“If you wear shoes, the world is made of shoe leather.”

I read this a while ago, written by an old yogi quoting an older yogi.  They seem to have this irritating habit of making statements that derive their profundity from being trivially true.  The annoying thing, though, is that it’s hard to gauge the magnitude of that truth.  And since I was definitely in the mood for taking metaphors too literally, I wound up spending the better part of a month not wearing shoes unless I was leaving the neighbourhood, going to work, or going out.

I had never really gone barefoot before.  My mom had a bad experience with a rusty nail when she was younger, and her fear rubbed off on me.  To boot, a favourite pastime of small-town Albertans is to get drunk, do donuts in a pickup and smash the empties everywhere.  So this thing was pretty new to me.

There are several obvious observations.  Sidewalks are ironically the least comfortable thing to walk on after gravel and sidewalks with gravel on them.  Old concrete is uncomfortable because the top layer has worn off, leaving the gravel poking up.  Older concrete is more comfortable because most of that little gravel has worn off, leaving only larger rocks.  New concrete is totally smooth, but very rare in East Vancouver.  Asphalt has gentle lumps and depressions, and forms potholes before it gets uncomfortable to walk on; potholes are obvious things to avoid because they accumulate small sharp things.  Sidewalks with gravel are especially bad.  Dry grass is crunchy and tickly.  Green grass, moss and dirt are amazing.  Laminate flooring and carpet are freaking divine, especially after walking on rough concrete.

Over the entire period, I was cut once.  I didn’t even notice it for half a day, and then with a bit of attention it didn’t bother me at all.  At the start of my experiment, I couldn’t walk more than two blocks on sidewalks.  At the end, I could walk on the crappy sidewalks for a mile without batting an eyelash.  My arches started aching again—this time because they seemed to be improving.

Most significantly, there was a sensation that arose about a week into the experiment, after the tenderness went down.  The best adjectives I can think of to describe it: solidity, energy, connection, focus.  It’s what hippies would probably call “earth engergy”.  I suspect it’s the same fundamental thing as the sensitization that people who practice BDSM experience.  Either way, it’s amazing and energizing.

It turns out that shoes are a tradeoff.  They’re less likely to be cut by glass and I wouldn’t want to skip them if it was really cold.  They’re required for service at some establishments.  They prevent sweat from evaporating, so your feet get hot and stinky.  They spare you the mild discomfort of cement, but deny you the pleasure of grass.  They numb you out.

A recent article in Scientific American Mind discussed a link between the increasing frequency of non-physical work without clearly visible results and the corresponding sharp rise in depression rates: “By denying our brains the rewards that come from ­anticipating and executing complex tasks with our hands… we undercut our mental well-being.”  And this makes me wonder: the idea that our perception colours our reality is far from new.  Could it also be that by numbing our perception, we’re also numbing our reality?  How much of this do we do and take for granted every day?

I’m back in Alberta.  Edmonton generally, Fort Saskatchewan at this very instant.  It’s a very odd readjustment.

I had to drive today, and I will again tomorrow.  This will be the first and second time in over two years.  The contrast between Vancouver driving and Edmonton driving is stunning.  Vancouver driving requires alertness.  The other drivers on the road are more assertive, sometimes to the point of aggression or lunacy.  Edmonton driving requires diligence, because it’s entirely possible for absolutely nothing to happen for minutes at a time, and you have to force yourself to keep paying attention.  The sheer open space pulls your head towards the clouds and your foot toward the ground.  Cars float around; nobody really feels the width of what they’re driving—cycling last night, the four cars that passed me all gave me a full lane of room (which was very pleasant but disorienting).  Traffic consistently forms lines of evenly spaced vehicles: just barely too close to turn between them, as though they need to have room to stop if the car in front were to suddenly hit a force field.

There’s something here that I don’t quite understand just yet.  People are louder but less intense.  Friendlier but less open (or is that backwards?).  More outwardly fun-loving but far, far less adventurous.

Everything feels empty and sparse.  I remember a Chinese friend back in grad school talking about going to West Edmonton Mall all the time when he first arrived because it was the only place he could find that was crowded enough for him to feel comfortable.  I know what he meant now.

The cycling, as predicted, is generally great and specifically harsh.  Edmonton seems to have an abnormally high incidence of bike fatalities, and although I mostly blame it on the generally low level of alertness, it’s also clear that there just aren’t many people here who cycle regularly or seriously.  The terrain is very odd, too.  It’s mostly flat, but what elevation changes there are tend to be very steep and involve gorges cut out by streams and rivers.  Between stretches of effortless 30km/h riding are 100m hills that I can barely mash my way up.  I suspect that there are even some that I just flat out won’t be able to.

I can also tell that I’m going to be very productive at something here.  I’ll have to be.