I have self diagnosed my feet of having claustrophobia, but instead of combating it with necessity and proper etiquette, I indulge them. Even in the cold winter months I kick off my shoes and socks, so you can about imagine how far my pampering can go in these beautiful summer months, surrounded by lush green grass and yellow dandylions. My feet run around like those children saying "Na na, na na na!" who have no pants on with their mothers chasing them. My unclad feet even creep their way into my dreams, and I traversed through my hodge-podge dream world of Florence, Mecca, soccer fields with thorn hedges, and British Army men from WWI sitting in metal bleachers (yeah, I'm not sure where they came from either).
Now as all the shrinks are writhing in pain at my seemingly self destructive indulgence of my phobic feet, I have to confess I still adhere to most of the social feet norms, though I did seriously consider not wearing shoes to church. But it's just that here it means more. Standing amongst thousands of blades of grass under the swaying, creaking tree boughs, the wind gently brushing the exposed skin of my flesh wrapped tarsals, I can feel the summers of my childhood. Memories of laughing and playing, swinging on our rusting swing set, running through the laundry on the clothesline. Games of basketball and catching fireflies. Climbing trees and trying not to break anything else in the house. The wet noses of calves and a soft kitten you can call your own. The times when the world was good and you believed in those moments that everyone was in harmony, feeling the joy you felt in your entire being, making the air you breathe taste sweeter.
So I shed the laced bondage of my feet wear and remember the goodness in this world.
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