I walk barefoot in January.
I press Kentucky into the soles of my feet, tender and aching for a certain nurturance that only my homeland can bring into the very roots of my being.
These winter walks exhale the exhaustion out of my city-sizzled nervous system. I meander in splendid contentment and refreshed awe down familiar paths that comfort and enchant in wild, unbridled, spontaneous beauty.
I yearn to pull this startling and stunning landscape up against my skin, to fold into the rolling hills, and lean my ear to the soothing lullaby that is earth’s gentle breathing in wintertime.
I am surprised and saddened by the sheer force of my own self-inflicted tiredness. I do this to myself – I overcommit. I say “yes” until I (re)learn my “no”. I stay open and then reconsider and reinforce boundaries.
I escape my schedule. I go home. I go home to myself when I walk in the company of white-barked sycamores, wind-shaped dogwood and wild honeysuckle.
And I walk barefoot on a slumbering road that cuts through farmland rich in hills and towering trees swept up in a frenzy of riotous wind.
We walk against the wind now. A wind reminiscent of a moody spring. My mother and I turn the conversation from theatrical training to budding plans for my best friend’s wedding; our talk intuitively sways from creative and heart-led subjects.
She carries one misbehaving boot; I carry the biting culprit.
The cheery reunion with a former friendly pair of boots sours half-way through our jaunt. The well-worn boot apparently took severe offense that she was abandoned to the backs of my Kentucky closet and not invited in the initial packing to go West. Still. The retaliation is mean, methodical, and swift. My heel bleeds, a raw and red offering to the winter air.
And yet, I am secretly grateful for the excuse to peel off socks and free myself of scheming shoes and let my feet be bathed in currents of wind, patches of alluring, golden-hued light. With each step, the road rises up to meet me, a smoothed, pebbled wave propelling me forward.
I trust the road. And no sticks, thorns, cunning and cutting rocks fall underfoot.
And she carries, without fanfare or complaint, the accomplice. Only a mother would unquestionably shoulder the burden. I’ve grown accustomed to holding all my responsibilities (perhaps, too tightly), catching my mistakes (perhaps, too harshly), cradling my sensitivities (perhaps, not softly enough), that I’ve forgotten this centering sensation of instant support.
So with sincere thanks, I accept the kindness.
This is the act of generosity that I continue to carry.
This is the winter route etched into the soles of my feet.
This is the Kentucky stay that tastes like cinnamon coffee and black pepper on eggs, sounds like the familial communing of wild geese sparking instant thoughts around belonging, feels like the burst of a pure laugh erupting from the back of the heart, from the dark corners of the ribcage illuminated by the lightness of quick-witted sisters.
This is the path forged with forgiveness, and tested forgiveness (where I have visceral reactions to seeing people who are just people and projections are illusions, anyway) and brave hellos and then even braver letting-this-go responses that construct new neural pathways.
This visit home glows in twinkle light dinners and cappuccino toasted friendship reunions, and I exclaim and marvel at how well all my friends are doing: They are courageously following their hearts; they are taking the leaps, evolving and expanding, standing firmly in their NOs, and saying YES – and I get to love them, love them, love them. This will forever be the Kentucky stay where I watch my best friend beam in her natural glory as she announces a bridal YES to her wedding dress. (And I cry, of course, I do.)
This is the trip home that saves me from myself.
This is the winter pause where suppressed exhaustion spills over the surface and the wake-up call is a sore throat and a serious lack of energy that scares me into swift and serious action. I implement supplements. (Host Defense Mushrooms) I make a choice to change my schedule. I purchase local lavender oil to massage into my hands and feet before bed. I rehearse a loving mantra in the morning and at night to keep my head and heart cleansed.
This is the visit where I begin to start my morning yoga practice with this intention: “This is a love letter to my body.” And the impromptu flows liberate and enliven and feel so much more aligned to what my heart and body truly need.
This is the Kentucky path that calls me to commit to serious self-care, disciplined self-love.
This is the trip home that clarifies where I am going next, where I literally swing into the next.
The end of the walk brings us back to the car, back to a playground and a waiting pair of swings. I change into a back-up pair of shoes (a secondary pair brought on an intuitive whim that now shimmers in sense) and I sprint to the swings and fly up and higher into the surrounding pines.
The rebellious wind that teases of spring and plays with abandon pushes me higher, and a horse in the neighboring field gives me a curious glance as I continue to launch into the cathedral of trees.
I’m leaving. The same tug that pulled me home for the solstice, for Christmas, and the cocooning time before the New Year, whispers to go west and to continue onward from there.
Because onward I will have to go.
Destiny calls, fate delivers visions, courage rises to answer.
I breathe in the tonic of Kentucky, pump the essence of home right into my lungs, integrate the life-lessons on the cellular level with each kick into the air, and fiercely engrain this feeling of what love feels like -- this embracing blaze of unconditional love.
This is the Kentucky visit where I will forever walk barefoot, coming home to myself by retracing steps to the all-knowing majesties of peaceful pines. This is the Kentucky staying with me as I adventure back to the Lone Star State, bright in an embodied remembering of feet reverently kissing the winter ground, and a heart renewed by serene and swaying woods nudging me to be ready to leap, and when I leap, keep the faith.