The Red Shoe Sutra

Thus have I heard (and from a professional, no less): "You need more red in your life."

Just so it's clear, this from the modern equivalent of the enlightened being/guru, aka the therapist. Who feels I need both more of the energy of red (passion, power, pride) and the actual color (one homework assignment was to buy red underwear) in my life, in the wake of my life blowing up and all.

At first, it was kind of a dutiful thing. My new place is in shades of brown and cream, so red accents felt like a reasonable fit. During the Great Re-Nesting of 2010, I bought a red leather club chair (coolest part? It swivels!) to mark the transition between the living room space and the office nook (logistics of loft living). I also bought a faux-distressed, faux-red-laquer, faux-Chinese-medicine-chest entertainment center (Andover collection from Pottery Barn, for those of you who are happy I've finally gotten around to writing an accessories post). And my friend Brandyn salvaged an antique wooden birdcage destined for the trash, and spray-painted it red as a house-warming gift. So that sits on the entertainment center and there are a couple of other accents scattered about that I had pre-divorce that happen to be red as well: a garuda totem from Jakarta, a (supposedly active) Legba head from NOLA, some sari-cloth curtain panels.

So there ya go, right? A little red.

I did give the underwear homework assignment a try. But I'd like to point out how hard it is to buy intimates that are the *right* red. Being neither twenty nor trashy, I do not want valentine red. I do not want candy red, or maraschino cherry red. I want blood red. Black red. Wine red. I seem to be in the minority.

So I tried to fulfill the underwear assignment. I agreed (with myself) to keep my eye out for the right sort of red every time I pass a lingerie section. I purchased and prioritized some red accents for the living space. While I didn't really get this whole "you need more red in your life" prescription, I could at least take credit for being compliant.

And then, something happened.

The red shoes.

Things you should perhaps know first: I don't do color. My closet is a monochromatist's dream of black, white, and shades of brown. I don't put color on my nails (finger or toe). I wear very little jewelry and what I do wear is simple metal. This has always been true. Someone recently told me this is typical of women who've been sexually abused. I find that interesting to wonder about. But really, it's not angst-y. It's noticeable. People have commented on it, but I am not bothered by their comments nor do I feel restricted in any way. I buy and wear what I want... what attracts my eye. I don't see colored clothing, wish for it, then tell myself no, it's too colorful. Truth is, I just don't see colored clothing in the first place.

And sure, that's been becoming slightly more flexible in the last year or two. I have an Eileen Fisher sweater that some folks point out gleefully as pink, while I swear it's really just a slightly rosy nude. My workout hoodie might be yellow, but I'm gonna call it a nice, rich cream. That sort of thing.

But I do not have red clothes. I don't even see red clothes. And I don't really do shoes at all. My philosophy on shoes, for years, has been, well, they go on your feet. You walk on them all day. They should be comfortable, cheap, inoffensive, practical.

That began changing after my life fell apart. Apparently, when there is no ground under your feet anyway... I don't know exactly how to finish that sentence, but it sure changed the way I felt about shoes. Last winter, I could have written The High-Heel Sutra. Or The Boot Sutra. Or the advanced-practice text, The High-Heeled Boot Sutra. Last winter I bought my first pair of thigh-highs. And that was all, obviously and overtly, about power. About feeling powerful in a place of perceived loss of control.

That's also sort of stopped. Maybe it's just about practicality. How many boots do you need in South Texas? I mean, most of the year, I live in flip-flops. But the red shoes... this just keeps happening.

The first pair... red oiled leather Sanita clogs... happened early last spring. Just saw a picture of them in my head. And began to obsess. Fortunately, in the era of Zappos, I did not need to obsess long. The first time I wore them, my feet felt radioactive. But in a kind of cool way. And the world did not seem particularly phased by this change. I got one or two "hey, cool shoes", but that was it. Apparently, red shoes were something I could get away with, without drawing undue attention to myself. And they made my heart happy.

I really did think one pair of red shoes would scratch this dimly-understood itch, and they did for awhile. But a few months ago, I saw a picture in a magazine and was soon obsessively searching Zappos again for red Birkenstock clogs. These are flat slip-ons with a little cut-out, great for schlepping to yoga class or sitting (where I'm just gonna slip them off again anyway), or for late-night potty break walks with the dog.

And now I'm just giving up on thinking this might be a temporary thing, because the newest addition to my closet is a pair of red Dingo cowboy boots, ankle-high, with little zips and tassels. They've already danced at Dia de los Muertos, and went very well with skull-face makeup. So, you know, red shoes appear to just be this new thing I'm doing.

And last night, I started to think about why.

Red shoes.
Famously dangerous.
Filmic icons of obsession, ambition.
Powerlessness. Possession.

Red means stop.
Warning.
Caution.
Pay Attention!
This is Important!

Red is blood.
Pain and death.
See enough red, and there's no saving you.
Seeing red is anger.
Loss of control.

Red is inflamed.
Is Communist.
The exhaustion of the red-eye.
Getting caught red-handed.
Hell, we had to take this country away from the redskins.
Red marks every mistake on our schoolwork.
And nobody really trusts a redhead.

But...

A red-letter day is a good thing.
And red roses say something about love.
Red is blood.
It's life.
The color we want the newborn to be.

Red is big.
It's scary.
We're conflicted about it.
Because underneath all the metaphor
Red *is* blood.
It's life *and* death.
It's the color of bad blood... blood outside the body
Blood where it shouldn't be, is red.

For most of human history,
Red blood (blood where it shouldn't be)
Meant death.

But

Women bled, and didn't die.
Every month.
And when they didn't, it was because they were making life.
Making life from the blood itself...

Sure, we know now that isn't true
But we believed it longer than we've believed anything else
And some part of our brain remembers.

Red is the color of mysterious power.
Of triumph over death.
Of fear that does not diminish.
Of pain that does not destroy.

Red is the color of living through it.

I think
After great loss
We all walk through the world wearing red shoes.
Whether they *look* red, or not.

And we're back...

There was a storm last night. One of those sudden, clamorous, air-clearing, late-autumn thunderstorms that make way for the cooler weather that is finally, finally soothing sunburned South Texas.

It happened fairly late, but I was awake for it. This was Gabe's (the new dog) first such thunder-boomer, and turns out he's not a fan. He growled and barked relentlessly at the storm for as long as it splayed itself over our windows and balcony and metal-clad roofs and outer walls. Reclaimed urban architecture is a rich sounding board for wind-driven precipitation. And I'm in a top-floor, corner loft. So with all the water-music and the canine protestation, it was a wild and wooly (and noisy!) stretch of night for a stretch of time.

As I said, I was awake for it. And when I'm awake - still, and despite my best efforts on the cushion - my mind gets busy. One maybe-benefit of all the mindfulness practice I've done is that now, while it's getting busy, it's also getting busy noticing how it's getting busy, and noticing the quality of that noticing, and etc.

So I can tell you, this afternoon, something about what was going on in my mind early this morning while the storm blew itself out.

I was calm. (Sturdy construction, fairly recent rehab, no worries about serious structural failure). I was excited. (Because, really, I love big nasty storms. The bigger and nastier, the better. It's like mainlining electricity.) I was a little frustrated with the dog. And I was wondering how much damage was being done, out there.

Not "if" damage was being done. But how much. And with every arising of that thought, I'd notice another thought arising as well, reminding me that the damage was inevitable, and there'd be time to deal with it after the storm had passed. But for now, let the wind and water wreak their havoc and just lie down under it all.

Just lie down.

Which I did.

So in this story, the damage "out there" meant damage to my urban balcony ecosystem. Which is way minimal. Some cat food was spoiled. A couple of litter boxes were flooded. Some planters got blown around. Damage was minimal because I have put some thought into what is out there, and where it's placed. I've planned as best I can to minimize the damage that the inevitable storms will wreak. So when a storm hits, I trust my plan. I accept that there will be some damage anyway. And I just lie down under it all and wait for the skies to clear.

That's kind of how I've spent the past year. It's been a stormy one - although the storms have been quite various. In the early months they were terrifying. Roiling toxic-green emotional skies and wind-blows to the heart and stomach that sounded and felt like they were wrenching giant trees, still alive and screaming, from the ground by their roots. Storms I'd never imagined planning for. Storms so vast and violent I had no conception of what kind of damage they were doing to me. In those days, I would lie down under it all not because I trusted the process, but because I couldn't get up.

Lately, the storms have been... pyrotechnic. Sunshowers. Heat-lightening. Freak wind-gusts and flash-floods and sudden, surprising snow flurries. The emotional weather is variable and the terrain is changing all the time. New opportunities, new interests, new structures. Recommitments and deepenings. Healing is a complicated enough process when it takes place in quiet and seclusion. Mine, for whatever reason, is taking place amidst an explosion of color and sound and light. I am tempest-toss't from one shiny thing to another, and this, too, is a storm.

And I have been lying down under it all, while it has been doing some damage. Some of which is actually hard kindness; pruning away decayed relationships and rotted obligations. But there has also been damage to some of my commitments to myself. To the practices that establish themselves in the calm between storms - to the sitting & writing & movement practices that make me strong and flexible enough to withstand the big weather, when it comes.

This morning, I cleaned up the damage done by last night's storm. It was a simple enough procedure, if not particularly sexy. Just a moment-by-moment recommitment to the (mostly physical) work of putting things back where they belong. And, this afternoon, I'm extending that recommitment to include cleaning up the damage done by the storms of this past year. I smoked my last cigarette last night. I've come back to this space, today. I spent the weekend reconnecting with my meditation practice through art (truly my favorite type of meditation-in-action). I suppose you could call it an early New Year's resolution.

I just think I'm done lying down under it all.

Not that there is anything shameful or wrong or even unskillful in lying down and waiting for a storm to pass. In fact, I think that kind of lying down - in trust or without, in fear or resignation, on purpose or out of necessity - is profound mind/body wisdom. But the nature of storms is that they blow over. And when they do, it's time to stand up again.

To look around. To re-assess.

To rejoin the new-washed world.