Enchantment: Awakening Wonder in an Anxious Age

by Katherine May

But the idea of taking off my shoes while sitting still for half an hour was not terribly appealing. Sometimes I managed it in thick socks, but even then my feet were like blocks of ice by the end of the session. As the months warmed up, I got used to the idea. It was such a small demand, a gesture that marked a shift in my day. It seemed like the least I could do. Shoes are the business of the outside world, part of the artifice we all adopt when we close the front door behind us. They are more than a protection from pebbles and dirt and broken glass. You take off your shoes when you come home. You do it to keep the floors clean, but also to show how you trust this space to treat you kindly. You do it to spread your toes. When you take off your shoes, you show a little of your interior, your holey socks and your rough heels. You remove your worldly effects in deference to the comfort of the house. You bring this same deference—this same disclosure of imperfection—when you meditate.