How Grounding Exercises Made Me (Slightly) Less Delusional

And maybe more creatively open, too

My therapist has me doing something she calls grounding exercises, which sounds like a punishment but is apparently the opposite. Every two hours, I’m to set an alarm. When it goes off, I must stop whatever I’m doing—be it something important or, more likely, Googling “why does my dog lick the air”—and note the following: my name, the date, what city I’m in, three things I see, three things I hear, three things I feel, and if I can smell three things, even better.

Usually, I can’t smell anything. That’s not entirely true—I can always smell two things: my hair, and my fingers, especially if I’ve recently eaten something and then washed my hands in a half-hearted way. There’s usually a faint trace of L’Occitan lavender and a ghost of garlic.

I keep a small journal where I check off these exercises every two hours—like I’m a contractor billing for mindfulness. These are my records. It turns out I’m not very good at it. I often forget to set the alarm and end up “grounded” once or twice a day, which I’m told (by my own negative mind) is not the spirit of the thing. And yet—miraculously—it’s working.

What’s it doing, you ask? It’s helping connect me to the present moment. Which sounds like something you’d see on a yoga retreat brochure next to a photo of a woman blissed out and in prayer hands. But truly, most of us are so caught up in our own anxious thoughts and existential spirals that we float through our days like brainless ghosts. I should know. Whenever someone asks how my week was, I go completely blank. Three days ago? I don’t even remember what season it was.

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“But truly, most of us are so caught up in our own anxious thoughts and existential spirals that we float through our days like brainless ghosts.”

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These exercises are like a low-stakes form of meditation. Every two hours, I’m pulled back to Earth, like a malfunctioning satellite being dragged back into orbit.

The other day, I took my dog Thor for a walk along the seawall. I was excited to listen to Rick Rubin’s book on creativity: A Creative Act —because apparently, that’s who I am now: a woman walking her dog while communing with the beard of a music producer. These kinds of books are my jam. Some of my favorites include

Elizabeth Gilbert

’s Big Magic, Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird,

Steven Pressfield

’s The War of Art, and Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way. They all carry the same core message: You’re scared, that’s normal—now write something already.

Just this morning, I came across a post Pressfield wrote commenting on Liz Gilbert’s TED Talk that explores how inspiration occurs. He says, “The Muse, if she’ll forgive me, is kind of like a mailman. She makes her rounds every day, cruising past our offices and studios and peeking in the window.”

Pressfield—who endlessly inspires me—beautifully captures the elusive nature of creativity. And here he is, referencing Liz Gilbert, another one of my creative North Stars. When your muse writes about your muse… it’s basically Muse-ception.

So, I’m walking and listening to Rick Rubin, and suddenly I feel like I’m in a yoga class for the soul. The things he’s saying are hitting me like I’m at confession, only instead of kneeling in front of a priest, I’m being spiritually cleansed by a man with no shoes and a gong. Which, by the way, was present—between chapters, there was the gentle dong of a singing bowl, as if to say, “Forget everything you just learned and be present.”

He talks about awareness. How the universe is constantly handing us little creative packages, and it’s up to us to unwrap them—or ignore them entirely and binge “Severance” on Apple. As he describes this idea of seeing birth and rebirth all around us, I find myself passing through a park where families are playing. An elderly man catches my eye and I smile, shyly, then immediately look away like I’ve committed some kind of social misdemeanor. He seemed sweet. Wise, even. The kind of man who’s seen a lot of sunrises and maybe only yelled at a handful of people on public transit.

Then I passed another elderly couple who looked at Thor like he was a celebrity they didn’t recognize but still wanted a selfie with. They had that “pet me” expression people get around Labradors and babies. I told Thor to say hi. I’m one of those dog parents, and he’s one of those dogs—obedient, affectionate, slightly slutty. He trotted up, shoved his face into their crotches and smiled like a lunatic. He’s always looking for treats, but let’s be honest, he’s also a therapy dog without the certification. He senses loneliness and wraps himself around it like a warm, furry Band-Aid. I adore him for that.

Eventually, I yanked him away. It might’ve been the highlight of their entire day. No—it was the highlight. And I ruined it.

I kept my awareness open as long as I could while Rubin whispered profundities into my earbuds. I’m still on the hunt for inspiration. I know it’ll come—in a conversation, a weird dream, a YouTube ad that somehow feels personal.

But until then, I’ll keep writing these little segments. And sniffing my fingers every two hours, and charting it in my diary.

If you think you could benefit from this practise, give it a try! Let me know what you think.

Question for the comments:

Do you have a grounding practice? What does it look like? Has it changed the way you move through the world—or at least helped you remember what day it is? Do you think it makes you more open to creative inspiration?

Have a great day!

Ashley aka Fake Guru

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