There’s Wisdom in Shoes
Yesterday, for the first time since I had hip replacement surgery in February, I wore shoes with laces. Black shoes, light as air on my feet, with grey and black laces that I bent over to tie into tight loops.
My feet felt more firmly supported in those shoes than they have in the sandals and slip-ons I’ve worn for the past several months. And as I went for my evening walk, my body moved with an easier grace because of that support.
As I walked, I thought about shoes. And support. And how the kind of support I need changes as I grow and change.
The first pair of shoes I remember owning were handmade Mary Janes, stitched from deliciously soft red kid leather. The strap fastened with a red button. I must have been three years old when my dad bought them for me. I remember being fitted for them at the shoemaker’s. His slender hands slipping the shoes on my feet. The snug feel of the leather against the arch of my foot.
I remember their smell of new leather. The way they creased at the top of my foot. The silky feel of their suede-lined insides.
I loved those shoes. I slept with them cradled in my arms at night. I wore them every day.
Then I turned four, and went into Grade One (or First Standard, as we called it) at Queen Mary’s, the big kids’ school. Where I had to wear a uniform, and white canvas shoes. No more red leather Mary Janes.
What happened to those lovely shoes? Outgrown before they were outworn, I expect.
Although I don’t remember when I stopped wearing them, there’s a red-leather-shoes-shaped space in my heart where they live. They’re all mixed in with my father’s love for me, his delight in ordering them for me. My excitement when I opened up the box they came in.
Those shoes carried me from toddlerhood to school. And to a succession of white canvas shoes which I Blancoed every night, and set out to dry before morning.
My first pair of heels carried me from girlhood to adolescence. They were white too, with long, pointed toes and a tiny heel, no more than a half-inch high. More the idea of a heel than the real thing.
I was fourteen, in my last year of high school. I chose those shoes myself, to wear to my cousin’s wedding.
I chose them; and my dad paid for them. Reluctantly. He didn’t think I was old enough to wear heels. Or pointy toed shoes. That he bought them for me anyway says something essential about the kind of dad he was. The kind of man he was.
Those were my lost years, when my mother spiraled into raging manic episodes, and our family spun with her. The centripetal force of her psychosis eventually flung my sister into boarding school, my father to business far away. And left me alone with a crazy woman who woke me in the middle of the night to sort and rearrange her closet full of shoes.
But that’s another story.
When I left India for good, at the age of twenty-one, I wore black leather boots with high stiletto heels. I’d bought them in London, on sale at Selfridge’s. Wearing those boots, I knew I could do anything. Leave home. Travel the world.
They were boots for the adventurer, the intrepid explorer in me.
Striding along the tarmac in those boots–which I wore with Kelly green leggings and a black mini-skirt–I boarded a Cathay Pacific flight at the airport in Bombay. As the plane roared into the star-studded sky, I didn’t look down to wave goodbye to the country I was leaving behind. I flew off to Oregon as confidently as a migrating bird.
Those boots carried me through my years at university. I had planned to wear them to my graduation, but I emigrated to Canada instead.
In Canada, I bought my first hiking boots. And tramped up and down mountains, as I had when I was a child. Sturdy, ankle-high, and made of waterproof leather, they moved me through an enchanted world that was entirely new to me. Through evergreen forests and muddy mountain trails, clear streams and breathtaking blue vistas.
When my first son was born, my feet grew half a size. I never wore size nine-and-a-half’s again.
Both my sons are winter babies. At each of their births, I wore woolly socks. The birthing rooms at Grace Hospital were air-conditioned, and cold. Those socks kept me warm. And helped me feel safe, cared-for, with a tenderness I’d given myself when I bought them, when I packed them in my going-to-the-hospital-to-give-birth bag.
I can’t remember the shoes I wore as I shuffled through those years of my sons’ babyhood, sleep-deprived and bone-weary. Mother-love blessedly screens off the mindless exhaustion. The diaper changes and night-time feedings. Leaving only a hazy afterglow of bedroom slippers on a nursery floor.
My sons’ first shoes weren’t really shoes. I couldn’t bear the thought of folding their tender feet into shoes. So, for a long time, they wore handmade moccasins, soft and lined with lambswool.
Until one day they were little boys, and their shoes were boots or runners, always covered in mud, smelling ripely of little-boy sweat. Piled just inside the mud-room door with the shoes of their friends, while my house reverberated with the shrieks and delight of boys playing.
But that’s a story for another day . . .
It was a sad day when I realized I couldn’t wear heels any longer. Not even the smallest, sturdiest of heels. I had a collection of them by then, lovely shoes that remained in my closet unworn, wrapped in tissue paper, nestled forlornly in their boxes.
One evening I invited over those of my friends whose feet are the same size as my own. Who still wore high heels, and attended Gatherings Where High-Heels Are Worn.
At the end of an evening of good food, and lots of laughter, they waved goodbye as they walked to their cars, carrying boxes and boxes of shoes.
And I was left with a closet full of flats. Which I loved, and was happy to wear. So why was there a tinge of sadness at waving goodbye to my high-heel-wearing self? The self who had disappeared long before that evening’s gifting.
In my fifties, menopause made the skin of my feet thin and tender. Some of my shoes hurt my feet-even though they had no heels; even though I’d worn them comfortably for years.
Another round of giving-away. Much less fraught this time, much more “let’s get these to people who can wear them, and make room in my closet for footwear which supports me.”
What’s left now: Shoes that are kind to my feet. That feel as close to being barefoot as I can get. That keep my feet warm and dry in the winter. Cool and airy in the summer.
Simplicity. Comfort. Ease. Support.
Beauty too.
There’s wisdom in shoes.
(Share your story about shoes, support and anything else you’re inspired to share. I’d love to hear.)
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Oh, Hiro–what an achingly beautiful and tender post.
You paint stories so well. I’m so glad you’re blogging and sharing those stories with us. This one is so poignant. So full of love and memories. I just love it.
Marissa´s last blog post..Tim Ferriss’s missing link and why your business needs a Rosie
Wow –
I feel so rejeuvenated after reading your story. Thank you for sharing such beautiful memories – and interesting things I’m sure we’ll hear about in future newsletters – the stories you mentioned that were “for another day” left me looking forward to your next article.
Support is such an amazing thing to have. And I’m so celebrating your return to SHOES! Woo-hoo! What a journey this past year.
And, I can totally relate- I used to have a pair of stilleto heel, thigh-high black leather boots. They were the perfect support when I needed them. I could’ve easily left India in those boots.
For me, I notice that I tend to the simple, and I think it’s the same with support. Simple shoes, simple clothes, simple support. I’m at pains to dress up now, though I can if necessary.
Mark Silver´s last blog post..Does This Heart of Money Thing Really Work?
I so adore you. :)
Once upon a time,
I used to wear shoes -
black plastic straps,
thick high heel,
a loop over my toe.
My going out shoes,
I called them.
They would cut and pinch away,
pushing me and prodding me
to be a foot
that I simply was not.
I was looking for love,
and it evaded me.
I thought I needed those shoes
to be the kind of girl
that could be a girlfriend.
And right in the place
I wasn’t looking,
I fell in love with the sight of a man.
On our first date,
we went to the sea.
I had been out working on my family’s farm
that day,
and was running late.
And right there,
I decided I wasn’t going
to wear shoes that weren’t me,
clothes that made me look
more like what a girlfriend
should be.
Instead: jeans, a man’s blue singlet,
my hair wet and blowdrying in the
open car window as I drive to town.
I forget shoes.
In the back of the car, I find
soft brown leather sandals -
they are my dad’s.
They are comforting and warm
and I feel at home.
And I stepped out of the car,
and into my new life
with this love of mine.
He looked at me and said,
with his heart and his mind and his eyes:
You are the perfect girl for me.
Just as I was, and just as I am.
Goddess Leonie | Goddess Guidebook´s last blog post..Goddess Journey Check-in
red high top chuck taylor converse.
I was young, somewhere between 6 and 9. I could sneak silently on concrete, grip tree branches and rope swings with the rubber toe. I liked how they looked with my favorite denim overalls. they were not girl shoes.
I was in highschool. I was a tomboy skater chick punk rock thrift store shopper. chuck taylor’s ensured I was identified with the people I wanted to be like.
I was 21. my first apartment, off at college. art student. Always carried a camera and loved the way my chucks looked on grass, on the campus sidewalk, on my apartment stairs… lots of shoe gazing ‘self portraits’ they reminded me of being a kid.
As a child, I wore flimsy, tight, pointy patent leather shoes that squished my feet and matched the tightly structured life at home.
Went off to college and became an earth shoe hippy girl who didn’t shave. Eventually those turned into Birkenstocks. When I became a “professional,” I started shaving again.
I only wear high heels when I think they are “required” wear. I wore heeled sandals to my cousins wedding. My father made a rude comment. My mother, in her 70′s, wore fuck me stillettos.
Now I wear shoes for comfort and support. I don’t really care about fashion.
This was a GREAT post! And it made me think about shoes in a different way. Thank you.
I hope you have fully healed from your hip replacement. That’s major.
Loran´s last blog post..Wyoming Water
Hiro,
Thanks for sharing such a rich story of your shoes, Hiro. I enjoy this new understanding of a changing, but sweet source of support in your life. “My Life in Shoes, by Hiro Boga”… THAT is a movie I’d go see!
Here are a few thoughts that leap forward…
Shoes express a possibility and an intention. I’m also a fan of red leather shoes ~I believe I have two-a pair of tennies, and a dressy pair.
My first pair of shoes that come to mind are a pair of PF Flyers, so that I can jump higher, run faster (and keep up w/ the boys). ..and I always used to steal into my dad’s circa 1950′s cowboy boots. I’m still bummed that I didn’t keep them when he passed.
My feet tell me how well I’m caring for myself. I’m proud to have recently given myself a pedi. ..Life is back in balance once again! I also like the contrast of bright red toes in my leather flip flops…well anywhere, really!
Finally, heaven is a shoe store; hell is wearing socks during a desert summer.
You really can get a glimpse into others’ lives via their shoes, yes?
W/ love,
Lovely post, it’s making me think that it’s well past the time that I give away the shoes from my previous lives. Not sure why I’ve kept them, (memories?) some haven’t been worn in decades. Now I have no use for ‘occasion shoes’.
I wore high (not very) heels on my wedding day when I was eighteen and I tripped going up the aisle. It was a sign I didn’t have the wit to understand at the time, but which I’ve never forgotten. If I’d done a face-plant that day, it would have been perfect.
It’s been Birkenstocks by preference for many decades since, as I refuse to wear anything I can’t walk (or is that stride?) in.
Elly´s last blog post..Strategy for the tough bits
Hiro,
What an interesting post – really got me thinking. Funny what one recalls – Memories of wearing white/black saddle shoes in high school! My senior year we had a very strict principal (I attended a parochial school, so had a nun as principal). She would stand in the hall during change of classes looking at shoes. If your shoes weren’t up to snuff (polished), you were sent to the office to polish your shoes – instead of going to class.
Now I have just gotten to the stage where comfort is my only concern, although a couple of weeks ago for a family wedding I dug around a bit and found a nicer looking pair of shoes with a slight heel (thought I had tossed them all). That pair lasted about 1 hour and I went back to comfort!! I guess I just have a different perspective on how me feet have carried me through life and how they would like to be treated in return.
Glad to hear you have reached another milestone after hip replacement – a moment to savor.
Katie
Amazing what shoes say about us and where we are in life, when we stop to pay attention!
As I get older, my shoes have become much more comfortable. I’m much less willing to make myself uncomfortable to wear the shoes I “should” be wearing.
Fashion be damned, I want to feel good on my feet!
Victoria Brouhard´s last blog post..On Quitting and Wrecking – WTJ Week 7
Seems as we get older (and wiser?), comfort rules, in footwear! :-)
Katie, I had a friend who attended parochial school. She said that they weren’t allowed to polish their shoes to a high gloss because then their shoes might reflect their underwear! (You can’t make this stuff up . . .)
Elly, ah, the shoe-as-oracle. I’m so sorry for your eighteen-year-old self. And love that you’ve discovered shoes you can stride in.
Judy, the movie! Ha! :-) So good that you’re taking care of your feet, since they support your entire body.
Ilikered, lovely to read your love letter to red high top chuck taylor converse.
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..There’s Wisdom in Shoes
Loran, so interesting that your childhood shoes matched the energy in your childhood home. And yes, I’m healing beautifully from the hip replacement.
Dearest Leonie, thank you for this wonderful poem!
Mark, stiletto-heeled thigh-high black leather boots? You’re a man of many parts (and shoes). You must tell me the story of those boots (and that time in your life) someday. :-)
Char and Marissa, thank you!
Love, Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last blog post..There’s Wisdom in Shoes
Loved this post Hiro, loved it!
I am mad about shoes, and I chose my outfits to match the shoes i want to wear that day. Because shoes are really important to me.
And so is to be barefoot.
It’s easy to tell my mood by the shoes I am or am not wearing.
Much love
Tatty
First of all… just awesome. I love this. LoveLoveLove. I am posting it to my facebook. I want everyone to read this.
I am still one who occasionally goes to Gatherings Which One Wears High Heels. On those occasions, 4″ is my favorite height. I feel beautiful and dangerous. The next day I feel a little foolish and achey.
In college I would hike miles in platform heels (corked bottom late 90s style…) My office attire always included nothing less than a 3″ heel. Now that I’m playing with pooches, I don’t have opportunity to wear heels as often. I also spend a ton of time in my walking or running shoes. Knee surgery a few years back made me very aware of support and comfort. I learned there is a deceptive amount of sneakers that look supportive but really aren’t.
Have you heard “Girl Shoes” by the Chenille Sisters? It’s a great song that would probably fit your pre-shoe-giving-party years. =)
Tatty, shoes or shoeless, you’re a goddess!
Melissa, I’ll look for that song by the Chenille Sisters. Thanks for letting us know about it.
Shoes that I remember:
The first pair of shoes I got to choose for myself: white clogs because the older girls who lived next door wore white clogs and I wanted to be just like them. I loved those clogs, though they didn’t stay white for long.
First pair of heels. Not really much of a heel, just enough for an eighth grader. They were sandals. With a strap over the toes in tan, natural-looking leather and another that wound around the ankle and then buckled in front. I wore them with this navy blue dress that had a tight fit. I remember the shoes because of the look on my boyfriend’s face (he was my first) when I rounded the corner after coming up the stairs to the second floor at school.
Soft leather loafers worn without socks. In the winter. In Indiana. For some reason during college I didn’t need to wear socks that often. My feet stayed nice and warm even in the winter, so I wore leg warmers and brought them down to my ankles when I wore skirts. Since then I’ve never really liked socks that much and just don’t wear them very often. Except for the wooly ones I wear in the winter by themselves when I’m at home.
Silver ballet flats with silver bow. It was the 80s, I was in London and I bought this fabulous pair of sparkly shoes that took me everywhere. And I danced, danced, danced. Ditto for a pair of black patent lace-up shoes with the sides cut out. Very stylin’. I held onto both pairs long after I stopped wearing them because of the memories imbedded in their soles.
My hiking boots. Have had them for years. They have taken me to so many gorgeous places. They don’t get to go out as much as they would like. We must do something about that.
Sexy, strappy, black high heels. Because they are Oh So Gorgeous. And they are actually fairly supportive because of all the Strappiness. And because just looking at them makes me happy when I think about all the places they could go.
Barefoot. For several years I’ve had a vision of myself standing barefoot on mossy rocks in a beautiful white dress while waves gently lap. There’s an impossibly blue lake in northern Wisconsin and wind playing with birch tree leaves. Everything smells of evergreen. I’m holding the hand of my lover and we’re committing ourselves to each other, there in barefeet on mossy rocks.
And I also have red shoes…an old, worn, scuffed pair of much loved kickers from my uni days that I still wear when I need to feel cheeky and cheery!
I live in flip flops, pumps and air cushioned shoes that allow me to bounce around my studio and keep me light and bright. I don’t think I could design freely in anything that didn’t let me feel uplifting and upbeat!
And then for the evenings…always, always comfy fluffy socks :)
Julie, wow, your life-in-shoes is so richly evocative! I can see you in those strappy black heels.
Wishing that your barefoot-vision comes true in perfect timing.
Lucy, yay for red shoes and fluffy socks! :-)
Hugs, Hiro
.-= Hiro Boga´s last post … Good Morning: Surfing the Heat Wave! =-.