Grounding

This was a draft dated sometime very early in the year... February maybe. Probably soon after I had read the article about grounding, which is basically walking around outside barefoot. Something about the ions in the earth, letting them into your soul via your soles... There was a bunch of info that was a little woo-woo, but also very inviting... I vaguely remember wanting to write about it. Apparently the title is as far as I got.

It felt good to finally write and publish a post earlier ("Mud"). I have listened to the accompanying GD song a couple of times since publishing and what I am gathering is that my situation with the mud is one that I'm going to have to help myself out of. "I will walk alone... sing me a song of my own..."

Really, it makes complete sense. For so long I have heard, said, and believed that I have to be okay with me before anyone else can be okay with me. I live in mud, I leave myself there, I bury myself in it... why would anyone believe I'm anything but happy and content there? Yeah, part of me is like, "Hey, dumbasses... can you not SEE that I'm unhappy here?" But they're response could rightly be, "Um... then get out of it..."

I could go on about that forever, but I think the point is I have to get out of it myself. I really think that's my lesson and my task. I have to want to get out, believe I can get out, and do the hard work of getting the hell out.

The hard work.

Sigh.

The hard work frustrates and scares me. Because it's hard.

I could go on about that forever, too.

But anyway, I think I'll read all the lyrics to "Black Muddy River" and see what else is there. Maybe I don't need to "find a use" for the mud. Maybe I just need to acknowledge it and let it go.

Could it be that simple?

Oh, and the grounding... The weather's a lot warmer now than it was in February or whenever I read that article. I think it's time for feet on the ground.

Mud

Write what you know.

I mean, it feels lame, writing about this depression. But that's what I know the most about right now, it seems. And I need to write, for frig's sake. 

The last time I talked to anyone about needing to write was... I want to say March? I talked to her about feeling like I was down in a hole, staring at the mud, and I added my whine about wanting and needing to write.

Her reply? 

"So write about the mud."

That has been in my head since she said it. Write about the mud. I know the mud, I look at the mud every day (or I think about it with my eyes closed so I don't have to look at it). I cover myself in it. I disappear into it. So why not write about it? It's what I know.

So, the mud. 

It's dark and pretty disgusting. It smells. Not an altogether bad smell, but how good can mud really smell? It smears everything that touches it. It sticks and stains. It never really dries.It's brown. It's dirt and water.

Dirt. Water. Essentials for plants to grow, for roots to take hold... 

But mud... What's mud good for?

There must be something. But I've been in it so long, I can't see out of it. I can't see an answer. I'm not a plant, and my roots don't work like that. And no one wants to get down in here with me. People may want to pull me out, but they either know that they can't, or they don't want to (or can't afford to) get close enough to get this mud all over themselves.

So I'm stuck here, a pig in her wallow, trying to figure out what this mud can be for, other than slowly, slowly pulling me under, letting me hide, burying me alive.

What is it good for?

I can't see out. I can't see an answer.