Shoes

Something happens when I lace up my hiking boots. There is an intrinsic power associated with them; when I put them on, a jolt of simultaneous authority and oneness with nature is sent through my whole body. My boots are heavy and sturdy, designed to help those who don them to maintain stability and balance when exploring various types of terrain. They teach me to stand firmly and solidly. They keep me rooted on the ground, reminding me of my place and keeping me humble: I am small. I cannot fly. I am limited in my strength and ability. But I am intrepid, and I am determined. This summer I am stripped of everything that once fooled me into believing that I was capable of anything (my car, my cell phone, my comfort zone, the convenient accessibility of friends and family, my close proximity to anything I could ever want or need). However, my hiking boots show me that I never needed those luxuries at all; that, with confidence and determination, I can combine my own life energy with that of the earth, using the aid of nothing more than my boots and my own two feet. I am capable of dominion over mountain peaks and carnivorous wildlife; over snow, rain, hail, and wind; over isolation from modern civilization. My hiking boots teach me to come to terms with my own limited physical, spiritual, emotional, and mental strength. They also teach me that my limited strength is enough, but only when combined with the strength I attain from God, from others, and from the earth.

My running shoes have a completely different effect, but they are equally powerful. Rather than planting my feet firmly and rationally on the ground, my running shoes seem always to be scheming and daydreaming. They are happiest in mid-air. When I put on my running shoes, it's like my feet grow wings and fly me wherever I tell them to go. My running shoes feel more like an extension of my legs than the unattached, inanimate objects that they are. Light as air but ruthless as the elements, they seem to taunt me, pushing me to go farther than the day before. My running shoes are hopeless dreamers, and the more I tell them to shut up and let me rest in the reality of my own inadequacies, the more they prove to me that I am not inadequate at all. Don't be fooled: my running shoes are anything but soft. They work me to breathlessness, sweat, and exhaustion. They wake me up early in the morning and don't listen to any of my excuses. They are trainer, friend, enemy, travel companion. In fact, it is they to whom I credit my love of the great outdoors. Although I met them while traveling, our (admittedly somewhat dysfunctional) relationship showed me that beauty is all around me no matter where I find myself. All I have to do is go outside and open my eyes.

Although my hiking boots teach me that my strength is indeed limited, my running shoes show me that it is far more than I think. While my hiking boots tell me to accept my role on the earth, my running shoes challenge me to take the initiative to define that role myself. When my hiking boots (in their humble way) remind me of the youth of their influence in my life, my running shoes assure me that there is a first time for everything. My hiking boots take me to mountain peaks, while my running shoes elevate my mind and spirit to new heights of euphoria. Both gently help me breathe more deeply. Both take me to places I would have otherwise never seen. Both make me a stronger woman. But most of all, both challenge me to be a better person: my hiking boots, by keeping me down-to-earth, and my running shoes, by teaching me how to fly.