"Grass was well-known amongst Indian shamans for its soothing anti-ulcerative properties. When a papoose was sickly, the shaman would lay him down on a grass bank and sprinkle him with dew from the bark of a Great Conifer Tree, for 5 days and 5 nights (at least). Today, grass is widely available, of course, in parks, gardens and the like. The current theory is that the leaves contain herbacinium, a derivative of morphine, which 'rubs off' on the fibrous nerves of our bare feet, gets into the bloodstream and slows down our heart rate by up to 14%, thus relaxing us. Indeed, poets have long known this, as it is conclusively demonstrated by the following:"
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Being that walking barefoot in the grass is one of my favorite things to do in general, I was definitely looking forward to today.
But then I was like "Oh wait, it's February and there's an inch of snow on the ground." Yeah, this was incredibly unpleasant.
