I have a secret. A confession of sorts, not the type that will make you lose face or end in repentence. Just a little secret between me, mother nature...and now you.
When I travel to a new place, which is frequently, I like to settle in and then wait for the moment when the evening tucks it's grey blanket over the fading blush of day. Then, I kick off my shoes and pad quietly outside and walk barefoot. I also indulge in this little habit early in the morning, when the grass is wet and cool. I love to find warm spots where the yawning sun has already smiled upon the earth.
Something happens when you walk barefoot...a kind of intimacy, kisses on the toes, a thrill in your heart as if any moment you might come upon a tiny bearded man sitting on a mushroom offering you a sip of port from a whittled mug.
I have dug my toes into the ash of a spent volcano, examined my steps etched in a million grains of sand, dried my toes on the orange stones of Utah, and felt the dew of cushioned steps alighted on the moss of Williamsburg. A hundred years of history becoming my pedestal.
So now you know, my little secret.