Stories - My Blog

The Thrill Beneath Your Feet: Reconnecting with the Earth (and Yourself)

There's a magical moment at the sea that I adore more than any other. It's when, after a long time, I take off my shoes and my feet finally meet the sand. That contact sends a shiver through me, a sensation of pure release that fills me with pleasure. It's one of those small joys in life that truly makes me happy, just like the first dip in the cool sea water. Even thinking about it right now makes me want to take a deep breath and run straight to the beach.

I love walking barefoot. As soon as the opportunity arises, I kick off my shoes and kiss the earth with my feet. Years ago, I read a captivating interview with a South American shaman who recounted an episode from her childhood. At the age of six or seven, she was forced to wear shoes for the first time to go to school. She vividly remembered the feeling of not being able to walk, of feeling unstable and disoriented, of losing her balance and feeling almost blind: her feet no longer recognized the path.

That interview profoundly impacted me!

Another story that deeply struck me, from Erling Kagge's book "Walking," is about Andrew Bastawrous, an English doctor. As a teenager, he read an article about people losing their sight due to lack of care and decided to become an ophthalmologist. Many years later, he moved to East Africa, where he set up a mobile clinic that moved from village to village.

One day, in Kenya, as he and his colleagues were about to finish their visits, Maria, a young blind woman, arrived with her six-month-old baby in her arms. Maria lived a couple of villages away and, knowing the clinic would only be there for one day, she had left at dawn to not miss the opportunity. She had never crossed a busy road before, and that first time was "terrifying": she felt trucks and cars whizzing past her, sensing frightening gusts of air. Terrified, she waited on the roadside, hoping for help, but no one approached. Finally, she gathered her courage and literally "launched" herself forward, clutching her baby to her chest, until her feet touched the grass again, and she knew she and her little one were safe. The hours that followed were also difficult, filled with falls, tears, and confusion.

When she arrived at the clinic, it seemed like a miracle. She was examined and diagnosed with a simple conjunctivitis. The next morning, she had surgery on both eyes and regained her sight in a few hours, seeing her daughter for the first time.

They drove her home, but Maria didn't know the address; she only knew a few details. They drove for a long time, as she was used to "seeing" without her eyes, and her feet and body had been, until the day before, her "compass." Now that she had regained her sight, she found it difficult to orient herself. Finally, they met a neighbor who recognized her and showed her the way, and they arrived at the village. Maria approached a group of adults and children, full of emotion and enthusiasm, and began asking who her children and husband were. They immediately stepped forward as she saw them for the very first time.

The stories I've told you touch me deeply. I carry them in my heart as a constant reminder of how vital it is to reconnect with the Earth, a connection we feel we've lost. We drifted away from Nature as soon as we settled in cities, isolating ourselves with artificial clothing and footwear. This distance grew when we started using repellents on our skin or setting traps to eliminate species that bothered us. We convinced ourselves we had the right to decide which life forms should exist on this planet, based only on our preferences or what we deemed most useful.

We've reached a point where everything bothers us: the earth under our feet, the sand between our toes, even the singing of cicadas, flies, wasps, ants. We no longer stop to observe what surrounds us, the life pulsating beneath and around us. We've lost the ability to be moved by a breathtaking sunset, the tireless work of a bee, or the brilliant fuchsia of a Bougainvillea.

But why has all this happened? Why have we drifted away from the wonder of creation? Is it perhaps a matter of control, superficiality, or maybe fear? So, what can we do, in our daily lives, to rediscover that deep contact with the Earth? How can we find that grounding, that sense of earthing that naturally brings us back to ourselves and who we are?

It really takes very little, just a few simple conscious gestures, to start healing our relationship with Nature and with ourselves. Think about when our skin meets the Earth. We arrive at the beach, in the woods, in the garden, or at the park, and we pause for a moment. We observe the sensations in our body while wearing shoes. Then we take them off and, again, carefully observe the sensations our feet feel upon meeting the earth. We remain immersed in those perceptions, in the contact of our skin with what surrounds us. And so on, in every situation.

These simple ways of connecting with Nature are known as Grounding or Earthing: the practice of putting your body in direct contact with the Earth. It's simply walking barefoot on sand, soil, or grass, or even just touching any natural element. In this way, a real exchange of energy occurs between us and the planet, an exchange that allows us to benefit from numerous advantages for our well-being and to establish a deep dialogue with the sacredness of Nature.

Earthing, or grounding—that direct contact with the Earth's electrical surface—allows us to re-establish a natural connection. But what does science tell us about what happens to our body when it comes into contact with the Earth? Earthing is based on the concept of free electrons, of which the Earth appears to be a giant reservoir. These electrons, with their negative charge, upon contact with the body, begin to flow freely within it, acting as true natural antioxidants.

In our bodies, free radicals are unstable molecules that can cause cellular damage and inflammation. They are produced naturally as byproducts of metabolism, but can also be generated by external factors such as pollution, stress, and an unbalanced diet. The Earth's electrons, being negatively charged, would be able to neutralize these positively charged free radicals, thus reducing oxidative stress and inflammation. It is important to emphasize that this research is still in its early stages and requires further in-depth studies. However, the results obtained so far are very promising.

Earthing, or grounding, offers a series of interesting benefits: research suggests that contact with the Earth can, as mentioned before, reduce inflammation by neutralizing free radicals, leading to improved sleep and decreased chronic pain. Furthermore, a lowering of stress levels with a consequent improvement in mood has been observed, along with benefits for cardiovascular health due to reduced blood viscosity, accelerated wound healing, and positive immune system regulation.

Beyond scientific confirmations, which we welcome, what truly matters is personal experience. There is no more valid and effective proof than feeling the contact with the Earth on your own skin.

What if walking barefoot, along with other ways of immersing ourselves in nature, represented a great opportunity for us to explore the potential of our own bodies? Since I started practicing Forest Bathing, I've paid increasing attention to my body, and walking barefoot has become an extraordinary opportunity for connection and well-being.

And what if you too wanted to discover these benefits? I invite you to take a small step: try taking off your shoes and feeling the earth beneath your feet. Or stop and consciously caress a tree or a flower. You might be surprised at how simple and profound this gesture can be.

For more in-depth information on the scientific discoveries regarding the benefits of grounding, I suggest the following readings:

• Chevalier G, Sinatra ST, Oschman JL, Sokal K, Sokal P. Earthing: health implications of reconnecting the human body to the Earth's surface electrons. J Environ Public Health. 2012;2012:291543.

• Chevalier G, Oschman JL, Sokal K, Sokal P. The effects of grounding (earthing) on inflammation, the immune response, wound healing, and prevention and treatment of chronic inflammatory and autoimmune diseases. J Inflamm Res. 2015 Apr 24;8:169-76.

• Chevalier G, Sinatra ST. The effect of grounding the human body on mood and stress. Psychol Rep. 2004 Aug;95(1):319-24.

• Koniver Laura, The Earth Prescription.

In the vibrant rose garden of Nervi Park, nestled between the railway line and the whispering sea, a peculiar tree caught my eye. Amidst the weathered olive trees, a Melaleuca stiphelioides stood out, its pale bark shimmering in the sunlight. This close relative of the renowned tea tree, Melaleuca alternifolia, is often called the "paper tree" for its unique characteristic: its bark peels away in delicate, almost translucent layers.

As I approached, I noticed how these papery flakes, still partially attached, danced in the slightest breeze, creating an ethereal movement. This reminded me of the eucalyptus, another tree that gracefully sheds its outer layers, releasing them to nourish the earth and expose the newer, less seasoned wood beneath.

The tree's bark itself was a fascinating study. Smooth and velvety in some areas, it transitioned to thicker, more wrinkled textures, much like human skin – soft and yielding in youth, becoming more weathered and resilient with age. Even the way the trunk met the branches evoked the supple movement of flexing limbs.

Standing beside this remarkable tree, my mind wandered to distant shores, to the possibility of endless journeys, and to the ever-present movement of life beneath the vast expanse of sky. I contemplated the symbolism of skin – a boundary, a habit, a source of nourishment. And as I stood there, a profound sense of love and gratitude washed over me for this magnificent, generous Earth, our shared mother.

I approach at a brisk pace and with a certain excitement.

On the sign pointing the way is written ‘Secular Oak’, I can see him towering from afar.

I walk back down the twisted path and I am in front of it, we meet for the third time.

The trunk is majestic, the height remarkable, it envelops me in an embrace of peace and tranquillity.

He appears in the guise of an old farmer, a wise man who has entrusted his words to the earth. He wears a hat and a fine old-fashioned moustache, his clothes are simple; he wears trousers and a light velvet waistcoat, a white shirt.

What strikes me most are his eyes, they fill everything they rest on with sweetness and are as deep and dark as the earth. A barely-there smile.

His features and manner remind me of Elzéard Bouffier, the main character in Jean Giono's 1953 short story ‘The Man Who Planted Trees’, which also became a short film by Frédéric Back in 1987.

In the story, the protagonist collected and selected seeds, mostly acorns, which he then planted first in a nursery and then directly in the French mountains and valleys, thus bringing back forest, water, life and joy.

The silence of which he speaks to me is that calmness that accompanies those who have understood the mystery of Nature, life and peoples. That humble and respectful silence of one who knows the land, of one who knows how to wait, of one who offers himself without hesitation, and in equal measure, to the breeze and the storm, to heat and cold, to water and dryness, to sun and moon, to light and darkness.

And of patience, ‘silence and patience’ he tells me, ‘often words and questions are too much when faith is strong, because under this sky everything is impermanent, everything is becoming. An endless dance of life, offering, death and more life that is nothing but mutable and ephemeral Beauty.’

And as I lose myself in his gaze, the memory of my grandfather Salvatore, ‘Saivadore Ruiu’, who had that same sweetness in his eyes, even though his were the colour of the sea, comes alive. Always present in my mother's memories, who tells me about him whenever we chat about the Earth and Trees.

He tells me how ‘Babbu’ used to bow, knees to the ground, before the vine prior to pruning it.

How he would offer a row of the vine to the birds of the air to eat, because the bounty of the earth is for all.

And then how he would pour a little of his wine from the glass onto the ground, as an offering to Mother Earth, as a sign of respect and gratitude.

So this majestic Oak, in the guise of a farmer, offers me another great gift and, in remembrance, brings back to life my grandfather, who has only changed form but continues to dance, even through me.

Even the Oak Tree, now mighty, will one day let go his weary body to the valley. He will still be shelter and nourishment for those who need it and will continue to live, always the same and always different.

Under the stars and under the sun, what has to happen always happens, things come and go, but they are never exactly the same. All that remains is for us to dance this circle, ‘unu ballu tundu’, with patience and silence in our hearts.

And I thank and honour my ancestors who made my dance possible. I thank Mother Earth, my friend Farmer Oak, my grandfather, my mother and you who read this.

Thank you all

The air hung heavy, the city lights casting long, eerie shadows. I wandered through the small, forgotten park, the darkness amplifying the silence. Then, I saw it – the Yew Tree, ancient and brooding, its presence a stark contrast to the mundane surroundings. A strange calm washed over me, an unexpected sense of peace.

Intrigued, I turned, and there it was – a magnificent Fir Tree, soaring towards the heavens, a beacon of defiance against the encroaching city. Its energy was vibrant, a stark contrast to the subdued atmosphere of the park.

The Fir Tree seemed to speak, its message resonating deep within me: 'You see, even confined to this small space, I do not compromise my true nature. I reach for the sky, a testament to my Essence. Never let your surroundings dictate who you are. Your uniqueness deserves to flourish, no matter the limitations. You can be a thriving Fir Tree, even in this urban oasis.'

The words struck a chord. I realized the 'small park' was a metaphor for the constraints I had placed upon myself, the fear of not fitting in, of being judged for my true self. The fir tree's unwavering spirit ignited a spark within me – a reminder to embrace my individuality, to break free from the shackles of conformity, and to let my true nature shine.

The First Meeting

I vividly remember the first time I truly met the Yew. It was November 2019. I had seen them before – stoic sentinels, their deep green foliage a stark contrast against the winter sky. I admired their austere beauty, the vibrant red berries defying the encroaching cold. But seeing and admiring are different from meeting. It's about opening yourself, surrendering to the essence of the tree, allowing its presence to wash over you.

And so, in that November, a group of Yews beckoned me closer. The energy of the Taxus baccata struck me like a sudden, unexpected storm, leaving me trembling, exposed. Fear surged, and I almost turned away, seeking the comfort of familiar energies. But the arrow had been loosed; the journey had begun.

The Yew's Message

This was their message: "Fear not. Do I seem like I would harm you? You humans are quick to judge. I offer nourishment, I offer rest. Would you truly choose to forever dwell in another's shadow? I teach you independence.

Look beyond the surface. Every situation holds hidden depths. Don't rely solely on your intellect; intuition is key. Growth emerges from what has been. I am constantly renewing myself.

I am not afraid of death; I am death. I am the transition, the ebb and flow of being. I weave, but I do not entangle. I am independent, yet never truly alone.

I define boundaries, I listen, I respect space. I thrive in the darkest corners of the forest, a testament to my strength. Few other plants can survive in my shade; I create a distinct presence.

I am poisonous in most parts, yet life thrives alongside me. Deer consume my leaves without harm. My berries, bright red arils, offer nourishment to birds, while the seeds within remain untouched, entrusted to the earth.

It's difficult to determine my age. I renew myself constantly. New branches emerge from the old, enveloping the parent trunk, which slowly decays, creating space for the new. A dance of life and death, the old nurturing the young, the young bringing vitality to the old. A miracle of renewal from ancient roots."

The Continuing Journey

I met the Yew many times after that, in different locations. Each encounter renewed the invitation, the fear of the unknown battling with the yearning of my heart.

Today, the memory of the Yew, my dear friend Tasso, resides within me, a vibrant red aril in my heart. The fear is gone.

The Yew has many stories to tell, countless ways of being. If you meet the Yew, if it calls to you, do not fear. Approach with an open heart, place your hand upon its trunk, and listen.