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ONE SHOE
Like millions of people world-wide, I witnessed the inauguration of Barack Obama yesterday. I could prattle on about the emotion I experienced and the thoughts that zoomed through my mind, but I’m sure they’re similar to those of most people. So I’ll leave all lofty thoughts to the pundits and write about what’s been on my mind all through the month of January. It’s shoes.
Our First Lady wore green ones yesterday. She looked very happy striding down the street in those heels as she waved to the adoring crowds. I knew she felt good in those shoes. They had obviously passed the criteria for choosing a pair of shoes for a long public day, looks, class, and comfort.
I own a lot of shoes. My closet is jammed with shoes of every color and description. I cannot bear to throw away a single pair. I own clogs and platforms and stilettos and ballerina shoes that I never wear. I’ve saved ugly ones like the black and brown tennis shoes that languish unworn on the top shelf of my closet. Beside those shoes sit my evening shoes that sparkle when I open their box, and next to those are my cheerful aqua-colored patents with a grosgrain ribbon bow. There are the black soft leather shoes I wore to my mother’s funeral, the brown boots I wore to New York when I met my agent, Lisa, the red stilettos I wore to the party Butch threw when Right As Rain was published. I’m fairly certain I can produce the perfect shoe for any occasion that may arise, and still I buy more shoes nearly every time I go to the mall. Everyone who knows me well knows all this about me and my shoes, and that’s why my friend, Jan, gave me a little plaque that is sitting on my computer now. It’s a quote: “One shoe can change your life . . .” Cinderella.
Okay, unless we’re Cinderella our shoes probably aren’t really going to change our lives. But we can change ourselves. “Yes we can,” that now famous phrase of the campaign, can be translated to our personal lives as well as our public ones. I recently read an essay in our newspaper that was about my friend, Carole. Carole’s mother died on Christmas Eve, she misses her grandchildren who live in Australia, and she has sorrows and responsibilities and hardships that are inevitable when you’re a mature adult. What’s different about Carole is, although like me she’s been a grandmother for twelve years, she sports purple streaks in her short dark hair. Asked why she’d do this, she said, “When I look in the mirror and see the streaks, I’m reminded not to take myself too seriously.”
I now have blue streaks in my blonde hair. “Yes I can.” I can revise the novel I’ve just finished. I can leave my holiday decorations up until Mardi Gras. I can buy new underwear for my husband if I don’t do the laundry. I can dance barefoot to ZZ Top in my living room. I can belly laugh with my friends, leave the dishes to soak overnight, skip rope, and sit on a branch of the oak tree beside my house. I can stop taking life too seriously.
We all can. We all can change. We all can reach for our dreams. We can believe in ourselves. We can trust ourselves when others doubt us. We writers can write from our hearts and not worry about what’s popular in the bookstore. We can hope that the novel from our heart gets published, and if it doesn’t, we can write another one.
And until another novel pops out from our hearts, we can write a journal entry about shoes. Michelle Obama wore green shoes on the day her life changed, and tomorrow when I’m standing in front of my class in my brown satin flats, I’m going to say to my students, “One shoe and YES YOU CAN.”
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