I have a rock in my shoe almost daily. Are my shoes too wide? My socks too low? Am I walking too fast? It makes more sense when I’m on the gravel path at home, but even when I’m going to the fitness room in the hotel? I have to laugh about it now, because it’s simply part of my routine, to shake out each sock, to give each shoe a couple extra bumps. 

Near the beach in Santa Monica yesterday, it made sense that I would pick up a little sand in my slip on mules. (Certainly not beachwear, but perfect for the restaurant on the pier.) (Sand is really only small rocks with a good reputation.) So, as I always do with sand, I gave my feet a little brush and allowed myself to travel back in time. Back to the first day at the beach each summer (spring really) in Minnesota. Oh, how we longed for summer. And wasn’t it wonderful to ache for it? To dare the sand just a little too early. To let it wriggle between our winter white toes and dare us towards the water. It seemed to be an exfoliant of all our winter woes, our schoolyard scuffles. It was the opposite of bundling — a release into the warmth of possibility! 

I suppose it’s all about perspective. When I think about where sand can take me, why would I ever worry about a pebble?

I am laced and ready for whatever the day may bring.