To ground yourself, you need to fall into the rich black soil of a grandmother’s garden, somewhere in the summer, at the end of June. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have your own grandmother with such a garden, or someone who needs it plowed every season — it can be a friend’s grandmother. Or a friend of a friend. Grandmothers like this are easy to find, actually, if you’re willing, because there are plenty of them who need help planting strawberries, potatoes, or honestly, anything at all.
And then, after a whole day of work, you need to fall barefoot, wearing old work denim shorts (ideally, hand‑cut from jeans a size too big, bought ahead of time at the corner village thrift), fall on your back, star‑shaped, like in the snow, but on the barely‑plowed soil. And just lie there. For thirty minutes. Or longer.
And if, by chance, a warm summer rain with thunder and lightning begins, you must — at that exact moment — start making an angel in the mud that forms beneath you.
This, without a doubt, is what it means to ground yourself.