Surface

During normal operation, our kayak is situated at the interface of wind and water and subject to the influence of both. The water and the wind are not always in agreement. The waters and their waves have their own ideas about where things are going. The wind is an invisible but independent, insistent current at and above the water. 

Without sails, the wind is simply tolerated. Our hats are pulled down tight against our heads. We squint our eyes, as if the wind were a bright light.

The water can be navigated, of course, but not simply through brute force. Water has gravitas and power, but it can be bargained with. An arrangement must be negotiated: playing for a minimum of friction and a method for force production. The paddles provide leverage and the water provides purchase. The hull and the water seem to readily conspire to grant buoyancy, but awkwardly and grudgingly offer slipperiness.

It doesn’t require much effort to balance—only to sit upright—but more to command where the boat points. It can be like a compass needle searching for North, except North continues to move and drift. The flow of the river might be the boat’s True North at any given moment, but the wind, waves and wakes are like nails and magnets scattered around our two-person kayak-compass: jangling and pulsing, pushing and pulling the needle. (The ducks don’t seem to notice or mind any more than the sunlight reflected on the water does. Show-offs, they are perfectly at home in both the water and the wind.)

The interface—the meeting place of these two elements—is where we sit and paddle. That slightly convex surface is where we brace ourselves against the pedals inside the hull and move from our core. Our core is the only part of us strong enough to brace us against and heave us through the wind and the waves. Movement, intention, resolve, efficiency come from the center, from the core. A kind of understanding about the water, the wind and the kayak must also come from the core. Or maybe that’s just where it’s focused, where it naturally concentrates. Maybe wisdom and understanding work their way in, bit by bit, from the outside and gather there, where the currents sink deeper down, growing in strength and finally providing stability; a place where we can mark our current position at the interface of things.

Barefoot in the Park

I found not long after the pandemic began last year that since I was spending all my time at home I didn’t need to wear shoes or socks very much. To take out the garbage or get the mail, yes. To make the occasional grocery run or mow the lawn, of course. But spending so much time inside at home, I found that footwear just wasn’t that necessary.

It really isn’t any more complicated than simply not putting on socks and then continuing by not putting on shoes—more laziness than anything. (not as many socks in the laundry, either!) I’ve noticed the differences between walking or standing on the wood floors in most of the house and the tile in the bathroom, or the cement in the basement; not just the textures, but the temperature. The area rugs feel a bit softer and warmer and I notice that I avoid the pronounced thresholds between rooms or the angular metal floor grates—artifacts of our old house. And I can’t help but also notice that I move my feet more, even when I’m sitting still. I can flex them more easily and wiggle my toes and I don’t hesitate to pull my feet up into a cross-legged position when I’m at my desk because, why not? It’s not like I have shoes on.

This isn’t anything profound and, of course, the barefoot movement isn’t anything new—just new to me. But still, the outdoors is another threshold to cross. Exiting the built world without anything on your feet is very different, not only to the person who is barefoot but to everyone else, too.

We took an outdoor yoga class last weekend at a lovely riverside park during our first brief stay away from home since being vaccinated. The morning air was cool but the sunlight quickly warmed us. We hadn’t planned on finding a yoga class, and so I hadn’t brought a yoga mat with me. No matter: I thought I would simply lean into my barefoot experiment a bit more and participate on the naked ground. When we arrived, the grass was more sparse and the litter more abundant than I had imagined. But I was determined to simply power my way through it, wrappers and paper and… whatever the hell that stuff is be damned. The instructor offered to provide a mat for me and I politely declined. She offered again, sent her son to the car and simultaneously produced a blanket that I reluctantly accepted. Very soon after that her son presented me with a mat. It seemed rude not to use them. A year of being barefoot indoors (when it wasn’t cold—c’mon, warm socks and slippers during Winter!) hadn’t quite prepared me to refuse a kind gesture or resist the pull of social conventions. (yoga class = yoga mat) 

The class was great—one of the highlights of the weekend—and I doubt that it would have been any better if I hadn’t used the mat. After all, I could still feel the bumps and unevenness of the ground through the mat. I was still outside in the breeze and the sun and the birdsong. I wouldn’t be any more wise, compassionate or enlightened if I had made direct contact with the Earth for an hour, and my level of practice is shallow and infrequent enough that I probably wouldn’t have been any more grounded if I had been buried in the dirt up to my knees.

But maybe it would have been better to not use the mat, if only to feel how it is to work my feet into the Earth a little; if only to feel how good it is to wash them clean after actually getting them dirty.