EASTER MONDAY THOUGHTS: NEW SHOES

During the pandemic, I did what I think was my final shoe purge. Some were donated, some went to friends who are still rocking heels, and others went to a nice consignment shop I learned about on Instagram.

Others, I converted to canvases, and hand painted. 

There's one pair, however, that I don't wear any longer, but have yet to part with. I've had them for about fourteen years, and unlike a few other pairs that apparently had a shelf life date, this pair still looks new. 

Like all functional art, they could be used for the purpose for which they were created. They still fit,  but now, they're on display. These days, I just like the look of them.

 

I don’t know what I was thinking that day—the day I bought the shoes, that is--or if I was thinking at all.

I just remember getting dressed, going outside, getting into my car, and driving north.
I'd left home with neither a plan, nor pages of MapQuest directions.
I'd driven for miles, and passed through towns I'd only heard about in local weather reports.

"Oh, that's where this is."

"I think this is where so-and so used to live."

"They drive all the way up here to work?"

"Should I have taken that exit?"

"I think I'm lost."

"I'm really tired."

"I don't want to drive anymore."

 

I don't know when I began to feel disoriented. According to the signs, I was darn near Pennsylvania.

(Being “in the area” means nothing when you don’t know your destination, or where you are.)
Whatever I was looking for, or hoping to confront, or experience, wasn’t there.

It wasn’t even in the vicinity.

I'm not sure what I was trying to accomplish, so I just parked the car under a tree in an office park I'd stumbled upon, and sat.
Everything in me wanted to cry. My car sounded like it was crying.

"Who are you? Jonah? Go home!"

This was no leisurely joyride anymore.

"I should never have left home", I thought.
In an unsympathetic way, my mind envisioned 

the map of Maryland, sitting low on a bookshelf…or in a junk drawer, because it was not in the glove compartment where it should have been.

Why hadn’t I brought it?

I really was lost.

Of all the times you wished you saw someone you knew...

I never saw a familiar face.

I saw what I thought was a familiar car, (as if there was only one vehicle like it in the world), but the stranger who got into it, dashed my hopes of "accidentally" running into a friend who could change the trajectory and mood of the day— or point me in the direction of home.

It occurred to me just how many people you don't know.

I hadn't told anyone where I was going, and suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

"You know, you could be kidnapped, and no one would ever find you", I thought.

I didn't want to think about the drive back home.
The journey seemed too long.
Too many others would be on the same road; tired after actually being productive at work all day--unlike me, wandering aimlessly around like the children of Israel in the Old Testament---and as if gasoline was eleven cents a gallon.
With the rush hour looming, I would soon be surrounded by unhappy motorists.

For a split second, I considered checking into a hotel, then thought, "Oh, you're really trying to be a missing person today, aren't you? Go home!"

I thought of all the things I could have done that day.

I'd let boredom get the best of me.

The odometer testified of the gas I’d wasted.

I was hungry.

I was there (wherever there was), so I thought I might as well stop at the next gas station I saw, fill up, and explore the town I was in.
There was a strip mall, so I drove into a large parking lot.
I needed to stand up and walk, so I went into the store.

I had no intention to purchase anything, but something seemed to be drawing me.
I saw the color from a distance.

It was like a beacon, the way they stood out.
I walked directly to it.
Why were they there? 

In that place?
They were pretty, sculptural, textured, and regal.
This place was an outlet-type, and a bit disorganized .

It seemed like a place to get camping equipment, or work-out gear, not a fantastic, mood-altering pair of pumps.
Something had to be wrong with them, I thought.
I turned them over and over.

They were gorgeous!

I looked at the box.

They'd been marked down several times.

The asking price just couldn't be right.

I decided I wouldn't leave them there, wondered who I'd gift them to, then finally noticed they were my size.
Why had no one rescued them before?

I tried them on, and had a genuine Cinderella moment.
It was as if they'd been waiting for me; just sitting in the middle of a shelf surrounded by drab running shoes, and ugly work boots.

My disposition changed immediately. 
I'm convinced that the whole thing was a divine setup...or sympathetic rescue.

"God did this", I thought.
He had to.
He knows me.

He saw me, and pitied me, out there riding around.
No one else knew how deflated I felt.

No one else knew how much I needed a laugh, or a hug...or directions...or an attitude adjustment.
I thanked Him right on the spot, as I looked down at my feet in those shoes.
In the most unusual way, he chastised and comforted me--all the way to the register.
"This will not be a wasted day. It's nice to see you smiling. Now, what have you learned?"

I was still smiling as I left the store (just as I'd smiled thirty-eight years earlier, on Easter Eve, as I left the (long since closed) Eastover Shopping Center's J.C. Penney with my sister and Dad, happily carrying a bag which held my first pair of high heels.)

All of my life, from that day on, there had been something magical about a beautiful, artistic, unique, new pair of shoes, that made everything alright, somehow. I felt like the journey hadn’t been so ridiculous, after all.

The extra miles suddenly didn't seem so bad.

Road signs became familiar.

I was headed in the right direction.
I sang as I went. I knew I hadn't intentionally taken a trip to buy shoes, but the day had certainly been saved by them.

On occasion, I glanced at the bag on the passenger’s seat, and laughed.

At some point, my ordered steps would be taken in a new pair of green, genuine leather, handcrafted, Italian, croc-embossed shoes, with three-inch wooden heels, for which some great, majestic tree had sacrificed its life.
Those shoes made me forget all about being lost and disoriented. 

They would be a future reminder of what to pursue, and what to avoid;

What to embrace and what to shun;

What to heed, and what to ignore;

What brings joy, and what brings confusion;

What being in the wrong place can do to diminish the value and integrity of a thing;

What deserves effort and investment, and what should be disposed of.

Life is full of quirky turns that seem accidental.

One year after a pair of new shoes salvaged what was looking like a wasted day, my daughter and I were walking in downtown DC, and went into a haberdashery.

A striking, genuine leather satchel was sitting high on a shelf, waiting for a new home.
I saw the color from a distance, and experienced a little deja vu. 

I admired the satchel, and the clerk took it down so that I could see it up close.

It was much too expensive for me, I thought, but worth every penny of the asking price that some lucky consumer would eventually pay. 
It certainly wasn't a need, so I left it there.

I was quite unaware, however, that my daughter had noted my admiration, as she browsed for a black newsboy cap.

Months later, on my birthday, I awoke to find my green shoes on the floor beside my bed, pointed in the direction of a big, festive shopping bag.

I followed the shoes, opened the bag and saw green.

It was the satchel! My thoughtful child had gone back to the haberdashery to get it for me. (It’s a testament that good gift givers pay attention, listen, and make mental notes.)

I carried my satchel a few Saturdays ago to a green-themed event. I’d taken the shoe box off of the shelf, opened it and looked at the shoes. They would have nicely completed my outfit. There was no fooling myself, however, that I could still rock them as confidently as I had fourteen years ago. I imagined myself looking like a newborn giraffe, struggling to balance, except I wouldn't be running with the herd within a few hours' time. The pandemic was a no-pain, barefoot, ballerina-flat kind of event, and I'd have to retrain myself in the art of standing or walking effortlessly in those shoes. If I was going to wear them that day, I’d better be sitting down (at least half as long as I had been sitting in my car "joyriding" the day I found them.)