to the force of solid earthliness.  “Ground” is an electrical term meaning, according to Google, “a connection to the earth, which acts as a reservoir of charge.” In yoga, or in life, grounding means exactly the same thing.  We connect ourselves to the endless wellspring of sustenance that lives within our planet.

We do this by touching the earth, and her plants and trees, with our bare skin.  We breathe down through our bodies and visualize our spirits anchoring into the core of the planet.  A simple meditation of feeling sensations in our body can ground us.  Salt is profoundly grounding:  take a bath in salt water to detox and recharge.

When we are grounded, we feel at ease.  We live in and recognize the present moment for its reality.  We think calmly, not about the past or future, and worry not; instead, we breathe, and feel, and be.

Walk upon the earth, and know that your spirit is abundant.  You are more alive than you realize.  Another great poet, Mary Oliver, writes, “For one thing leads to another.  Soon, you will notice how stones shine underfoot.” 

And then, you will see that you, too, are shining.

Sober October begins now, on a cloudy and cool morning much too early for my liking.

Last night, I had a dream I was given the task of executing a half-finished wine & food event, without any of the necessary information. I kept asking people for help. I was met with “I don’t know; figure it out.” 

The day the event arrived, people flooded through the doors before we were finished setting up. I was running around in complete chaos, unable to keep up or get a handle on anything. At one point, I fell off of a half-constructed dock into churning, cold, dark sea water. The tide threatened to carry me away, but I was pulled to soggy safety. 

At the end of the day, I was walking through the wine aisle of a grocery store, debating whether or not to grab a bottle for later. I remembered, then, that it was Sober October and, before I could talk myself out of it, I woke up.

Dreams are messages to us from our higher self, guides, and/or angels. This one is pretty clear: drinking begets a chaotic consciousness.  

Recently, a group of women I admire decided to hold a “Siren Sobriety” event, stating that it was about sisterhood and making conscious choices about consumption. The fine print stated that the wine lifestyle is marketed brilliantly, purposefully, and subtly. Effectively. 

And then of course I remember how I felt on my Consciousness Cleanse, a 50-day totally clean eating and zero alcohol or caffeine stint; it left me in a clear, energized, happy state wondering why I ever drank in the first place.

The thing is, alcohol is so acceptable. It’s a regular part – almost a requirement – of socialization. But, I know it limits our awareness, places bounds on our power, and drains our energy. It is chaos in a bottle.

So I’m going to do a month without it. And this time, I’m paying closer attention to how I feel, consciousness-wise, and to what the world around me feels like. My hypothesis: a lot less chaotic. 

Much more than ability to feel
The cold caress of snow upon your cheek
A gentle tingle softly melting –
A drop of water on your face.

More, even, than the scent of lilacs in the air
Warm wafting clouds of summertime
A perfumed fairy dance
Blooming abundance on the breeze.

Your humanity is more than wide open eyes
Watching the sun set into sea
Coloring the sky with flames
Illuminating clouds and your imagination.

Birdsong in the morning, cricket chirps at night
Rustling autumn wind through colored leaves
And water gently breaking on the shore
This sounds like our humanity; but it is something more.

Creating what is beautiful and loving what you see
That pull within your breast that says,
“Come and dance with me”

The moment one first falls in love,
Heart thumping loudly in the chest

And in our sorrow, grief, and loss
Gut-wrenching, the capacity to feel:
We wish for numbness, cry for help –
Even that is real.

It’s more than just our hands and feet, our eyes-mouth-ears-and-nose
More than what we feel today or how our spirit grows

Humanity is bundled up in something greater than this poem
Wrapped inside each one of us, it’s what defines our home.

“Humanity,” By Brittany Boles, circa 2014

I didn’t even realize how far from center I was until I tried to touch it – and couldn’t find the way. 

She found me in the studio, sweating and breathing hard.  I was forcing my body through a difficult sequence, just trying to “work it out.”

My eyes couldn’t focus on her as I burst into rapid breathless speech about the funeral later today, my overwhelming anxiety, and my “inability to shield.”
I told her I had “tried everything:” mudras, movement, chanting, restorative, reiki. I couldn’t seem to get myself together.

She told me, “you need to just sit.”

“I did an hour and a half of restorative yesterday,” I replied.

“That’s not sitting. That’s doing.

You need to sit.”

I was terrified, and she saw it all over me.  

So she sat, with me, for a half hour (we timed it).  My only instructions were to tell *anything* that came up, “I’m not interested.  That’s not relevant.” 

And it felt like torture, at first.  I kept trying to focus on breath, or silently chant Om, or visualize my  sacred place.

. . . 

Somewhere along the way, my center found me.  God.  The Divine.  Timeless, soundless, thoughtless, precious and beautiful nothing/everything.  

And it felt so good.

Now that I remember the touch of that sacred, silent, center, I can return – and I will.

Because teaching is doing, too.  And as much as I love it, I remember now that I need to just sit.

Two dying men met on the street the other day.

One was in an electric wheelchair, outside for the first time in a long time.  He drove around the yard where his great-grandson, a toddler, was playing.  He drove up the road to see where the old house had burned down, and to see the new foundation being built.  He said hello to his neighbors, his friends.

The other man arrived in a car.  Through the window, he waved at the man in the wheelchair as his wife pulled over to the side of the road.  Slowly, as though it cost him to move, he walked across the street and smiled.  His was a face used to smiling, though it sagged slightly under the weight of pain.

“How are ya?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” the first man replied, hoarse voice cracking.

And the second man sat down, in the middle of the street, at the feet of the first.

We – the second man’s wife, myself, and my husband (whose grandfather sat in the wheelchair) – simply stood back a bit, holding space.

They talked of sickness, of course.  Cancer.  How they had gotten the news, and what choices they’d had to make.  The man sitting on the road said how sick the treatment had made him, and it was clear in his lopsided figure and swollen eyes.  Our grandfather said how far gone it already was, and that he hadn’t had much of a choice.  No treatment for him.

“How long did they give you?” he asked.

It wasn’t that he asked it; it was the way he said it that took gravity from our chests and laid it bare, as though the moment itself was suspended in our collectively held breath.

“They won’t say, now . . .” and it was understood that the treatment had ended, and so, too, would his life, though the doctors were loath to commit.  “How ‘bout you?”

“Oh, could be a couple weeks, could be a month.”

Though we – the wife, the grandson, and I – exchanged glances, the two dying men were steady.  They had eyes only for each other.

They talked of other things, of renting lakeside cabins and the local garbage service.

One man was in a lot of pain, the other had none.  One slept a lot, the other woke in the night.  By all accounts, the two men could be exchanging niceties at the local diner.

Except.

Well, except for their eyes, and the intensity of their gaze.  Though we – a wife, a son, a mother – were there, nearby anyway, we could never actually be there, with those men.

Like watching two people fall in love, almost, but more solid, like a mountain instead of a cloud, we witnessed two men dying – together, for a moment.