Barefooted

Summer is no place for shoes. Nor Spring. Nor Fall. Not in Texas anyway. In fact, let’s just say for the sake of argument, I disapprove of shoes altogether.

When I was a little girl, I ran barefooted most of the time. It was a delight to have naked feet.

Shoes were torture to my free-spirited toes.

The soles of my feet must have been like rawhide: I rode my bike, picked tomatoes in the garden, climbed trees; I can remember running down the railroad tracks even – all with no shoes on.

I once forgot to wear shoes to church. My grandfather said God cared more about being on time to Sunday School than bare feet and he wasn't about to turn the car around. I guess he was right because we made it on time and I traipsed through the sanctuary, tootsies fully exposed, and nothing bad ever happened. That I know of.

These days, the bottoms of my feet are a little less worn. I probably wince at the slightest prick - a piece of gravel, the hot pavement, a splinter from our haggard deck. How my feet have softened over time. And me too, evidently. Against the pleas of my inner child, I am constantly following behind my little ones, shoes in hand.

“Let’s get your shoes on, please. You need your shoes on before you can go outside.”

Who says?

I do, apparently.

But I let it slide occasionally. To toughen ‘em up a little. And when I do, I watch the curious looks on their faces as dirt slides up into their unsuspecting insteps, as wet grass sticks to their ankles and their heels, and as leaves break underneath their wiggling toes.

They delight in their bare feet too.


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(This entry is in response to this week's Mama Says Om theme: Delight.)