One of the many reasons I love summer is the opportunity to go bare-footed as often as possible.
I like my feet. I think I have pretty feet. I enjoy wearing toe-rings and painting my toe-nails. Feet are useful appendages, too; I’d certainly miss mine if they were gone!
I have the toughest feet of any one I know. My English mother refers to “Pommy* feet” and “Kiwi feet”. Pommy feet are soft and overly sensitive – like my mother’s, she can barely walk on grass! Kiwi feet are tough and can handle almost any surface – like mine. These are the feet that walked with out shoes from the mouth of the Whanganui river to the mouth of the Waitotara river, a distance of about 40km; from Flounder Bay to Earthquake Bay on a gritty limestone track; from the mouth of the Waitotara river to Waverley, in winter. I even spent an entire bare-footed month in Tasmania. This is what I wrote in my journal during that trip, two years ago, in the little town of Stanley:
I’ve been walking over every type of terrain you can imagine and you should see the state of my feet. I have stone bruises, bits of glass embedded, prickles, ripped skin, red hard spots that might be burns, blisters, and such dirt! I don’t know if the poor things will ever recover from such abuse – but they certainly know north-west Tasmania very well by now!
So why do I insist on walking about in bare feet? There’s some thing childish about it; a small but potent sense of freedom in kicking off the constraints of shoes or boots and socks and being able to wriggle my toes and feel the air on my feet. When I go bare-foot at work it feels like rebellion. There I am, dressed smartly, a bit of make-up on – and no shoes.
Despite having tough feet my soles aren’t the consistency of leather, and I still have feeling in them. There’s a lot of simple pleasure to be had from feeling things with the soles of your feet. Try walking across a lawn that’s been sown with Roman chamomile or penny royal; not only does it feel wonderful your feet will slightly crush the plants and send up a delicious smell. Rub your feet across the fur of a reclining canine friend. Stand on the edge on the ocean with your feet on the sand and the water breaking about your ankles. Delight doesn’t get much better than that.
You can also get to know places through the soles of your feet. That’s why I went bare-foot through Tasmania. With my eyes I could appreciate that glorious sunset-red soil but with my feet I could experience it, feel it, get it stuck between my toes (and all through my sleeping-bag...). My feet learned about the rocks, the prickly grass, the sand, the sea, the rivers, the footpaths. At Low Head my feet had the unusual sensation of a little blue penguin scurrying over them, and at Stanley my feet almost stepped on a tiger snake (really glad I didn’t actually tread on that poor snake!).
If it’s been a while since you’ve connected with your feet, take your shoes off right now and wriggle your toes around. Go on - I dare you!
What can you feel?
*Pommy is New Zealand and Australian slang for English; an English person is a Pom.
I like my feet. I think I have pretty feet. I enjoy wearing toe-rings and painting my toe-nails. Feet are useful appendages, too; I’d certainly miss mine if they were gone!
I have the toughest feet of any one I know. My English mother refers to “Pommy* feet” and “Kiwi feet”. Pommy feet are soft and overly sensitive – like my mother’s, she can barely walk on grass! Kiwi feet are tough and can handle almost any surface – like mine. These are the feet that walked with out shoes from the mouth of the Whanganui river to the mouth of the Waitotara river, a distance of about 40km; from Flounder Bay to Earthquake Bay on a gritty limestone track; from the mouth of the Waitotara river to Waverley, in winter. I even spent an entire bare-footed month in Tasmania. This is what I wrote in my journal during that trip, two years ago, in the little town of Stanley:
I’ve been walking over every type of terrain you can imagine and you should see the state of my feet. I have stone bruises, bits of glass embedded, prickles, ripped skin, red hard spots that might be burns, blisters, and such dirt! I don’t know if the poor things will ever recover from such abuse – but they certainly know north-west Tasmania very well by now!
So why do I insist on walking about in bare feet? There’s some thing childish about it; a small but potent sense of freedom in kicking off the constraints of shoes or boots and socks and being able to wriggle my toes and feel the air on my feet. When I go bare-foot at work it feels like rebellion. There I am, dressed smartly, a bit of make-up on – and no shoes.
Despite having tough feet my soles aren’t the consistency of leather, and I still have feeling in them. There’s a lot of simple pleasure to be had from feeling things with the soles of your feet. Try walking across a lawn that’s been sown with Roman chamomile or penny royal; not only does it feel wonderful your feet will slightly crush the plants and send up a delicious smell. Rub your feet across the fur of a reclining canine friend. Stand on the edge on the ocean with your feet on the sand and the water breaking about your ankles. Delight doesn’t get much better than that.
You can also get to know places through the soles of your feet. That’s why I went bare-foot through Tasmania. With my eyes I could appreciate that glorious sunset-red soil but with my feet I could experience it, feel it, get it stuck between my toes (and all through my sleeping-bag...). My feet learned about the rocks, the prickly grass, the sand, the sea, the rivers, the footpaths. At Low Head my feet had the unusual sensation of a little blue penguin scurrying over them, and at Stanley my feet almost stepped on a tiger snake (really glad I didn’t actually tread on that poor snake!).
If it’s been a while since you’ve connected with your feet, take your shoes off right now and wriggle your toes around. Go on - I dare you!
What can you feel?
*Pommy is New Zealand and Australian slang for English; an English person is a Pom.
3 comments:
Kia ora Anne-Marie,
I don't think my feet are quite as tough as yours! But I will say immersing my bare feet in a cold Ruahine river or creek at the end of a long day is certainly delightful. I have tramped as well in Tasmania, though in my boots, but took them off frequently to dive into the beautiful calm bays of the sea. I have been reading a lot of Edward Abbey as of late, trying to keep some fiery passion instilled inside me I guess, and just before I turned on my computer today and soon came across your post I read this: "By taking my meal outside by the burning Juniper in the fire place with more desert and mountains I could explore in a lifetime open to view, I was invited to contemplate a far larger world, one which extends into a past and into a future without any limits known to human kind. By taking off my shoes and digging my toes in the sand I made contact with that larger world - an exhilarating feeling which leads to equanimity". Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire.
I think Anne-Marie, I will take my shoes off more often. Great post. Have an excellent day.
Ka kite,
Robb
Some time ago I read about a barefoot tramping (hiking) movement; the philosophy resembled yours. I think there's a lot to be said for it — certainly, the traditional attitude that if you're heading into the mountains your feet must be encased in massive lumps of leather and rubber deserves to be questioned. I now mostly tramp in running shoes now, at least in summer — otherwise my feet would end up a similar colour to yours in that photo. Not as pretty, though ;^P
Hi Robb! Ah...swimming in the Tasmanian sea, how glorious! I swam there every opportunity I got. I don't know if it was just cos I was there in summer, but I remember being amazed by how turquoise the water was. You don't see that in Aotearoa (well, not on the west coast). I've never heard of Edward Abbey, but I love that quote! Sounds like a man after my own heart :-)
Hi Pete - so glad you agree my feet are pretty :-) I usually take shoes with me if I'm walking any serious distance; I don't know what I might encounter. Although my feet are tough, I do have trouble with hot surfaces. The black sand of our west coast beaches heat up like burning coals in summer - ouch!
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