Walking Barefoot

'Tis the season for walking barefoot again. I started a few months back: as soon as I could hear the

spring peepers and little bits of green were appearing on the trees, my toes were in the dirt. It's a common point of discussion regarding my business name- and no, I don't walk barefoot in my client's gardens. The name speaks more to my philosophy of gardening as close to nature as possible, and so my touch to their gardens is as if I merely walked through barefoot, leaving barely a trace.

But at home, my feet are bare pretty much April through November. They are ugly things to behold in these months. Myself, I find feet ugly things to behold in any month, but in gardening season mine are dirty, cracked, hard, and happy. The last is all that matters, really. It's far from romantic walks on the beach either. I traipse through mud and puddles, deftly walk through gravel, and sink into warm prepared soil beds. 

Being barefoot makes me feel connected to whatever task I'm doing; it helps me fully absorb the day and all the elements I touch. While it may hurt at times, it helps me feel my way and know the ground I'm dealing with. My feet become accustomed to some degree, but there's always an element of pain that reminds me where I am. To walk carefully. To walk with purpose. To walk with intention and be sensitive to all that I can harm with my weight and to what could be of harm to me. Sometimes, I misjudge on both counts, crushing a tender plant or catching my toes on sharp rocks. It's all a part of walking barefoot. 

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you've seen my tendencies to take the gardens and apply them to my life. I'd like to think that in my walk on this earth, I tread barefoot as much as I can with no damage inflicted or received. It is my aim to be as open to all the elements I touch in life- be they harmful or helpful- and while this may seem risky without an element of protection, I am forced to be more aware of everything I touch. It can make interactions more painful, and at times I find I need to walk alone, on soft ground, to regain feeling after stumbling over rocky ground. It's painful, yet it's telling, and for me, a necessary way to travel this time on earth. I make connections faster, I sense danger sooner, and I can know when to turn my feet to a more sure path. 

There was a time I would continue walking barefoot through the warning pricks, telling myself that the contact was necessary, I was helping another whose path was rough, yet I have found that sometimes when I joined someone on these journeys, I fell victim to the same sharp rocks, and rather than guiding us both to softer paths, I aided their walk onto harsher roads and only caused more suffering for us both. I learned that I needed to take care to my feet, and the path on which I chose to set them. I could provide company, solace, and thoughts for a time, but in the end, he path I chose had to be all mine. 

We choose our paths, and while we do not necessarily choose the pain that crosses them at times, we can choose to continue to inflict ourselves or strike a new path. The way to the new path might be caught with brambles, but what seems to be a more difficult course is but a swift break through the scrub onto softer ground. 

I must choose my paths carefully, with care to what my feet might strike and what might also wound me in turn. I can for a time walk with others and partake the roads they travel, and they also, mine- but just for a time. We can share in the learning, encourage each others' journeys, and warn of hazards that cross our path. However, each step taken is a commitment to the path on which I chose to set my feet. Some paths are pleasant, some paths are treacherous. Some necessary, for a time; but there are a few that once trod I will take utmost care to keep my feet from at all costs. Yet I will always choose to walk these paths barefoot.