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I walked home from fencing practice barefoot.
It was really too cold; I haven't seen any bees yet, and there was still ice on the lake and snow in the ground in sheltered patches. The grass is still mostly brown. The pavement deep in shadow was cold against my skin, and my pitiful winter feet were only barely up to the roughness and the stones of the walk.
But it was so warm yesterday.
It was glorious to have nothing between me and the ground, to read the earth with the palms of my feet and let my toes wiggle in the breeze. It felt like the summers of childhood.
My own personal ritual to welcome the imminent spring.
It was really too cold; I haven't seen any bees yet, and there was still ice on the lake and snow in the ground in sheltered patches. The grass is still mostly brown. The pavement deep in shadow was cold against my skin, and my pitiful winter feet were only barely up to the roughness and the stones of the walk.
But it was so warm yesterday.
It was glorious to have nothing between me and the ground, to read the earth with the palms of my feet and let my toes wiggle in the breeze. It felt like the summers of childhood.
My own personal ritual to welcome the imminent spring.
