Going barefoot. I am barefoot right now as I sit upon my pillow-lined chair placed there by me in my emergency dress bought in the OC but really it was a nightgown. Who knew? It was the cheapest thing to buy at the anthropologie. I have a hoodie around me to keep me warm in this newfound fog not forgotten for long. But I am barefoot. Barefoot with my two feet resting on each other. My left in the crease of my right finding a home between my big and second toe comforting each other as they do.
The other day as I walked across the street to my car. I was going barefoot. And in that moment as I walked across church street I remembered how nice it felt. How nice it feels. I wasn’t looking for memories of days past as I walked down my wooden stoop softly patting my way to the sidewalk and then braving the street slightly diagonal. I walked pausing for each train track-one and two-and then I reached my car. See I crossed the street without shoes, going barefoot I was, but I did it because I left my shoes in the car.
In the process of a move-your shit is scattered everywhere- quarter of my wardrobe was in my house in noe, the other in my new place, and probably the other half in that car or lost somewhere in space. But as I walked across that street-that street that was mine for awhile-I borrowed if it for awhile. I felt the coldness of each material as I walked in the morning. The freshness that is exiting on this city street. In the morning. While going barefoot. The texture of the wood of my stairs warmer than the sidewalk but not as icy as that asphalt of the road. But if felt good and refreshing and it reminded me of going barefoot.
I used to do it all the time. Through my neighborhood, through my house, I even tried it at school, the park wherever. Going barefoot until my black feet of my travels could be seen by all. There is something to be said for the safety of walking barefoot, barefoot in a city and not being scared. Scared of what is to come. See you don’t remember how it feels or how it felt and how it was part of you until you wrap many layers on to hide away from feeling the ground under your feet. I wish I could walk barefoot more often maybe always. But if I did I would long for the feeling of newness that I have forgotten.
I will reserve it to my bed-the two feet rest on each other as lovers, my house as wood of the old house pushes back on me as I walk on it, at yoga against my mat as I hold the poses and stretch my toes wider than when walking, at the park on my blanket and maybe brave the grass dampness of dew or city sludge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have the perfect manicured feet, the nail polish greenish like a mermaid now rubbing off. I take off those shoes. When I can. When I want to. Going barefoot.
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