"The shoe that fits one person pinches another; there is no recipe for living that suits all cases." Carl Jung
They're on their last legs, my 9-year-old pair of Birkenstock sandals with the whimsical aqua-pink-yellow strap.
These sandals, with worn-out soles and darkened cork, have journeyed with me through heat, dirt, wind, and rain. They've traveled with me not only during nine summers, but also in spring, fall, and winter as well.
A thick pair of socks with those sandals, and you can get from here to the mailbox in a few inches of snow, no problem. And when you retrace your steps back to the house, you imagine, for that moment, a young girl following in her own footsteps along a beach of soft, white sand.
My old Birkenstock sandals are that magical. They have fit my feet as well as my soul like no others before them. And there have been plenty before them.
Like the original Dr. Scholl's I bought when I left for college that cost all of $12 and looked like one thick Band-aid strapped across my foot. They were nothing to write home about, but their hard, wooden soles — along with a pair of woolen socks — got me through four years of college. I was grateful for that.
I was grateful, too, for the leather Jesus sandals a dear friend tossed my way when she took off for Acapulco to find her true self in the early '70s. By the flimsy looks of those sandals, she must have worn them hitchhiking across this great country of ours. And back again.
I only wore those sandals for that one summer my friend was away finding herself. While I grooved to the looks of those crisscrossed straps — they were exactly what I pictured Jesus wearing as he trod along the dusty roads of Jerusalem — they had tiny nails poking up through their thin cardboard soles.
The good Lord may have been able to bear those nails without so much as a sigh, but I wasn't cut out for that kind of pain. I stored those sandals away with my most special relics of the times. A Dirty Time Company Spiro Agnew watch. Hand-embroidered jean shorts that were way too short for a decent person to wear (but I did). A dog-eared copy of "Siddartha" that made perfect sense in the midst of an otherwise mad semester.
But back to this present summer and the greatest pair of sandals I have ever owned. The sandals that caught my eye as I was strolling through the mall not looking for anything. The distinctly different wide leather strap that resembled a priceless painting of yellow-orange roses dancing in front of a soft pink/blue summer sunset background.
In all my life, I had never seen anything like them. Standing there with my nose pressed against the store window, I must have looked like Dorothy Gale gazing at her ruby slippers. The ones that would eventually carry her back home.
Whatever was I thinking? I couldn't own sandals like that. They were way too cool for a Plain Jane, Dr. Scholl-type, or a mourning Mary, Jesus-type. But the spirit must have moved me. Without thinking, I plopped down my credit card and bought those sandals on the spot.
I walked out of that store feeling a little crazy. And unexplainably joyful. Every time I've worn those too-cool-for-me sandals since then, I may not have felt all crazy-joyful like that first summer, but despite life's ups and downs, I've stayed steady and pretty much all right.
But isn't that the way it is with love? At first, you walk on air. As the newness wears off, you settle into comfortable. Years pass, and now your footprint and those sandals have become one and the same. The bonfire burns down to embers as tiny sparks ascend into the summer night sky. You watch them disappear and you know: your journey down here won't last forever.
I slip my feet into my faithful, old sandals this morning. We're not going anywhere special today. We're just kicking back, happy to still be together.
