Grounded

I woke this morning, startled by the sound of my mom emptying her dishwasher. We had a nice weekend visit, but waking unexpectedly on a Sunday is a strange way to start the day. I shuffled out into the living room and plopped down on the couch, trying to blink clear my allergy eyes and my sleepy brain.

I leaned back into the couch and closed my eyes completely, placing my feet on the floor. I was wearing socks so the tile felt comfortably cool, rather than shockingly cold. And my shoulders dropped, and my breath felt relaxed, and the fog started to lift. There was something so satisfying about the sensation of the solid, cool ground under me at every pressure point on the bottom of my feet. It's difficult to explain, but in an instant I felt the origin of the word grounded.

My head cleared and I felt present. Here. Now. The ground beneath my feet, rising up under me and pushing against my feet will keep me steady, keep me strong. It was a seemingly simple, yet internally complex feeling. I felt in touch. I felt grounded. I was present.