I have this lovely pair of brown flats that I like very much. However, judging by what they did to my heels when I wore them last week, the love is hardly mutual. In the time it took me to walk to my first class from the bus stop, I was already limping and fantasizing about Neosporin and a box of Band-Aids.
My heels were lucky enough to be raw on a warm and dry day, and the bulk of my path happened to be across the campus Oval, a grassy park area criss-crossed with sidewalks. With my shoes in hand, the undamaged soles of my feet padded through the soft Bluegrass blades of the Oval's circumference. And I endured a surprise lesson on the terrain.
In that short walk, my toes sunk into a miniature swamp, and then were covered by a patch of sand on the opposite side of a sidewalk. One moment the turf was luxurious, then a looming pine tree would choke out the grass with its shade and needles. And just when I'd think I'm in the clear again, I realized from the acorn lodged in my arch that a fruitful oak is nearby.
What must life have been like before shoes? Or when all we had were animal-skin moccasins? How slow would we have walked, and what would we have known? With bare feet, we would've found the rich damp soil to plant our farms. We would've seasoned our meals with the herbs we crushed while walking, and felt the hoofprints of the deer we tracked. Identifying trees would be easy after picking out enough pine needles and crab apple pits from our soles. Our paths would not have traveled as far, but we would've intimately known our homeland.
With winter at the door, I know I'll readily forget this when standing in a six-inch January snow drift. But when spring comes back again, I'll wonder what I'm missing.
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