The Earth Beneath Our Feet

I talk to my plants. I also play music for them, which I realize raises questions.

If I’ve forgotten to water one and discover it looking particularly tragic, I apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

The hydrangea says nothing.

Which feels judgmental.

I also hug trees. Not I love trees. I mean I will walk up to an actual tree, put my hands on it, lean my body against the trunk and stay there for a while.

So we should probably get this out of the way early: I’m that woman.

I garden with my bare hands because I want to feel the soil. Whenever I can, I take off my shoes and put my feet directly in the grass or dirt. Sometimes I go outside late at night just to stand beneath a full moon.

Call me a weirdo. You wouldn’t be the first. But underneath all of it—the bare feet, dirty fingernails, plant conversations and inappropriate levels of intimacy with trees—is something I’ve come to understand about myself.

It’s the connection that I crave.

Somewhere along the way, nature became something we look at

I can go an entire day without touching the earth, which is actually rather impressive considering it’s directly outside my door.

I wake up in a house. Walk across floors. Shower, get dressed and head to my office—without ever leaving home. I can work an entire day inside, moving from room to room, looking through windows at a world I’m technically living in but haven’t physically touched.

The trees are right there. The grass is right there. The garden is right there. And I’m inside, fourteen inches from an electrical outlet.

Modern nature.

I don’t even need a commute to become disconnected from the natural world. Apparently walls, shoes, screens and a sufficiently long to-do list will do the job just fine.

But there is a difference between seeing something and being in contact with it. I notice it almost immediately when my shoes come off.

Bare feet in grass. Bare hands in soil.

My body responds before I’ve had time to turn the experience into a philosophy. My shoulders drop. My breathing changes. The noise in my head gets quieter. The world slows down.

And I become happy.

Not euphoric. I do not rise from the lawn newly enlightened and incapable of being irritated by other human beings. Let’s maintain reasonable expectations.

But I feel different. Clearer. Rejuvenated.

More here.

I call it a little earth magic

There’s a practice commonly called grounding or earthing: making direct physical contact with the Earth, often by standing or walking barefoot on grass, soil or sand.

I love the concept, and I will admit that part of what initially fascinated me was the science—or, more accurately, what sounded like science.

The idea is that direct contact with the Earth may allow electrical charge to move between the Earth and the body. From there come claims involving free electrons, free radicals, inflammation, sleep, biological rhythms and other physiological effects.

I would love for all of that to be true. There is something deeply satisfying about imagining myself standing barefoot in the backyard replenishing my supply of antioxidant electrons.

Can’t talk right now. Bioelectrical maintenance.

Unfortunately, wanting a scientific explanation to be true is not generally considered sufficient peer review.

Rude.

Research into grounding does exist, and some findings and hypotheses are intriguing. But many of the sweeping biological explanations and health claims surrounding earthing aren’t established with the confidence that wellness culture sometimes gives them.

So I’m interested and I’m curious. But I’m not ready to tell you that taking your shoes off will reorganize your electrons and cure what ails you.

Also, shoes are not a conspiracy.

What I can tell you is much simpler: I settle.

Call it nature exposure. Call it sensory experience. Call it expectation. Call it some combination we haven’t completely untangled yet. I call it a little earth magic.

Not because I believe taking off my shoes has granted me supernatural powers. I’ve checked. Nothing.

I mean magic in the much less complicated sense of wonder—something ordinary becoming extraordinary because I stopped long enough to actually experience it.

Dirt under my fingernails

If I’m working in the garden, I usually want my hands in the dirt. Gloves are practical. I understand the concept. I simply don’t want them between me and the soil.

I want to feel whether it’s dry or damp. I want to work around the roots with my fingers. I want to crumble the dirt in my hands. I don’t even particularly mind the soil under my fingernails afterward.

Evidence.

The garden also operates on a timeline that has absolutely no interest in mine.

I can plant something. Water it. Move it three inches because apparently three inches was critically important. Stare at it. Check again tomorrow.

Still a plant.

There is no expedited shipping. You cannot put a seed on a performance improvement plan, and a tomato does not care that you’re very busy this week.

Nature has terrible customer service.

And yet I love it.

Something is always happening out there without asking for my involvement. A bud appears. Something flowers. Something else gets eaten by an insect approximately nine minutes after flowering.

A plant I declared dead returns. Another plant I have carefully nurtured for six weeks decides life is no longer for it.

No explanation. No exit interview.

Gardening has humbled me. Repeatedly.

About those plant conversations

Yes, I really talk to them.

Sometimes it’s encouragement: “Look at you!”

Sometimes it’s concern: “What the hell happened here?”

And sometimes it’s the aforementioned apology: “I know. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

The hydrangea remains unwilling to discuss the matter.

I also play music for them. Do they enjoy it? No idea. Perhaps they’re secretly hoping I’ll go inside.

But the moment I begin treating a plant as a living thing rather than part of the landscaping, I notice more: a new leaf, dry soil, a branch bending strangely, the first hint of a flower, something chewing holes where holes have not been authorized.

I pay attention. And for a little while, my attention isn’t on me.

Tree hugger. Literally.

I like leaning against trees. There’s really no way to make that sound less tree-hugger-ish, so I’m not going to try.

I like the roughness of the bark. The solidity of the trunk. The feeling of putting my body against something that has been standing there doing its tree business long before I arrived with whatever human nonsense happens to be occupying my mind.

The tree does not ask me to process anything. It doesn’t need an update. It doesn’t have a suggestion. It doesn’t ask whether I’ve considered looking at the situation differently.

Excellent listener.

I can just stand there.

My attention moves outward: bark, wind, leaves, birds, ground beneath my feet.

For a few minutes, I am not the most interesting thing happening.

What a relief.

And then there’s the moon

Sometimes, late at night when the moon is full, I go outside. Not to do anything in particular. Just to be out there.

Everything familiar looks different under moonlight. The yard is the same yard, but it isn’t. The neighborhood is quieter. The air feels different. Shapes become shadows. The little human world I’ve spent all day operating inside seems to recede.

And overhead is this enormous thing that does not care about my schedule.

I don’t need the moon to charge my water. I don’t need it to balance my energy. I don’t need a personalized message from the universe. Frankly, if the universe starts sending personalized correspondence, I have questions.

I just like standing underneath something I cannot control. Something that was there before my problems, my deadlines, my house, my very important opinions.

Before all of us.

I look up, and for a moment, I feel very small.

I like that feeling.

Maybe we’ve gotten the relationship backward

We talk about “going into nature” as though we’re visiting.

We drive to nature. Vacation in nature. Hike through nature. Photograph nature. Then get back in the car and return to civilization.

Which is a strange arrangement when you think about it.

We didn’t stop being biological creatures when we invented central air conditioning. We didn’t resign from the natural world when Wi-Fi arrived.

We’re animals living on a planet. Admittedly, animals with mortgages and passwords and an alarming number of charging cables, but still.

Maybe that’s part of what feels so familiar when I put my feet on the ground. I don’t need to understand every mechanism. I don’t need the Earth to transfer anything measurable into me.

Maybe what I’m experiencing is simpler.

Recognition.

Oh. Right. I’m part of this too.

Please don’t make me track my tree minutes

There is research suggesting that contact with natural environments is associated with aspects of wellbeing, and studies of structured nature-based activities—including gardening and green exercise—have reported benefits for some mental-health outcomes. The research isn’t perfectly tidy, though. Studies differ considerably in what counts as “nature exposure,” what they measure, and how confidently we can say nature itself caused the outcome.

I think that’s worth knowing. I also think this is where we need to be careful, because wellness culture has a special talent for discovering that something feels good and immediately turning it into homework.

Go outside. Twenty minutes. Preferably before 9:00 a.m. Take 7,438 steps. Touch tree. Record tree. Achieve optimal tree-contact streak.

Congratulations. You have successfully ruined going outside.

I don’t want my relationship with the natural world reduced to another habit I’m supposed to optimize.

Some days I may spend hours outside. Some days I may walk barefoot through the grass for five minutes. Some nights I may notice the moon and go outside because I want to see it.

No tracker. No streak. No fucking achievement badge.

Just me. Outside.

It’s the connection that I crave

I want Welly & Soul to remain curious about what science can tell us about our relationship with nature. I also want us to be honest when the evidence doesn’t support the story we wish it did.

Wonder doesn’t require gullibility.

But skepticism doesn’t require us to strip every experience of its mystery either.

I can question whether the Earth is replenishing my antioxidant electrons and still love standing barefoot in the grass. I can talk to my plants without insisting they’re talking back. I can hug a tree without requiring the tree to heal me. I can stand beneath a full moon without asking it to do anything at all.

Maybe that’s part of what I’ve been looking for: a relationship in which nothing needs to be accomplished.

I touch the earth and notice what’s alive around me. My brain gets quieter. The world slows down. I become present.

I become happy.

And occasionally, somewhere nearby, a hydrangea continues withholding forgiveness.

Which still feels judgmental.