I Really Like My Dirty Feet by Caryn MacGrandle

Last night, I had a dream where a nicely dressed woman leaned towards me and said, ‘Come with me, I’ll show you how to do it.’   

“I’ll show you how to get those feet clean,” and she looked down at my dirty feet in disgust. 

And I knew what ‘it’ she was referring to.  She had a nice car and a big beautiful home and a well coiffed outfit.   She was one of my children’s friend’s parents, successful the way that mainstream society defines it.  

And my small self said, ‘sure, okay’.   

But then my Large self said ‘wait a minute.  Stop.  I like my dirty feet.’ 

They’re part of me, you see.  

My second ex-husband 62 years old, and his feet are as clean as the day he came out of his mother’s womb.  They never touch the earth.  Nor the floor for that matter as he has inside shoes and outside shoes and never the two shall meet. 

He has this story of a friend of his who got sick from not wearing shoes.  His dirty cracked feet letting in some horrible bacteria that caused much damage. 

That is my ex-husband you see.  He means well, but he is full of warnings.  Don’t.  Don’t.  Don’t. 

When I finally left him after 13 years, one thing I was really looking forward to was walking barefoot outside without someone telling me to wash my feet when I came in. 

I walked outside to my big wide open backyard at my new home with minimal neighbors, took a deep breath, and … 

Ouch. 

Stepped on burweed.  Burweed is not just prickly, it implants itself in your foot.  And it was everywhere in my almost acre backyard.  

Really, world?  Really? I thought to myself. 

And I started researching pesticides and means to get rid of the burweed.  I don’t like pesticides nor perfect lawns, but I wanted to walk on my lawn.  It was an important part of my freedom that I had given up so much to get. 

But instead of pesticides, I went out and bought a big bag of clover seeds and started talking.   

Please.  I asked it.  

My home was built in 1961, and the couple that owned it for almost 60 years were gardeners.  Flowers and plants everywhere.  A well to water the plants.  You can feel the time and love they put into it.   

Until after they died, and a busy preacher with four kids and three Mastiff dogs bought the home and decided the plants had to go as he did not have time for them. So he kept his big dogs, hot and thirsty in this horrible chain link fence area, and he removed as much of the vegetation as he could seeking order, perfection and control. 

And the home fought back.  

Okay, I don’t really know that last part, but I’m feeling it because for some reason three years after they bought it, they decided to move on.  And in a series of serendipitous events, in the midst of a housing shortage where most pay at least asking price, in fifteen minutes time,  I managed to get this beautiful perfect for me home at less than asking price.  

I’m here.  I told it.  And will do my best to take care of you.  Land. 

And the burweed went away.  On its own.  The second season I moved here. 

And each year that goes by, I have been learning more and more to live with the Land not just on it.  And I know my ex-husband is right that when you walk around barefoot which I do pretty much every day all day, the earth gets in.  Thank Goddess. 

I felt that in the beginning after walking around my yard barefoot, I would feel this buzzing in my feet.  This charge.  And it’s slowly just gone away.  Or I’m finding my equilibrium.  And in my remote full time job where I am fortunate enough to work behind my computer screen with comfortable pants and no shoes, when I get off a challenging call, I go to my backyard, and I lie on the lawn, with the ants crawling on me, the trees waving and the butterflies all around.  And I breathe. 

That feeling.  Wow.  

And if someone said here’s a million dollars to go to the mall or you can have your backyard, I would not even hesitate.  I would pick my backyard. 

So no thanks, no need to show me how to fit in and succeed.   

I’ve already figured that one out with a little help from Mother Earth.