MARI

I visited with Mari yesterday. When I got there, we each liked what the other was wearing so much that we traded dresses for the afternoon. We walked around Kensington market, became overwhelmed by people and wool and shared a muffin, tea and a long chat. At the end of our visit, Mari told me that she was going to have to give me her favorite pair of shoes.


They are a pair of boots that are from Brazil, and made of reused canvas tarp that used to cover a truck. The wedge-heeled soles are made of recycled tires. Mari's shoes are definitely well used and well loved. Each shoe has a little hole forming above the big toe. One zipper no longer works, and she stitched it closed ("I don't know how to fix things"). The same shoe has a broken shoe lace, and Mari's solution reminds me a lot of Cecilia's answer to the same problem.

(It's hard to get both my head and my feet in the same picture, it seems...)


I actually remember these shoes well. I think that Mari was wearing them when we first met after she came back to Canada from Brazil after a long process of immigration-related rigmarole. I am certain she was wearing them some weeks later when she came to my parent's house for a special party that I was having. The way she tells the story, that party was the reason she moved back to Canada. It's a bit of a magical tale.


Mari told me that this pair of shoes is very much a part of her. She explained that if people don't like her, it often is expressed indirectly as a comment about her shoes. She told me how when she quit her last job, a woman she worked with looked at her feet and told Mari that she hated her shoes. Mari joked about how a lot of time could be saved in navigating the world of human interaction by asking people what they thought about her shoes: "if you don't like my shoes, there's no way you're going to like me, because these shoes basically are me." She said it with conviction.


I found this really interesting, and I also felt a bit of pressure. I was worried that if I didn't feel entirely at home in Mari's shoes that it would mean something about our friendship. I felt for the first time that there was something really tangible at stake in wearing someone else's shoes, and so the usually curiosity that I approach the task with was coupled with a bit of anxiety. It was interesting.


I put Mari's shoes on in the morning to catch the 9am train to Toronto. At the moment, I'm staying at my parent's place in Oakville for a few days over the holidays. I was lucky enough to get an appointment with a Structural Integration practitioner. I rode to Union station, went to the bank and walked around a bit, before taking the subway.


Mari's shoes looked small to me, even though we wear the same shoe size. When I put them on, I was surprised to find that they were quite roomy, especially around my toes. I found myself thinking as the wind blew through the canvas that I could have easily worn a pair of wool socks over my cotton ones.


I also found, as with other heeled shoes, that it feels really unusual for me to take a step without flexing my heel more. It seemed to me that wearing Mari's boots changed my gait a bit--my hips swinging more, and my feet extending in a different way. It seemed also like there was automatically more spunk in each step.


It's funny, I wore this turquoise coat and orange hat when I came to my parents' place on Saturday, and it felt really good to be "a symphony of colour," as one person put it. But today, I found myself almost dreading wearing them because I just didn't feel like I had the energy to keep it up--to be so colourful, to be alive in that way. While my coat and hat didn't feel like an accurate reflection of me today, I didn't have any other options for keeping warm. So I wore them. The whole thing felt even more complicated wearing a pair of shoes that felt like they didn't really go with the clothing that I didn't really want to wear. It's interesting to me how conscious I am about this sort of thing, and how wearing other people's shoes brings up my own ambivalence around clothing and appearance.


At the appointment, the practitioner did a lot of work on my legs (and also hips and neck). After watching me walk he said that I seemed really uncertain in my legs. Also, in relation to talking about how the body can store emotions, he told me that he sensed I had a lot of anxiety. I found this interesting. I suppose I do have my fair share of anxiety, and certainly have had heaps of anxiety in the past. I don't know if I would describe myself as an anxious person, and in fact, some friends have told me that they think of me as a calming presence. But I think it is definitely possible that my body's holding onto all sorts of old stuff. It was interesting that as he told me this, I felt disappointed in myself, like I had somehow failed the adequate person test because I have anxiety stored up in all sorts of places, and a body that doesn't want to cooperate with me. I, like many, am good at being hard on myself.


Anyhow, afterwards I felt like my body was 40 times heavier than before. I felt like I was a part of the ground and my arms swung loosely from my torso. It made me teary to feel so different, to feel so much in the world. When I put Mari's shoes on, I felt like I wanted to badly for my heels to be closer to the ground. I didn't want to let go of that sinking feeling. As I walked to the subway I tried to stay loose and heavy, which somehow also translated into being slow. I don't know how to be loose and heavy and rushing for the subway (or anything) all at once. Usually I think I walk as if I'm about to jump out of my body. Especially if I happen to be going quickly.


I ended up with time before the train back, so meandered a bit. Back in Oakville I made some tea and got some gifts ready. I had a much needed nap. I was beginning to feel like I needed to escape and skip out on the rest of Christmas before it had even begun, but sleeping a bit made everything seem less desperate. My sister came in and spooned me as I was contemplating getting up and wondering why it is that I often drool when napping, but never when sleeping at night. I got up and my brother and sister and I decorated our neighbor's front porch and tree, something we've been doing for some years now. I cut up some celeriac and beets and roasted them as part of our dinner.


As an amusing aside, Zachary announced at the dinner table that he would from now on refer to his soy egg nog as "snog." A few months ago Zach began having horrible reactions to milk, and last night really wanted some egg nog. We went across the way to Whole Foods to satisfy his craving, and for me to find an iron supplement that doesn't make my teeth grey. I laughed most of the way over--Zach's favourite way to get to the plaza is to scale the berm that separates my parent's street from the main thoroughfare beyond it. He does by taking comical leaps on the way up, and a funny run on the way down. I followed behind him laughing, and moving more cautiously. All sorts of spiky things attached themselves to my stockings. Inside I was pushing a cart and examining the overwhelming variety contained in that store while Zach went up ahead and played with a 'Buddha Board' water painting thingo that was on display. I walked by to check out his creation. He had scrawled, "Hey Aislinn, watch out!" and as I read it, he tripped me from behind. His timing was impeccable, and we both laughed a ton.

(Zach kindly helped me take off Mari's boots after our decorating. When I pulled out the camera, he started making this face.)

So tonight my mom proposed a toast, and we clinked our snog or water-filled glasses. After dinner my dad read a few Christmas stories, which Katie and Zach feel too old for, but I don't mind listening to (especially since I can see how much he enjoys it). My dad is currently baking yet another batch of mince tarts. My mom and sister are watching Christmas movies on TV. Zach is in bed. I hope to be sleeping very soon, myself.


Mari's shoes are well loved and well worn. I really enjoy shoes like this that hold lots of stories about a person, and in this case, evoke my own memories of a person. Mari's right--these shoes do seem to be so much a part of her. Today I wore them a bunch of places...on trains that are familiar from what seems like a distant part of my life; on grey city streets; in train and subway stations absolutely filled with people and noise and parcels; and on a sneaky tree-decorating mission. For the first time, I think, the unfamiliarity of someone else's shoes was paired with the kind of unfamiliarity of a day that didn't have the usual structure or common ground that most of my days have. I haven't slept at my parent's house since this time last year, I haven't taken the GO train in ages. Maybe that's part of the reason that I found myself partway through the day craving some kind of anchor, longing for that heaviness, wanting to feel my feet more close to the ground, and missing the comfort and familiarity if my own shoes. Or maybe it's the season, which I usually find to be very strained and difficult to enjoy. Maybe it's sometimes hard enough being present in my own skin, without adding in the complicating factor of something new between me and the ground; something that I want to be attentive to, that is so much a part of another person who is important to me, another person who I want to be close to. But I'm not Mari, and maybe it's okay that there were moments when my feet didn't want to be in her shoes, didn't feel like it was where they belonged or what they needed. And maybe that doesn't have to mean that our friendship is ill-fated.
I really, truly, definitely, certainly hope so.

christmas trees

(The tree I felted...I think the buttons and beads make it much nicer. It also helps that it has a home now...
...on Tara's lovely and clever Christmas tree!)


Merry, merry, everyone. I hope that whatever you are doing, you are having a time!

KIMM

Thursday December 20, 2007.

When we were at the Shepherd's Play last Friday, I asked Kimm if he would lend me a pair of his shoes. He later wrote me that he had a pair picked out--an old pair of brown sneakers. He told me that he usually isn't a pack rat, and normally throws away an old pair of shoes as soon as he gets new ones. But these shoes, for some reason, have lived in the back of his closet for sometime: "they still have some life in them," he wrote, although he doesn't wear them anymore.

(Some of the animals at Fourfold Farm, where the Shepherd's Play took place.) (The changing room.)

(The barn where we watched from straw bales and tried to keep warm.)

(Kimm took this one. Shortly after, we saw the northern lights. It was magical.)

(So many people! We all had cider and Sandra's delicious cookies afterwards.)


Kimm dropped of his shoes to me at the art studio on Wednesday. He was all red-cheeked and bundled as he told me that he had seen me dancing though the window, and told me a bit more about about his shoes. Inside Kimm's brown sneakers were a pair of Birkenstock insoles. He told me about how those insoles have been on his feet every summer, spring and fall for three years, that they have seen him through two summers of tobacco planting, and that they should really give me a feel for the shape of his feet.


I wore Kimm's shoes the following day.
I spent some time in the morning writing the post about Ben's shoes. Lately I've been finding it hard to wear a pair of shoes and post about them all in the same day, although I like the immediacy of going about it that way. Somehow things seem really quite busy despite the fact that a lot of my usual obligations are on hold for a few weeks.


At any rate, I put on Kimm's shoes just after 9am and headed downtown for an appointment. There was still bunches of snow and slush on the ground, and not an ideal time for sneakers. It just so happened, however, that I had a lot of stuff to carry and had intended to take the bus anyhow, so my feet didn't get too cold or wet.


Walking in Kimm's shoes I was mostly struck by the effect of his insoles. Usually when I wear shoes that are large on me, my foot stays close to or at the back of the shoe, and most of the extra space is at the front. With the insoles, though, my heels didn't want to stay at the back of the shoes. Instead, my arches wanted to align themselves with the arches of Kimm's insoles, which were further forward, and so the whole of each foot was shifted away from its usual spot. As I walked further, I noticed how the insoles had the added benefit of shielding my feet from the cold sidewalk below. Interestingly, the front half of each foot was colder than the back, as Kimm's insoles don't fill his entire shoe, and instead only go about half way. The back also felt hard in comparison with the pliable and soft space where there was no insole. I also found that the place where they bent as I took each step was further forward than I am used to, and resulted in the sensation that I was about to pitch forward with each step. Luckily, this didn't happen--although I did trip several times. I quickly relaxed with it, and like it often seems to happen, wearing Kimm's shoes eventually felt familiar.


Except when it didn't. Every so often, sandwiched between times of being comfortable in Kimm's shoes, I had the distinct sense that Kimm's shoes were definitely not meant for my feet. For moments at a time they would feel hard and unforgiving, and like the shape of them was all wrong for me. And then in a few steps they would begin to feel average on my feet again. It was really striking, this back-and-forthness. I don't know what to make of it.


As I was walking to the bus stop after my appointment, I was all caught up in my own stuff. My head was busy thinking about all sorts of things, and I thought about how I take all of my own baggage to each pair of shoes that I wear. How to really put oneself in another's shoes as the saying urges, is very difficult to do because of the particular perspective that we carry to each experience. But maybe dropping one's baggage / perspective to pick up another's isn't the point, entirely. Maybe it is possible to double the load...or try to. Or maybe not. I'm not at all sure.


I also thought about why it is that I've been missing the intensity of applying myself to the task of everyday wearing another person's shoes. It occurred to me that at the same time that my own stuff distracts me from really being in the moment to moment experience of wearing unfamiliar footwear, wearing other people's shoes is a really nice way to give me a sense of purpose each day, something to try hard to concentrate on and be concious of. Something to attempt to do. Wearing other people's shoes at least focuses my energy and encourages me to be perceptive, if it doesn't distract me from some of my own stuff.


I saw Janet and Caleb downtown, and blew kisses to where they were in their car. I was thinking about how the baby inside Janet's tummy is due any day now, and it occurred to me that it if it were me, I think I'd be at home drumming my fingers and checking my watch, afraid to go anywhere. I am sending them so many well wishes!


[As a side note, I was talking with my mom today about the details of childbirth, and just how much water actually comes out when ones water breaks. She told me that when she was expecting me, a woman advised her to carry around a jar of pickles in the final stages of her pregnancy. She told my mom that when her water broke, she should drop the jar of pickles and exclaim, "oh my, I just dropped a jar of pickles!" as some way to hide the fact that actually, that clear fluid was coming from inside her. Oh my. My mom told me that she simply couldn't imagine explaining having a jar of pickles in her hands at the public library. Needless to say, she didn't take the well-intentioned woman's advice.]


I took the bus to the university, where Nathan helped me with more computer stuff and let me sign out some equipment as we talked about the general state of the world, trees, and public transit. I went home, had lunch and finished working on Ben's post before having dinner and heading out to meet up with Leslie.


(The cast iron pan that I have yet to season.)

(My second Christmas card--in the form of a postcard made by a friend! Thank you, Jenn and Jimmie!! It made my day.)

(It's hard to tell what's going on here, but there is a small curtain of snow outside the window, where the snow half slid off the roof and decided to freeze there. The plants seem mildly amused.)

Walking to the store where Leslie now works, I noticed how my gait seemed to have change in reaction to the particularities of Kimm's shoes. My feet felt kind of floppy on my legs, and it seemed to me that I was taking rather loose steps. Once there, I swore I saw the back of (other) Nathan's head in the comic book store. I also heard his laugh. I told Leslie, and she had the boldness in her to almost press her face against the glass until Nathan turned around and came out to say hello.

(Yummy 100 mile bread, made with red fife wheat. Umm...)

After Leslie was done work we stopped by the Bookshelf before returning movies at Thomas Video and heading to the Red Brick Cafe. After chatting a bit with Mark and Matthew we drank tea, shared a marvelous piece of cake that the server raved about, and talked about--among other things--ovulation and our mutual ambivalence towards parties and other large social gatherings. It was nice. I walked home, feet floppy and yawning.

(An impressive rendition of the covered bridge in gingerbread.)

(Blurry feet.)
Kimm's shoes were interesting on my feet. At times they seemed to entirely belong there, while at others they felt awkward and uncomfortable. It just now struck me that that that's a bit how I feel about most of my own clothing, and most of the things that I take on for myself. They made me think about the place of wearing other people's shoes in my life, and also encouraged me to ponder the inconstant relationship I have with most objects, and the inconstant presence of things in our lives. At the same time as I found myself deeply reflective, Kimm's shoes were light and floppy and fun on my feet. Wearing Kimm's shoes I found myself in an myriad of interesting both-at-onces, which I feel I can relate to, and which, really, I rather like.