The Soul Of My Shoes
Yesterday afternoon, in preparation for a walk with my children, I went in search of my favorite shoes. My favorite shoes. Certainly not my best looking or glamorous shoes, they are my favorites nonetheless.
And, because they are my favorites, they could have been hiding anywhere I had recently been. On the passenger seat of my car. Under the coffee table. Sitting right next my mother’s Coach bag, still not fully unpacked from weeks ago. Places of honor, all, but I eventually found them resting quietly on the back porch, right next to the door, where I had last slipped them off. They were positioned just *so*, as if my feet were still in them, holding them in place.
I tapped out the sand and Christmas tree needles and hauled them inside. As I was lovingly lacing them up, my son sat down next to me and wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“Gross mom, your shoes are old and smelly.”
I was immediately offended. Had he no idea?? Had he no sense of sentimentality? The comfort, reliability, and adventures these shoes had provided to me - all overshadowed now by their apparent decay?
I reassured myself that he was still in diapers when I first wore these shoes, and therefore has no sense of the larger scope of time.
Nonetheless, as I walked with the children in the chilly afternoon, I felt that each step was a little more poignant. Like my favorite shoes had heard us talking, and were trying even harder to be enjoyable. Each step was perfect. When we returned home, I carefully placed them in their home on my closet shelf - a small enclave their exact size and shape within easy reach - so that I would be able to find them easily the next time I needed them.
When they were first purchased more than 2 years ago, I simply liked that they were low-profile enough to look normal with my scrawny legs. Nordstrom New Balance, they weren’t cheap, but I happily purchased them along with a pair of purple satin Nine West ballet flats. Since that day, I marvel at all the amazing, breathtaking, and seemingly impossible things I’ve seen and done while wearing them.
I’ve moved at least 6 times while wearing these shoes. Sometimes happily, sometimes sadly.
I rode 1,100 miles of California coastline on an Amtrak train with these shoes.
These shoes have been to Big Sur with me twice, and Big Bear once (where I met an extremely enthusiastic New Balance fan who immediately noticed and complimented them).
They’ve been on countless dashboards as I rode co-pilot, hidden from me in my own car for weeks at a time, been soaked in salt water and left to ferment, thoughtfully hidden my valuables in their toes on various beaches, been hurled at a scary dog (just the left one), and they once actually got so hot sitting outside on a summer day they began to melt a little to the pavement.
They’ve hiked Mount Diablo, Black Mountain, Mount Laguna, Torrey Pines, and through the forests and beaches of Big Sur.
I can easily identify each and every coffee stain, the red wine stain, and the red mud stains from their own backyard. The tiny burn pockmarks from the occasional errant spark, the blue playdough sealed into the treads.
I’ve fallen asleep wearing them, and woken up the next day feeling great.
They cushioned me as I walked across my entire hometown on an eerie fall day, when it was so quiet and still it seemed the world was holding its breath.
I was wearing these shoes the day I got engaged. On the beach, calf-deep in swirling cold ocean, they were with me as I said yes and he kissed me. Later, I carefully shook out every grain of that sand, transported home within their soft insides, and saved it with the other momentos of our love.
* * *
I could never part with these shoes, even though their wearability will eventually, inevitably expire. But not yet. They’re my walking history.
