The Ground Remembers

Finding Steadiness in Ancestral Connection

Many of us feel the ground beneath us shifting—our future unsteady, our footing unsure, the path ahead of us unclear. But when our knees buckle we find the ground. The ground is not only solid beneath our feet; it is alive with memory, resilience, and presence.

The ground is our ancestors.

Through ancestral connection, remembrance, and relationship, we can find a deep well of steadiness, wisdom, and guidance. Just as roots anchor trees through storm and drought, our connection to those who came before us offers grounding amid life’s uncertainties. When we cultivate this relationship, we tap into a field of love and knowledge that is always present, always accessible—inviting us into a profound sense of belonging and trust in the unfolding journey of life.

We often think of ancestors as distant figures of the past, confined to sepia-toned photographs or whispered family stories. If we’re lucky, we may know a few names, perhaps a handful of stories spanning two or three generations. Beyond that, the contours blur, and our connections dim. Yet, the deeper truth is that our ancestors are far closer than we often imagine.

Their lives are written into the marrow of our bones, encoded in the genes that shaped our bodies and behaviors. Their struggles, triumphs, and resilience linger in our epigenetic memory, echoing through us in ways science is just beginning to grasp. Beyond that, if we allow ourselves to believe in and connect to a larger field of consciousness—something eternal that weaves through the dimensions of time and space—then their spirits, their essence, may be as accessible to us as the wind or water.

Lately, I’ve been exploring this idea through spiritual practices inspired by Ehime Ora’s Spirits Come From Water and contemplations on consciousness inspired by the Telepathy Tapes podcast, while my husband dives deep into the complementary work of David Bohm and Donald Hoffman (read about some of the insights and implications of that here). With guidance from the wisdom in Ora’s book, and drawing from the lineages of elemental Tibetan Buddhism that we have studied, Seth and I recently deepened our relationship with our ancestor altars—spaces we’ve created for prayer, offerings, and connection. These altars are on three bookshelves in our living rooms, and are made of books, photos, statues, and other artifacts that connect us with our beloved dead.

Yesterday morning, as the sun was rising, we placed bowls of water and protective herbs from our garden on these altars, with prayers for our family and for the world. We burned incense, and brought in the soft flicker of fire to invite the presence and blessings of those who came before us. Today will be our second day, in what we intend to be a lifelong practice that will inevitably evolve. In tending to this altar, I have felt a tangible shift—a quiet opening to the realm of love, wisdom, and protection that exists just beyond the veil of perception.

But ancestors are not just those tied to us through lineage. They are also those who shape the land, the air, and the water that sustain us. I feel this truth beautifully and simply in Lucille Clifton’s poem, from Two Headed Woman:

in populated air
our ancestors continue.
i have seen them.
i have heard
their shimmering voices
singing.

The remains of our forebears, whether buried, burned, or carried on the winds, are fully integrated into the living world. When we place our hands on the soil or immerse ourselves in a river, we are quite literally connecting to their bodies and spirits.

This is a key way that I connect with the land I call home, where there is very limited academic knowledge of the original people of this land, but the land itself it rich with their memory.

The Ais were among the first people of the Florida coast, thriving in relationship with what we now call the Indian River Lagoon. Their physical traces, their living presence in the soil and waters, remain, even though their histories were violently interrupted by disease and war and enslavement. While colonization sought to sever the connection between the land and its people, the earth remembers. And through prayer, stillness, and reverent curiosity, I am learning to listen.

For those who are fortunate enough to live in places where the Indigenous people of the land still live and are available for relationship, there is a profound blessing in approaching those connections with humility, curiosity, and a commitment to good relationship. The Indigenous stewards of this earth hold ancestral knowledge, stories, and practices that sustain reciprocal relationship with the land—a wisdom cultivated through generations of care and presence.

Here, where I live near the headwaters of the Everglades, I seek to deepen my relationship with the Miccosukee. Though their territory is somwhat far from us, we share a watershed and the health of our entire bioregion depends upon their stewardship being honored. The land holds more than ecological richness; it holds cultural and spiritual treasures that call for reverence and active engagement.

No matter where we live, there is wisdom to be found by getting low, placing our hands on the earth, and listening deeply. The ground beneath us is alive, responsive, and communicative. By asking questions, practicing stillness, and cultivating presence, we can enter into a true relationship with the earth and the ancestors held within it. This kind of connection invites us into a shared dialogue, offering insights that emerge not from intellect alone, but from the heart and body as part of the living world.

This broader conception of ancestry includes not just human beings, but also the living elders of the living world: the mountains, the rivers, the ancient forests. The glaciers that have held time and memory in moving ice for millennia. The ferns that achieved evolutionary stasis when dinosaurs roamed. The wisdom of these elders is slow and deep, patient and immense. They remind us that ancestry is not confined to bloodlines—it is the inheritance of being alive on a living earth.

When I stand in the presence of an ancient live oak, its branches twisting toward the heavens, I feel deep time, the lineage of its endurance. When I sit by the river, I sense the pulse of tides shaped over eons and the whispers of creatures whose bones became the sand beneath my feet. These too are ancestors, offering their quiet, present guidance.

Expanding our relationship with ancestors to include the living world changes everything. It grounds us in the profound interconnection of life and death, of renewal and decay. It invites us to honor not just our family lines but the vast, interwoven web of existence that brought us here. And it asks us to deepen our relational care—for ourselves, our communities, and the earth.

As I continue this journey, I am reminded that ancestor work is not only about remembering but about tending. It is about building relationships across time, space, and species. It is about cultivating gratitude for all that has come before and stepping into the responsibility of being a good ancestor to those who will follow.

Let us carry this awareness into our days, offering bowls of water to the unseen, planting trees we may never sit beneath, and listening, always, for the wisdom that lives in the wind, the soil, and the stories still being told.

Photo by Richard Sagredo on Unsplash