SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON THE FLOOR: A DISAPPEARING POSTURE OF HUMILITY

 

There was a time when sitting cross-legged on the floor wasn’t a choice or a special occasion posture—it was simply how people sat. Meals were eaten that way, guests were welcomed that way, children learned their first letters that way. The floor, once a communal and sacred space, held stories, prayers, laughter, discipline, and togetherness. But today, in the polished world of dining tables, office chairs, and sofa sets, the act of folding one’s legs and grounding oneself has become almost symbolic—an echo of something once ordinary, now quietly vanishing.

To sit cross-legged on the floor is not just a physical act—it is a social language. It speaks of humility, groundedness, and deference. It puts everyone on the same level, literally. In Nepali households, elders and guests often took the floor not because there were no chairs, but because there was a grace in doing so. Teachers would sit cross-legged while teaching under trees or in bare classrooms, not because they lacked authority, but because the posture itself commanded a quiet respect. Children learned early that to sit this way in front of others, especially elders or while receiving food, was to show regard.

But slowly, that posture is being replaced. Modern homes now come equipped with furniture that lifts us off the floor—couches for comfort, chairs for status, beds for everything from meals to meetings. In cities, many schoolchildren no longer sit on mats but at tidy desks in neat rows. Restaurants that once offered low tables and floor seating have moved toward westernized designs, often seen as more ‘developed.’ Even traditional rituals are occasionally adjusted to accommodate those unaccustomed to the floor, as a growing number of people now find it physically uncomfortable, even foreign.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with this change. Societies evolve, and with that evolution come shifts in posture—both literal and figurative. But something does get left behind. When we stop sitting on the ground, we slowly forget what it teaches. The floor, after all, is not just a surface. It’s a reminder of where we come from, and what we return to. It humbles us—quite literally brings us down to earth. It softens the space between people, reduces the distance between bodies, and flattens hierarchies. On the floor, there is less room for ego and more space for stillness.

This posture also connects us to the rhythm of older ways of life—ways that were slower, more attentive. Sitting cross-legged requires pause. It demands presence. You cannot multitask efficiently while in that position. You have to adjust, balance, and settle. Meals taken on the floor are less rushed. Conversations unfold without the structure and boundaries that chairs often impose. Children taught to sit this way during prayer or storytelling often grow up with an ingrained sense of attentiveness and patience.

In rural Nepal, where floor-sitting is still common, the posture retains its quiet dignity. Farmers return home and eat their dal-bhat sitting cross-legged. Women gather in circles, weaving stories while sorting grains on the ground. During festivals or communal meals, people find their space on the floor instinctively, forming temporary geometries of shared experience. There is intimacy in this nearness. There is equality in the touch of the same surface.

Yet, even in these spaces, the shift is coming. Aspirations are now shaped by images of furniture-laden homes and screen-filled lives. Parents worry if their children will be “left behind” if they cling too long to old ways. To sit on the floor, for some, now feels like an inconvenience, even a marker of lack. But perhaps the discomfort lies not in our knees or backs, but in what we no longer recognize as valuable.

Bringing back the practice need not mean resisting change. It may simply mean remembering what it offered. To sit cross-legged again, occasionally and intentionally, is to remind ourselves of the kind of presence that has no cost, no brand, no Wi-Fi. It is to return to a more rooted way of being—where posture was not performance, but a gesture of respect. And in that act of lowering ourselves, we may just find a higher kind of awareness. One that doesn’t need a cushion to feel comfortable, just a little time to remember the ground beneath our feet.