Several weeks ago a podiatrist quietly informed me it has become imperative that I wear stiff-soled shoes at all times since certain bones
in my feet are shifting.
ALL times. Fortunately his
mandate included certain orthopedically-approved sandals for now, although he
assured me sandal days won’t last forever.
I believed his diagnosis and prognosis, as well as his
prediction of “brutal” surgery (his word) if the condition continued to worsen
to the point of no return. I
remember thinking how he seemed pleasantly blank-faced, robotic-like and unaffected
in his white clinical coat, as if of course, the current predicament is relatively minor compared
to the scope of gruesomeness that he sees other people bear. I bravely chose not to mourn the loss
of bare feet, my summer tradition since birth, but cinched up my good-girl belt
and determined to be obedient. It
was a small sacrifice. I would
never go barefooted again. Period.
Within days I discovered how tooth-grittingly hard it is to walk
everywhere in shoes while living lakeside. And yet, I’ve been good. I wear the prescribed footwear when I get out of bed in the
morning; when I walk down to the pier in my swim suit; when I want to kick them
off and run wild and childlike with the grandkids in a race to the hammock. It’s just natural for me to want to ground with the
earth – to invite skin to touch dirt, grass, rocks, sand. But, I resist.
This evening I sat on the couch reading a book as daylight
waned. Hard-driving rain had let up, and heady, wet smells invaded the house
through our open windows, inviting me outside. I closed the book’s cover, slipped
my feet out of the sandals I’d worn all day, stood up and walked out the door.
Barefooted.
Raindrops stood tall on flower petals and fallen oak leaves. I pushed my feet slowly across the lawn
like a tentative ice skater trying out new ice, and the wet grass massaged the
soles of my unfettered feet. I was almost euphoric for a few minutes, delighted by the simple preciousness of freedom.
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