I never did step on that rusty nail that we were always warned about, as we barefooted our way up and down Van Dyke Road. And certainly they were there, scattered and abandoned, between every unlocked garage and shed. Maybe it was because we lived in a time when people could actually fix things, or wanted to try. In at least one driveway there was a hood up on the car. A lawnmower turned over. Saw horses supporting more than they should. The hum of power tools. And the smell of cut wood. I suppose that’s why I, we, dared the ground without our shoes. Not believing that nothing would ever go wrong, but understanding that it could be fixed, if and when it did. 

And I smile because so far that has held. My mother had it on the yellow sticky note beside her phone, the barefoot equivalent that read, “What haven’t you survived?” Knowing this, it keeps me better than safe, it keeps me vulnerable. Open. For that is when we learn the most. Receive the most. 

We can try to protect, seal off the heart with steel toed shoes, but we would give up so much — all the joys of summer — freedom, hope, love. I choose to let my heart barefoot through the day. Rusty nails and all, I will race the morning dew, and I will joyfully survive.