+ Her Barefoot Heart
I'm just your basic complicated simple red dirt girl who feels most beautiful when wearing skirts that caper and earrings that dangle. Entering into my Second Life (my tenured phase, I call it), I tell, write, stitch, and perform stories about this time of life when the mythological (and downsized) empty nest is now filled with aging pets, aging parents, a retired husband, and the knowledge that you're living on the finite side of infinity.
so much for planning. did see the favorite cousin. did not get new computer set up. just now finished transferring all files from the previously-used-still-loved laptop, am about to start testing all applications for usability on new computer, reinstall print drivers, etc. doing some digital nesting.
back tomorrow . . .
though my children are no longer in school (unless, like me, you count life as school – but we’ll save the philosophy for another day), i still operate on a school calendar. which means that the lazy, hazy days of summer are coming to an end. screeching to a halt. closing.
but wait: what lazy hazy days of summer?
i can remember waking up and just lying in bed, the birds singing me to consciousness, the day beckoning me with all the opportunities it held as treasures. i felt so, so . . . in control of my life. there was time in those summer days, and i spent it traveling through books; adding to my collection of words and thoughts in my notebooks; swimming in the lake as the bottom gushed up between my toes; painting my furniture with antiquing kits ordered from the sears catalog; carving my initials in a tree; rolling down hills (and coming home with grass-stained clothes to prove it); eating lunch at grandmother’s house – my plate filled with fresh vegetables we picked maybe an hour before devouring them.
i sewed, creating clothes i wore proudly. i stitched, grabbing something from the closet and embellishing it – transforming it – with decorative embroidery.
i added to the collage of photos that transformed my closet doors. i rearranged my furniture. i napped at will and without apology.
the days were leisurely full: deliciously, creatively, spaciously full.
am here in my beloved n.c. now – phoebe and i trekked up yesterday for a short visit. for reasons i cannot explain, the days are more spacious here – resembling those i remember so fondly – opening up to allow most anything i choose.
today i’ll be setting up my new computer (i do so hope it’s as easy as “they” say it is – am just transferring files from one apple laptop to another, but the hiccup is that the old laptop is really, really, really old while the new laptop is really, really, really new. am hoping my software will be able to make itself at home on the new playground.) and auditioning 3 paint colors for the exterior of the house: Zenful, Early Morning Mist, and Enlighten Mint. (i’m leaning towards enlighten mint – the color’s okay, but oohh those words.) (remember how i told you i collected words? sometimes just for fun, i go to the paint store and read names of paint colors.) (and you should see my collection of race horse names.)
i’m also looking forward to seeing a favorite cousin of mine . . . perhaps that’s the kindling for the nostalgic tone this morning. i do so enjoy our reminiscing – sometimes philosophically and psychologically, often humorously, always lovingly.
he danced not with the stars
but under the stars.
while others did the shag and something that resembled the jitterbug,
his arms flapped,
his elbows moved in and out as if wings,
his legs hoisted him up and down
on that one small spot of dance floor he claimed for his own.
he obviously heard a different rhythm,
and he danced to it with huge tenacious enthusiasm.
two women linked arms with him and began doing a modified can-can kick,
urging him to join them
but he did not succumb.
not for a second.
he bounced and flapped danced on,
losing himself in the music he heard, moving to the beat of his own drummer.
watching him dance
was worth the price of admission.
we met quite by accident on january 27 of that year, became engaged on april 1 of that same year, then married on july 31 – you guessed it – of that same year.
on a tuesday night so we wouldn’t mess up the weekend.
we were so young and so trusting. we knew the world would accommodate us. we were bulletproof as long as we had each other. we would never grow old or bored or infirmed. we expected the best from the world and each other, and we have not been disappointed.
we finished undergraduate school (and i, graduate school), birthed and raised 2 fantastic children, buried parents, developed individual careers and hobbies, and laughed at every opportunity. we have known fun; we have known sorrow. there have been spaces in our togetherness . . . and we have remained in love.
somehow.
(i think it has a lot to do with laughing more than complaining and having the same taste in wallpaper.)
being a woman raised in the south (it may be true for other regions, but i’ve only lived in the south so i don’t know), i’ve been on stage all my life: doing things to find myself pleasing to others and saying only nice, safe things that others would not find offensive or threatening. even now i still have a tendency to drop into my sweetest little non-threatening-me-jane-you-obviously-tarzan southern drawl – heavily peppered with self-deprecating humor, of course – when talking to men in positions of authority because i learned long, long ago that it’s the quickest way to get them to do what i know is the right and necessary thing to do.
well, anyway
somewhere along the way, i picked up on the notion that good girls focus only on the positive, turning a blind eye, deaf ear, and closed mouth towards anything that could possibly be construed as negative. it’s a notion that’s deeply embedded . . . which is why i’ve often apologized when talking about all the things that go wrong in a theatrical production.
but just last week, an amazing epiphany came to visit: just because i tell and retell the mishaps and bobbles that are a part of any theatrical production does not mean i’m focusing on the dreaded-and-always-to-be-avoided negative, and it does not mean i’m a despicable person. no, no, no.
how silly that seems now.
stories of what “went wrong” enjoy a tenured and prominent place in literature: the s/hero leaves home, goes out into the world, encounters giants and dragons and all sorts of bad and evil challenges, then – and this is the best part – s/he doesn’t just meet those challenges but overcomes the obstacles in the proverbial road, learning something invaluable and potentially life-changing at every turn.
that’s what we do in theatre with every single show. props can’t be found. entrances are late. cues are missed. lines are forgotten. zippers break. wigs fall off. divas reign (or try to) (onstage and off). and i tell, tell, and retell those stories not because i’m a horrid ole’ wolf but because they are stories of survival and triumph.
here i have been feeling quite guilty for focusing on the negative, frequently apologizing or at the very least balancing the story with something positive. i know that artists often turn boo-boos into part of the creation – i embrace the notion of wabi-sabi – i just never applied that to me. but now, finally, i realize that the negative is positive. these things that go awry, these trips, stumbles, and sometimes flat-out falls aren’t negative, they’re the most redeeming kind of positive because despite any hurdle, obstacle, dragon, vampire, giant, or diva divine, the show does go on.
i feel so much better now – a bit embarrassed that it took me so long to come to such a seemingly simple and obvious mindset – but oh so relieved.
now
did i tell you about the night when . . .
in the fall of 2005, my daughter started a community theatre company, The Twilight Theatre. the people who were going to help her on the top level, turned out to be less than honorable people, despite their public facade of being devout church goers.
anyway
i became involved to help my daughter grow her dream – a dream that was just plain too big for one person to grow. as the years have ticked along, others have stepped up to help in big ways – people who are dependable and responsible and honorable, so my role has been divvied out in parcels, but i’m still here. still involved.
though she prefers performing, moxie (my daughter) is a gifted director, and last weekend she proved it once again when the musical oliver! opened to great reviews. though not in the (huge) cast and not involved nearly as much at the show level as i have been in years past, i came onboard for the past 3 weeks to help out with all the details that can easily eat up 14 hours or more every day. details nobody thinks of until and unless they are not tended.
this week between shows, i get my feet back under me (even though another big musical, annie get your gun, started rehearsals last night and there’s another small children’s show opening in 2 weeks, those don’t eat up as much clock – at least not right now) and rejoin the world.
i flounder. am in search of something, though i can’t articulate it enough to recognize it. maybe words aren’t the answer. i try to identify what interests me . . .
i grab books and look there. i go on walks with eyes open (and usually find the most interesting things when i’ve gone off and left my camera).
a very good friend, somebody i have never met but know at that deep, satisfying level of connection (thanks, acey) reminded me this morning that when we don’t listen to ourselves, that wise voice dries up. is mine drying up? is it giving me one last beckon?
i long to jump into something. need to settle down. want instant gratification. crave something that develops and unfolds over time.
i think i don’t move enough. don’t eat well. (soda crackers with mayonnaise washed down with swigs of diet coke – is that okay?) it’s too hot to walk. i can’t drag myself to the cool, air-conditioned fitness room complete with elliptical trainer and cable television.
can’t (read: don’t) stitch often enough to maintain a blog, so what do i do? i launch a new blog and within 2 weeks, i’m back to stitch and tell.
i am a mess. this is beyond being a complex human being – that’s endearing, this is embarrassing.
okay, enough. i’m going to watch more reruns of law and order. there’s something about solving a life-and-death case in slightly less than 40 minutes (allowing for commercials) that is quite satisfying.
and enviable.
it has been a tough week with many words exchanged. i’m feel i’m over my allotment, that it’s time to slow things down, drop out, take a breather, rest.
so i pick up needle and thread because, really, sometimes i just think better with cloth than with words. doesn’t mean i don’t initially imagine the cloth as voodoo doll and needle as stabbing device, mind you, but ultimately bringing together odd-shaped, different pieces of fabric helps me bring together stray thoughts and sometimes make sense of strange occurrences – one of the many things i know to be true, though i can’t explain the how or why. and so another project begins . . .
started my day out the old-fashioned way today, the way i once started every day out: i wrote 3 notes then walked to the mailbox to mail them. just brief little handwritten notes. emails would’ve been quicker and taken less time, but there’s just something about pen meeting paper.
one of the notes made me feel a bit on the uncertain side of things as it’s about the third note i’ve sent this friend. always telling her how i noticed something she did and how marvelous i think it is, whatever she did or said. but after a while i wonder if she’ll think me odd in the worst sort of way.
oh well.
when my chiclets were babies, i’d get up early to pen the 3 notes before they woke up, and during the winter when it was just too much trouble to bundle 2 babies up to go out in the cold, i’d sometimes lose contact with adult types and run out of people to write. when that happened, i’d go to the local newspaper and send a note to somebody i read about there. kinda’ felt like a stalker, but i went right ahead and sent it with the clearest of intentions and hoped it would bubble-up a smile on the recipient.
though i’d sometimes hear that the person on the other end of the mailbox enjoyed and appreciated the surprise note, it’s amazing how much it didn’t matter because it was so satisfying just penning and sending the note. in fact, i’d often forget who i’d sent notes to, and i often wondered if that was good or bad. did it mean that i was able to let go of any expected or desired outcome or did it mean i had early onset alzheimers.
i don’t know/can’t explain it, but starting my days this way makes me feel like i have control over my day.
probably a mere illusion, but it’s nice, nevertheless.
This work by Jeanne Hewell-Chambers is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at http://www.TheBarefootHeart.com.
© 2026 Jeanne Hewell-Chambers
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