Shoes and the Soul

Decluttering the Things Your Body No Longer Has a Use For

This year my spinal pain progressed from moderate to severe, and that’s been scary and confusing and stressful. Simultaneously, a couple of weeks ago, I took a good hard look at the things I’ve been keeping in storage.

Starting with flamenco shoes.

I’d never really gotten too much use out of them. Just a couple of dance classes and a lot of dreams for a Future Me, freed from the encumbrances of the 9-5 grind, starting a late-in-life renaissance and dancing across the tablaos of Spain.

“Can you believe?” they would exclaim, “That woman, the one with such a Fire and Passion for Life — she is nearly 50!”

“¿¡¿Qúe?!?” a handsome stranger would reply, “That fiery beauty? That non-American-acting American? Why, she has brought love to our tiny little village once more!”

This turn of events did not happen. Well, it has not happened yet. Moving to Spain is still a dream, but at this point, it’s a dream that mostly involves affordable apartments, mild ocean breezes, and better healthcare. It is not a dream about planta-tacón-tacón-tacón.¹

Well, I reasoned with myself. I might do physical therapy for a year, and prolotherapy, and other specialized neck injections. I might even get to a point where I can travel on a long trip, and not lose any feeling in my arms and legs! But do I think I will get to a point where I can willingly stomp a heel hard on the ground hundreds of times an hour?

It seemed like a stretch. A very, very big stretch.

Moreover, the shoes were worn, and not flattering. They weren’t in good shape anymore, these containers of my dashed dreams. And nobody even wanted them. (I don’t mean this metaphorically; I put them on Buy Nothing and found zero takers.)

So, I made myself a deal.

If I experience a recovery from my present physical state that is so miraculous…

..that I can DANCE FLAMENCO AGAIN…

…I will buy the fanciest, reddest, most incredible damn shoes I can find as a wonderful celebration.

But in the meantime, barring this kind of miracle, it’s ok to let the old shoes go.

So I did.

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I had more heels. Three pairs of highly professional, formal shoes that I’ve kept “just in case of job interviews” for nearly a decade.

Except, I went on disability 4 years ago. No more job interviews.

And when I’ve had important appointments since then, I wear flats. Because — get this — I walk with a cane and I do not want to fall over.

You’d think this would be easy.

Can’t Walk Good No More == Goodbye Nice Shoes, Hello Old Lady Shoes.

But it’s not that easy. It is an emotional process. Especially when it comes long before “your time.” It doesn’t feel fair to have Old Lady Problems when I’m not an Old Lady.

I wore heels during my life as a “productive member of society.” And while Being a Productive Member of Society is the kind of thing that I used to make fun of . . . it’s different when you can’t.

When you have to stress about money forever because you’ll maybe never earn it again.

When you no longer receive praise or thanks for doing. You know what? In our society, very often the only dependable kindness is transactional kindness.

So what happens when you no longer have the currency for that transaction?

Does that make you an un-person?

You see the problem. I get rid of these “professional person shoes,” and it’s just one more reminder that, according to the world at large, I no longer exist.

They talk about getting rid of your ‘fantasy self.’ But when your fantasy is, “What if I actually existed again?”

. . . that’s a lot of weight to put on 3 pairs of shoes.

The shoes represent the kinds of lives I used to have, that I can’t have anymore.

I’m having trouble saying goodbye to all of them.

I’m having trouble saying goodbye to all of the lives I’ve lost.

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So here’s what I did with The Problem of What To Do With My Adulting Shoes:

I nibbled around the edges.

Sometimes, when you’re riding the Denial Train, you can at least make a pit stop at Preposterous Station. “Sure, your spine might improve enough to wear a low heel….but do you think you’ll be able to handle this really high heel again?”

No. No I did not.

So that helped me get rid of one pair, leaving two remaining.

I sat with what was left for a couple of days. I didn’t push it. I was doing very well. Two pairs of shoes gone so far. I thought it would be fine to give myself permission to keep the rest.

And I know the decluttering tv shows would just ruthlessly throw all five pairs out right away, yelling at people to Just Get Over it!, while showing closeups of their crying faces.

But I wasn’t interested in creating a good television show. I was interested in sitting with my spirit.

It’s a process, and the process is, quite frankly, about mourning.

So I tried to honor that mourning process, and not push myself too hard. I nibbled around the edges, so that on certain days, I could at least get rid of an item or two that was clearly preposterous for Present-Day Me. Hey, progress is progress. Like an alcoholic, I focused on just what I could do . . . today. Without pushing it.

But then something happened. After a few days, my feelings had shifted. Part of it was working on this essay. I realized that once I wrote about the memories, the feelings, the hesitation, and the sadness . . . the things themselves held much less value.

It turned out they were guideposts to something I wanted to say and feel, more than actual physical objects.

They were like big, awkward sticky notes for the soul.

Sticky notes that said, “Remember, who you are now is just one part of you, you’ve had other selves, too” and “Remember your last job? That was nice. You learned a lot there and made some good friends.”

But also, “Did you know that if you wear the wrong shoes while you have mobility issues, you could possibly injure yourself?” and “Your safety is actually more important than holding onto some old pieces of leather and wood.”

The shoes no longer fit present me. The shoes were no longer safe for me. The shoes could help someone else.

Maybe somebody else who had an important job interview to go to.

I gave the shoes away. The recipients were very appreciative. And somehow, these many stops on the Denial Train led to even more realizations, and even more purging as I gained momentum.

I didn’t have to keep an altar to my past self.

I’m in the thick of it now. When all this is done, I will have almost no shoes left. But instead of wearing one pair of shoes 90% of the time, and having another 10 as an altar for my past, I’ll just own what I actually wear right now.

It will feel a bit lonely and sad and sparse, but it will also feel true and real and present.

Truth and reality can have their own beauty.

Emptiness can have its own beauty, when it’s real.

Better an emptiness that is true than an abundance that is false.

And how will I feel? How will it feel to sit with what is true right now?

I guess I’ll find out.

1. Ball-heel-heel-heel