A shared practice
Where the Ground Still Holds
S
Guided bySean Fargo
Steadiness and self-kindness for the first hours after hard news — a place to stand before anything has to be decided.
Narrated by Samuel10 min
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Read along — the full script
Something difficult has landed, and you're here. That already says something about you. This practice won't ask you to feel better, or to make sense of anything. It's just a place to stand for a few minutes. 10s of stillness
This practice is yours to take entirely on your own terms. Eyes open or closed. Sitting, standing, or walking slowly. You're free to skip any part of it, change any word of it, pause, or stop altogether — stopping is allowed, at any point. You're the one who knows what you need right now. 10s of stillness
You might begin by simply looking around the space you're in, if your eyes are open — noticing a few ordinary things. A wall. A window. The floor. Letting your eyes confirm what's actually here, right now, in this room. On days like this, the ordinary things can be quietly reassuring — still standing, still themselves. 10s of stillness
And feeling what's solid beneath you. The chair, or the floor, holding your weight without effort. Whatever else is true today, the ground is still doing its job. You might let yourself lean on that — literally. Feeling the support press up to meet you. 15s of stillness
If it feels alright, you might rest one hand somewhere comforting — over the heart, on the belly, or one hand holding the other. If touch doesn't feel right just now, that's completely fine; skipping this changes nothing. 10s of stillness
Now finding somewhere easy for your attention to rest. The breath, if the breath feels like a friend right now. If it doesn't — and after hard news it sometimes doesn't — the feeling of your feet, or your hands, or the sounds around you will hold you just as well. 15s of stillness
Wherever you've landed, you might stay there for a little while — not doing anything with it, just letting it hold you. The weight of the body, resting down. The ground, pressing patiently back. If the breath is your resting place, letting it stay low and unhurried, the belly rising and falling at its own pace. 20s of stillness
There's no timetable in here. The world outside this practice may be asking for decisions, phone calls, arrangements. In here, for these few minutes, nothing is asked of you. Steadiness first. Everything else after. The decisions will still be there in a few minutes — and they tend to go better on steadier ground. 15s of stillness
There may be a lot moving inside — shock, sadness, numbness, nothing you can name. None of it is wrong. You don't have to sort it, fix it, or feel any particular thing. You might simply acknowledge, in your own words: *this is hard.* 10s of stillness
That plain acknowledgment is a form of kindness. Not arguing with what happened. Not rushing yourself somewhere else. Just telling the truth: this is hard, and I'm here. 15s of stillness
If you like, you might offer yourself a few quiet phrases now. You can use these, or change any word that doesn't fit:
*May I be gentle with myself today.* 10s of stillness
*May I meet this with as much steadiness as I have.* 10s of stillness
*May I let this be as hard as it actually is, without adding blame.* 15s of stillness
There's no need to manufacture a feeling to go with the words. Sometimes the phrases land, sometimes they don't, and on a day like today they may land strangely or not at all. Offering them is still enough — like leaving a light on, whether or not anyone's home yet. 15s of stillness
If your mind keeps returning to the news itself — replaying it, bracing, imagining forward — that's a mind trying to protect you, and noticing where it went is the practice working. You don't have to stop it. Each time you notice, you might feel the ground again, feel your hand resting, and offer one more phrase. Coming back isn't failing. Coming back is the whole practice. 20s of stillness
If you'd like, one more round now — the same phrases, or these, or your own words entirely:
*May I take this one hour at a time.* 10s of stillness
*May I let others help me carry what's heavy.* 10s of stillness
*May I be as kind to myself as I would be to a friend standing where I'm standing.* 15s of stillness
You might notice that none of these phrases ask anything of the situation. They only ask a little gentleness of you, toward you. That's the practice — not changing what happened, just changing how alone you are inside it. 15s of stillness
If others are touched by this same news, and it feels right, you might widen the circle for a moment: *May we be gentle with each other. May we have what we need to get through this.* And if widening feels like too much today, staying with yourself is exactly right. 20s of stillness
Resting now for a little while with whatever anchor is holding you — ground, hands, breath, sound. Letting the phrases go quiet, or continuing them, as you wish. 30s of stillness
And you might remember: this can come with you — the feet, the ground, one kind phrase — anytime today, in line at the store, in the car, in the middle of a conversation. It doesn't require a cushion. It requires about ten seconds. 15s of stillness
As we close, you might think of one small, ordinary next step. Not a plan for everything — nobody plans well on a day like this — just the next kind thing. A glass of water. A message to someone. A few minutes outside. Small is enough today. Small may be exactly right. 10s of stillness
When you're ready, letting your eyes open if they were closed, taking in the room once more. The ground is still here. So are you. Go gently.