Movement Instead of Rootedness
Recently I asked myself whether I really want to be grounded at all. Am I a tree that drives its roots into the earth and does not move, but grows in the surroundings where the seed once sprouted? Or do I perhaps want to be a rock in the surf, washed over by water, yielding a little over millennia and losing itself in the sand?
My image of human existence is actually a different one: rather that of movement, of exploring and opening up, all the way to mastery and conquest, of connection or withdrawal into the Self.
The formation of an identity is an integrative process. Growing up means passing through stages: childhood, puberty, adulthood, old age … The private, the personal, the professional, the creative, the spiritual are different fields in which the Self wants to find itself, experiences itself, and loses itself.
We move constantly within this complex landscape. We do not strike roots; we are not rocks in the surf. And yet there are always phases of rest in which we linger, reflect, and rest within ourselves. To reach such a state is probably what is meant by grounding.
Mental Boundaries as an Ordering of the Self
I have often been told that I am good at mental boundaries. I wanted to take this as a compliment, although I am aware that it is a double-edged sword. Separating work from private life, distinguishing friendship from love and from family, or keeping different desires and fears apart, enables my Self to realize itself in different territories — even in border territories. That is what I thought.
I thought this because the concept of the Self had always seemed suspect to me. Because I did not believe in a soul, because I was too firmly anchored in the meaning-making mechanisms of Western culture, where specialization, radicalization, and stylization possess a value of their own. This value defines success, and I was satisfied with the success I had. That is what I thought.
Permeability, Decision, and Held Being
Now I think differently, and that hurts, produces euphoria, generates boredom, and makes me nervous. I still try to maintain mental boundaries, but they are becoming more permeable. I am taking down the fences in the landscape.
But does this mean that I have to make a few decisions? Much can no longer continue to coexist as before, or so it seems. This is what I ask myself. Can I cultivate my land? Will I become inwardly settled — or perhaps rather undemanding, letting go, trusting larger connections, allowing myself to drift, to be guided, directed, becoming the instrument of something greater?
Here, in this thought, in the experience of a Self that is held, lies the deeper meaning of being grounded. It is a grounding in heaven. The Upanishads speak of the banyan tree, a kind of fig tree whose roots are in heaven. The tree is a cycle. And this image too is only a container for a complex nervous system that connects organs and feeds consciousness.
