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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Off the Cuff / My Other Journal #818718 added June 4, 2014 at 6:59pm
Restrictions: None
Shoes and Subtropics
I am not sure why I am writing about shoes, today. I am not sure why anyone does or why anyone stuns the bloggers with shoe prompts. 
Truth is, I like shoes just fine but I don't have a shoe fetish, and neither am I like my mother who thought she was making a statement with her shoes. In any shoe store, my mother had a knack for finding that individual pair, one of its kind, to define her as an invincible entity, like a goddess rising on tiny feet above crowds.
Unlike the woman who brought me to this world, I don't have that intimate level of a connection with my shoes. At least not at the present time. I usually viewed shoes as mere coverings for my two feet; that is, after my very young years and the era of my stiletto days. It might have been my subconscious mind mimicking my mother, but I walked on those stilted things like a kangaroo hopping from one place to another in the city and didn't feel their pinch or squeeze, no matter how badly they molded to the arches of my feet. Much can be said about young feet that haven't learned to complain.
Later on, during my middle years, I dumped stilettos in favor of pumps, which were more comfortable and useful, and they adapted to every occasion. Still, some shoes, be it pumps or flats, without the perfect fit, were like trying stay with incompatible friendships, where it is always difficult to get along.
At one time, between my pump and stiletto days, I have to confess, I was in love with boots, but winters are cold in Northeast, and I strongly disliked that frigid feeling inside my feet. In addition, the boots had supported me through snow and ice and rain puddles, and each time I had to throw away an old trashed pair, I went into trauma, as if I had lost my best friend, my sense of place, belonging, and support.
As soon as we moved to Florida in 1992, however, I liberated my mind and my feet from boots, pumps, heels, and tennis shoes that I used to wear in NYC. Welcome freedom with sandals, open–toes, sling-backs, and no-backstraps, but Flip Flops failed miserably, although I tried very hard to tolerate their sh-plop sh-plop sounds and the way they made me waddle like a duck. Granted they were a tad better than the leather torture devices I used to wear when I lived up north. Still, in good will and utmost respect, I laid them to rest in an obscure corner of my closet, to accompany the covered-all-around, ugly-faced shoes I keep wrapped up for traveling north.
Nowadays, I am happy with my sandals, and I wear them year round because my toes are free in them and they wiggle at will, though mostly from the arthritis in my small joints. Even so, I let them do whatever strikes their fancy. No way will I let their boundless energy go to waste.
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Prompt: Flip Flops or bare feet? What does summer look like in your world?
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