UNTIL I WAS twelve, I rarely wore shoes. Through the callused soles of my feet, I maintained an intimate conversation with the soil of our Western Australian farm. In tilled ground, my feet were discomforted by hard lifeless clods and happy when they found moist, friable earth.
My bare feet understood how the Earth felt about the benediction of pre-dawn dew. They felt erosion gnawing away at the soil beneath opaquely muddied runnels of rainwater. In summer, my feet skittered across scalding bare ground too hot to sustain life (including feet) and sought routes where plants and fertility tamed ...
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