In the last blog, we discussed grounding as a journey.
But for this journey, you don’t need to pack or prepare at all.
Often, when we travel, we take on the role of tourist. We arrive with suitcases and expectations. Our surroundings feel unfamiliar and fresh. Some things become more vivid, and some get lost in the rush.
And we often feel excited—more alive to the novel sensations around us and the thrill of learning and exploring.
The same goes with writing. In trying to connect with our creative landscape, we might feel buoyed by inspiration or momentum or the full steam of a new idea—and we can feel like tourists. In the rush of forging ahead, we absorb a fragment of what we sense is actually there. We can feel lost in the unknown.
Even as we might revel in the glow of a new place or a new idea, we long to “fit in” and feel at ease with our surroundings. To feel the flow of being a local, spontaneously invited to a stranger’s wedding or drinking rakia with the neighbors. We feel connected in these moments. And we long to feel that connected—that at home—in our own creative landscapes, too. To see more, to feel more, to trust more.
So how do we find this connectedness in our own unknown?
We find the ground—in both body and environment—and feel the relationship between the two.
While you can find ground in any position, lying down offers special access. You don’t need anything but the floor.
The Art and Science of Tuning in
Lying down is often associated with feeling tired or “turning in” for the night. In Sense Writing, lying down becomes a tool to “tune in” instead.
When we lie down, our muscles release. Habits triggered by standing, walking, sitting, and “fighting gravity”—and just generally coping in the world—can recede.
Often, though, “receding” doesn’t happen as expected, and this is key.
When we lie down on the floor, the differences between the right and left sides of your body might feel more pronounced.
The right side of your back might feel like it’s making more contact than the left. Or your shoulders might be the only part of your back that you can feel making contact with the floor. It might take time for these other parts of you to meet the ground.
Our body accumulates patterns of holding and resistance that add up to an internal map of ourselves.
When we lie down, sometimes these habits “melt away,” but many times they don’t. Many of these patterns are associated with survival, which has become tenaciously our “second-nature”.
And “second-nature” becomes a call to tune in.
In answer, we notice.
The floor, unlike a soft bed, provides feedback and dialogue. Our sensations become more known, as does the world around us. What feels hard and uneven, softens.
We don't try to let go or release where it might feel tight; we don't force ourselves to relax. We just notice. And in noticing, we give our nervous system and body the refined information they work so well with.
Lying on the floor becomes a mirror. What feels heavier or lighter? What’s making contact and what isn’t? Your nervous system uses this information to create intimate relationship with your surroundings—to offer choices and optimize.
The Floor as a Portal
That’s why body mapping on the floor is foundational.
In Sense Writing, it shifts us away from activated states towards states of learning. We expand our capacity to absorb sensation, and in doing so enhance our creative process.
We connect deeply to our creative core, without reacting to the external ups and downs of everyday life.
We find the ground of our writing practice, soften into our stories and connect to our true voice. Our sensitivity increases, and worlds open up.
We no longer feel like a tourist—whether in the landscape of our body, memory, or imagination.
In the next post you’ll receive a gift sequence and have a chance to find the ground in your own writing practice. You’ll experience what happens when you let go—and become a local in your own body.
