Ground rules

Ever notice how much easier it is to cement bad habits versus good ones?  Vices are like mosquitoes that slip into the bedroom at night. You’re never quite sure how they got in, it’s hard as hell to kill them, and they suck the lifeblood out of you if you don’t address them.

I launched a nifty new habit in early 2019 when I came across something called earthing in a medical paper. I read about its positive effects on sleep, inflammation, wound healing, cortisol levels, and immune response. The concept was simple enough: Through direct, bare-skin contact with the earth (or via specially designed alternative setups) subjects experienced a transfer of electricity from the ground into the body and vice versa, with beneficial results.  

It made sense to me. Humans are electrical beings. Elements in our bodies are charged, and our cells regulate the flow of energy to keep systems functioning. The most obvious example is our beating hearts which rely on predictable currents to contract at the right frequency. If the electrical messaging goes awry, we experience arrhythmia or sudden cardiac arrest. In a somewhat related process, forces like lightning strikes and solar radiation impart a continuous charge to the earth’s surface. Electrical stimulation is known to promote physical healing in other ways, particularly for chronic wounds, so why couldn’t a similar outcome originate from a more organic source?

I was intrigued. Despite continued gardening activities and ample opportunities to be outside, if there had been a sweeping behavioral shift in my life over the past 15 years, it was the marked decrease in my regular contact with the soil. As a farmer, my whole body was likely to mingle with dirt. When my work later became more desk-based, I welcomed not spending whole days in spirit-draining heat and marrow-dampening rain. Gradually, though, staying indoors became the default.

Reading further about the practice, also called grounding, I felt like part of my brain was literally calling me out. That January, feet freed from bondage, I went outside even when temperatures were at or below freezing. Occasionally, I walked ankle deep in cold mud, which felt heaps better than cold asphalt. More often, I tucked into a chair, feet on the grass (yes, grass is fine!), a cup of tea in my hands. Burying my naked, size 9 dogs in a pile of leaves was surprisingly insulating, and standing on moss was like setting my soles on a vast network of tiny pillows, one for every millimeter of skin.    

Here are some things I observed:

• I slept better when I got my tootsies on soil at least five days a week.

• I felt noticeably less anxious.

• Having my feet on the earth made me happy.

• When I chanced upon other people, my bare feet also seemed to make them happy.

• Moss is luscious and bouncy, even in winter.

• When the rest of me was warm, my feet didn’t feel cold, even though they were.

• Mud is hilarious.

• Earthworms are speedy.

  

I kept the routine going for a year, right up to a long, late-winter stretch of abysmal weather. Simultaneously, the pandemic found its way to my part of the world. I spent absurd amounts of time washing my hands, my doorknobs, my clothes, my purchases. When I wasn’t cleaning and sanitizing, I was researching SARS-CoV-2. The YMCA closed and workout videos were a poor substitute. For a while, I walked more than I had in the past which may be why my Achilles tendons began to rebel.

Because of Covid, ordinary activities ground to a halt. Because of entropy, my earthing habit dried up. Walking hurt. Bum tendons became my true Achilles’ heel. Physical therapy and spools of special sports tape didn’t help. The orthopedic specialist offered half-hearted recommendations; he might as well have shrugged. Gimping into 2020, I resigned myself to having pain as an irritating sidekick.

Fast forward to this February when my friend Michelle sent a text. Included was the link to a short film featuring grounding pioneer, Clint Ober. I was embarrassed to realize that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten my paws dirty. I revived the practice then and there and haven’t missed a week since.

I’m no zealot. During stupidly wet weather events, I beg off, trusting that the benefits from the last experience will hold me over until the next one.  Eight weeks into my earthing redux, I can affirm the first of my discoveries and add more to the list.

• Unlike some treatments, grounding is free, accessible, and there are virtually no negative side effects.

• My tetchy tendons are finally simmering down. I’m modifying exercise routines much less frequently. Walking isn’t just tolerable, it’s trending toward enjoyable again. I would not use the term “healed,” but the condition is enough improved that I finally believe a full recovery is possible.

• Of the options out there, digging my toes into the dirt is an unobjectionable way for me to cope with the current state of the world.

There is a tender intimacy in this practice that is even more profound than any of the other physical and emotional benefits I’m experiencing. I’ve reconnected with a trusted companion, a wise and generous friend. What’s happening when I’m out there, feet to ground, is planetary kangaroo care, a version of the skin-to-skin contact recommended for fragile newborns. Fortunate preterm babies benefit from spending 18 hours a day pressed against the chests of those charged with their care. I benefit by spending as little as 30-60 minutes a day playing footsie with Mother Earth.

In Latin, the original meaning of the word habit was “a state of being.” I’m loving being in this grounded state and am totally convinced I’m on the right foot.

I wish all you incredible bipeds a happy Earth Day! Hope to see you out there.

~Elizabeth