My Bare Feet Amanda Potts

There was something about the feeling of that squishy muck squirting through my toes after a heavy rainfall that simply made me feel alive. Or to feel the gritty road pushing against every inch of my sole and the rough gravel digging into my leathery skin was akin to perfect bliss.

As a child, I hated wearing shoes. I found them to be uncomfortable and bothersome. When I was six years old I joined a softball league where I was forced to wear cheap confining cleats. And while for games I reluctantly wore them, for practices I didn’t. In bare feet, I was in my own element; sliding into the bases with nothing but skin for protection; staining the soles of my feet with dirt that sometimes cut my skin enough for it to bleed. But the dirt and blood didn’t bother me; rather they built up my endurance which revived me with a breath of renewed confidence.

Besides playing softball, I have enjoyed painting, specifically with my feet. I dip my toes into the colorful mass of paint spread across a canvas that spans the entire breadth of my room. I glide my feet over the rutted texture of the canvas, smiling and giggling as paint tickles the soles of my personal paintbrush. My feet are alive with a reverent spirit as I move to the rhythms they...