I grew up in an Asian household. When you enter an Asian home, you take off your shoes. I took this as a bit of a hassle and included it among the strange Asian habits of not wanting to use things. I have relatives that live with plastic coverings over their coffee tables, couches and carpets. Taking off your shoes seems like an obvious extension. I didn’t have to take off my shoes at my friend’s houses. Why did my parents have to be so finicky? What’s with this no shoes in the house policy? Is it just neurosis?
It wasn’t just shoes, I didn’t like taking off my coat either. I like coats. As the weather cooled in the fall, I’d look forward to rediscovering the winter coats that had spent their summer exile in the attic. Perhaps it was a metaphor for wanting to shield myself from the world, like the teens that walk around school wearing trench-coats all the time. I think I just liked the feeling of being wrapped up warm and cozy. I had a habit of keeping my coat on after entering a home. The hosts would encourage me with a smile and a wink, “Why don’t you take your coat off? Stay a while.” I didn’t feel like I was on my way somewhere, I just like my coat, OK? Leave me alone.
Maybe I didn’t really want to stay somewhere. That could be why I love backpacking – it’s a kind of way of leaving. Interesting then, that when backpacking, one of the great simple pleasures is stopping for a break. For short breaks, you rest just long enough to take off your heavy pack. However, if you’re fortunate to stay longer, you can unbind your feet. Taking off your boots is an experience worthy of being a holy ritual. It’s like the first bite of food after a fast. There are stages of relief and sighs of pleasure. Ahhh, as you set down the pack. Oh, yes… as you loosen the laces and feel the extra room to move your toes. The boots come off. And then comes the ultimate freedom. You peel off the tight, woolen, hiking socks and your feet leave the confines of moist constriction to meet the open air. And then, you breathe. With toes wiggling in the breeze, you linger and take in the glory of the surrounding nature. To experience this pleasure, you need to be committed to stop for awhile. After you shed the pack, shoes and socks, you won’t be in any hurry to put them back on. Sometimes, it’s nicer to stop when it’s not as easy to leave.
In many natural scenic places, the park service has seen fit to build nice paved roads right up to a dramatic viewpoints and landmarks. In Yosemite National Park, Hannah and I took a walk from the valley to Glacier Point, a location that provides a breathtaking view of the area. We hiked a trail up switchbacks that wind through intimate glimpses and spectacular vistas. After a few hours, we near the top. We’re short of breath and eager for the serenity of the Glacier Point view and arrive at… a parking lot. There are families spilling out of their cars, grumpy kids, people carrying dogs and wearing high healed shoes. Most of the visitors stay for five minutes, force their bored children to pose for a picture, and then hop back into their vehicles for the drive back down to the valley. That is the nature of nice roads and nearby parking lots. You aren’t ever far enough from your car to let it go. Why consider staying when it’s so easy to leave? It’s time to check this site off the list and move on to the next destination.
During our two month road trip, we had days that were mostly driving. All day, incredible landscapes would slide by like a picture show through the windows and I would sit there with a slow, gnawing frustration. I suppose just seeing such beauty is privilege enough, but I want more. I want to feel the rock and soil under my feet. To smell the pines and sages. I want to brush up against willows and hear the twinkling leaves of cottonwood trees. Just to see and pass by is not enough. Get me out of that metal prison with windows posing as televisions. I want to know the place with all of my senses and them some. To know what things are named and how they interact and the stories they’ve lived. To linger. Remaining in the car feels distant from the moment where I’m sitting on the rock near my backpack and without my shoes.
In Hebrew scriptures, there is a story where Moses is taking a walk and notices a bush on fire. He nears the bush to get a closer look and is greeted by God. God says, “Moses, take off your sandals. You are standing in a holy place”.
The road trip took us from Indiana to California and back. In California, we met up with my sister, Tai-sing. Upon entering her home, she asked if I would take off my shoes. Delighted, I obliged.
