+ Her Barefoot Heart
~~~
for inquiring minds . . .
the gorgeous earrings and necklace i’m wearing here were designed and created by my friend kelly from over at the blue muse. she has an etsy store, too, so go forth and shop.
and
see those two paintings behind me? they were painted specially for me by my daughter, moxie. but you can call her alison.
and
no, i’m not jaundiced and yes, i do brush my teeth and absolutely, i promise to learn more about lighting.
well, the trip to the cemetery took about 14 times longer than planned, what with that snake bite and the ensuing impromptu trip to the emergency room and all. seein’ as how i’m plumb tuckered out and in pain, i’m just gonna’ wait and tell y’all about it tomorrow.
i will tell you, however – cause i know you’ll sleep better knowing – that we went from this:
to this:
the end.
for now.
my name is jeanne, and i have authority issues . . .
i have long despised the words i heard far too often as a child, “with every head bowed and every eye closed,” words that preceded some man standing in the pulpit elevated above us and pontificating under the name of prayer. even as a youth, i did not want or need men speaking for me. even as a youth, i knew that prayer is something that can be done silently, by each person in his or her own way. even as a youth, i knew that some of these men used prayer as a spotlight, a greeting card, absolution, subterfuge.
so every time we gathered for dinner, one of the things i dreaded most was mother beckoning us to the kitchen, instructing us to hold hands, then asking the youngest child in attendance to say the blessing while the rest of us were to bow our head and close our eyes just like in days gone by.
eventually came the day when i could no longer go along quietly, my silence an implied endorsement.
“mother,” i said to her before one family gathering, “if you want to pray, that’s fine. i respect that. i do, however, ask that you not expect me to or demand that i join in. i ask that you respect me and my belief system and allow me to pray as i will. or will not.”
i went on to explain my belief that prayer is something that can be done in any variety of ways by individuals in ways they see fit. “the beauty of prayer,” i told her, “is that it’s no less effective if those around you don’t even know that you’re praying.”
“when others subject me to their prayers, i feel like they are forcing their religion on me without regard to my belief system. perhaps you could simply say,” i suggested, “‘join me as you will.’ that allows us to opt in or out. that is respectful of everyone in attendance.”
now she didn’t have to do this, of course, she’s my mother. according to the way i was brought up, i am to respect her without comment.
but she did. she dropped the required praying before a meal, allowing us to express our gratitude and seek grace in our own individual ways.
and i love her for that.
whenever she gets the chance, my mother extols the virtues of vinegar and water. she keeps a jar full in her refrigerator, and i stand here before you swearing that you won’t confuse it for sweet tea but once.
according to my mother, vinegar and water . . .
clears phlegm
clears your head
cures a cough
unstops your ears
settles a stomach
soothes an itch
trims off the pounds
stops allergies
cures sinus infections
erases acne
lowers high cholesterol
lower high blood pressure
brings a rosy glow to your complexion
alleviates acid reflux
and more.
in the same breath, mother will point out that on top of what all it does for your body and health, vinegar and water will also . . .
shine your shoes
shine your hair
whiten your teeth
remove dinginess from clothes
clean windows without leaving streaks
remove water marks from wood
lift stains from carpet
freshen the garbage disposal
polish brass
clean the microwave
deter ants
get the stink out of refrigerators
shoo flies
clean toilet bowls
kill grass
kill weeds
cut the scum off shower doors
prolong the freshness of flowers
make a dog smell better
soften paintbrushes
remove bumper stickers
tenderize meat
remove fruit stains from hands
and more.
i don’t know if it’ll do everything, and i’ll readily admit to having some qualms about putting something into my body that will clean a scorched iron. but i declare, today i feel so bad (i have a cold that i’m SURE i caught from kelly who’s had a cold and obviously forgot to wash her hands before going to the keyboard to tweet and comment, thereby spreading her cold germs to me), i’m minutes before mixing me up some vinegar and water.
in a mayonnaise jar, of course.
“did you melt butter to use to make the toast?”
“well, yes,” she says. “i can’t get the stick butter to spread.”
me? i just whack a slice off and lay it on the bread, content to let the oven do the melting, and at this moment, i realize that the food mother prepares tastes sooooo good because she takes time to do the little things like melting the butter for making toast.
and i think that’s a significant difference worth noting: my mother cooks with love.
over breakfast, mother tells my teenage nephew who’s visiting for a few days, “jeanne took a picture of butter so she could write about how ridiculous i am to melt butter before making toast.”
and with that, my friends, we see once again that i choose my words and actions, and she chooses her interpretation of them.
and vice versa.
except for when i’m really tired, it seems like just yesterday when i first met him.
today is my son’s birthday. kipp is his name; slug is my pet name for him. slug, from the book atlas shrugged by ayn rand – the hottest coal that keeps the fire roaring to keep the train’s engine moving. yep, he is my slug.
he is a true renaissance man – one who loves hiking and skydiving and reading and snowboarding and playing guitar. he’s a wicked good actor and writer, and if you mapped his various areas of intelligence, his brain would light up like our neighbor’s house at christmas.
he makes halloween costumes you just wouldn’t believe and just recently, his idea for a startup company took first place at startup weekend. he’s kind and articulate, and he usually smiles (which is great cause those braces weren’t cheap).
unlike his mama, he’s hardly a picky eater, and unlike his dad, he enjoys post-movie conversations of deconstruction and philosophy. like his dad, he likes fine art and georgia tech, and like his mama, he likes handmade journals and stories. like both of us, laughter is his religion.
he is handy with a camera, and hopefully he’ll pick it up again one day soon and start taking more pictures because he has a way of seeing that stops me dead in my tracks. like the time we rode under telephone wires . . . he looked up at the kudzu creeping and skipping its way across, and said simply “nature’s reclamation.”
wallace stevens was once his favorite poet, now he’s going through a billy collins phase. he’s a good companion to his dog, even letting otto have a pet roomba (the robotic vaccuum cleaner) because he knows border collies just need to herd things.
he is my son, and i frequently wonder what i did in a former life that landed me fortunate enough to be his mother.
happy birthday, kipp.
i love you.
eating grapes
eating mudpies
cords on blinds
eating hot dogs
a wooden playpen
swimming in a pond with cows
cabinet doors without latches
summers without air conditioning
hanging wallpaper with my husband
eating peaches right off the tree
my high school guidance counselor
a mugging on the sidewalks of new york
roller skating without protective armor
riding in cars without carseats or seatbelts
telephones with no voicemail or answering machine or call waiting
bike riding before helmets, gloves, kneepads, and gears
an F on an undergraduate biology test (i was in love – i’ll tell you about it one day.)
and now: my brother going to afghanistan.
he leaves tomorrow night, and i’ve tried hard not to waste our time by missing him while we are together. but every now and then i kinda’ practiced, kinda’ opened that door to my heart just a teensy little bit to see if i could survive him being a world away.
why will i miss him?
oh, just let me tell you (some of) the ways:
he can keep secrets.
he always – and i mean always – has my back.
his soft spot for animals is about the size of the milky way. maybe bigger.
he’s so damn good on the golf course, i had to learn how to strut.
he has a deep insightfulness that sometimes takes my breath away and always keeps me thinking.
he tells the truth.
he is funny – i’m talking knee-slapping, side-hugging funny.
he wouldn’t know pretentious if it up and bit him on the nose.
he loves me just the way i am, bossiness and all.
my brother, of course
a.k.a. j3
what i saw:
this picture of my mother taken last summer. i was driving the boat. i think it’s easy to see why i ran into that dock.
what i tasted:
crispy, crispy, crispy bacon done just right. wasn’t burnt, didn’t move when i picked it up.
what i heard:
laughter.
lots and lots and lots of laughter – my sides required ben gay – as my brother and i visited our own special planet and conjured up images and tales of a gang of 3 geese who are bad to the bone . . . i mean, feather.
i guess you had to be there.
what i felt:
the cool, smooth silk hand-dyed by my talented friend glennis.
what i smelled:
my leftover christmas candle burning. who says sugar cookie scent is seasonal?
i’ve been dreaming lately.
i love it when i do that.
i’m still trying to decipher some of them.
like the one 2 nights ago about eyebrows.
yes, eyebrows.
eyebrows: hair that protects the eyes by acting as an umbrella, barring entry to would-be vision villains like sweat and dandruff and rain.
eyebrows: those hairy communication tools that are so supportive in strengthening expressions like surprise and anger and disapproval.
i spent the entire dream plucking my eyebrows, and let me tell you: i was giddy with glee having thinned my overpopulated brows and rid my face of strays and runaways.
am i freeing my vision?
altering the way i see things?
getting rid of the superfluous without erasing the necessary?
or do i need/want to pay more attention to my physical appearance?
or maybe get my eyes checked?
(i’m never more indecisive than when it comes to interpreting dreams.)
i spent last night’s dreamtime preserving – funneling hot, gooey, colorful future nourishment through metal wide-mouthed funnels into scalded bell jars.
again, i was giddy with happiness.
honestly, i’d kinda’ hoped for something a little saucier to write about in my dream journal this morning after seeing the movie “inception” yesterday. but no, i just ladeled food into glass jars all night long.
but still, there’s much to chew on . . .
summers spent in my grandmother’s kitchen peeling, boiling, stirring, ladeling. the summer my sister and mother joined me at our farm. we picked pears off the tree that morning and by bedtime, we had jars and jars filled with pear preserves – the best i’ve ever tasted.
is this a dream about memories? i can’t think of a single word or incident in my entire yesterday that would’ve triggered a dream about summertime memories.
women providing sustenance for the winter – is there a message there?
is this a harbinger of famine?
a call to focus (my f-word) and funnel?
sigh.
for me, dream interpretation is best left to the dark early hours, those marvelous, magical hours when anything – anything at all – is possible. my life has been so different in those hours. i am such a different person in those hours.
then the sun makes its presence known, and the magic melts away, though i’m no longer sure why it has to.
when you wrestle with a pig, you both get dirty and the pig likes it.
she’s just jealous.
turn the other cheek.
play nice.
be good.
behave.
rise above.
i’ve dealt with enough bullies in my lifetime to be absolutely certain that there is no one single right way to deal with a bully. there are bullies who will push you into a wall, backing down only when you stand straighter than ever before, look them square in the eye, and say “enough.” there are bullies who will back off only when you scream and shine a light on them for all to see. there are bullies who will wrestle you to the ground, twisting your extremities into unnatural and painful positions and holding you there until you cry “uncle, already.” there are bullies who never get tired and never run out of tactics. there are bullies who will never backdown. ever.
when it comes to guidelines for conduct becoming a female when dealing with bullies, i’ve heard it all. most of them sound real pretty – noble even. but my best how-to-deal-with-a-bully advice came from a kenny rogers song about playing poker: you’ve gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.
i dealt with a bully last week. a man who’s old enough to know how to behave himself. a man who has enough letters before his name indicating rank that’s impressive enough to make me think he was out the day they taught the Army Core Value of respect. all that talk of wrestling with pigs and turning the other cheek and rising above flew right out the window as i dealt with this guy in what sure felt like my native language. i wasn’t rude, wasn’t aggressive, didn’t bully him, but i didn’t let him wipe his feet on me, either.
and it was exhilarating. it felt good.
afterwards, two men who overheard the conversation commented on how i’d conducted myself with “civility, discipline, and showed great restraint.” those were conversations i played in my head the rest of the day – to the point that i felt silly that i even remembered it, let alone put that one 15 minute period on such a lofty marble, diamond-encrusted pedestal. why did it feel so good? why were these 2 incidents of validation so incredibly important to me?
[insert lightbulb]
years ago, as a teenager still learning how to navigate my way through life with non-related others, i was in an abusive relationship. every minute of every day was a huge eraser as i made myself invisible to others because for something as simple as talking to another person in the hallway between classes, there was hell to pay. the confident, carefrree, kickass girl i had been up to that point had to go.
it was the ultimate ambush makeover, and vestiges die hard.
so last week when the bully started into me with his condescending tone and his berating, belittling words, my spirit said “never again a doormat” and balanced all those admonitions about pig wrestling with what i learned – what i still carry: visceral memories of from that one abusive relationship.
when the bully on the phone interrupted me, i called him on it, then finished my sentence. when he smartassed me, i asked him to choose different words and use a different tone. when he asked, “are you finished?”, i answered “for now.” and i did it from my core so there was no hysteria (even though he resorted to the dominating eraser phrase “calm down” more than once.) i never raised my voice, i never cried, i never wrung my hands. though i had never spoken with this man before and had no idea what he was like, i intuitively stood up at the beginning of the phone call when he uttered his first words.
one thing that abusive relationship taught me is keen sensitivity as a means of self-defense and survival.
though it seemed endless, the phone call actually lasted only about 15 minutes, and when i hung up, i smiled. big.
okay, self, i said later that day, i get why you feel such a rush having dealt so efficiently and effectively with this man. but why do you continue to shamelessly replay the comments from the two men who were impressed enough with the way you handled conducted yourself on this phone call to say something?
[insert another lightbulb right about here]
when i look back on that abusive relationship, i realize that he was one of the most congenial, affable, friendly guys you’d ever want to meet . . . publicly. but in reality, that friendly, affable persona was methodical, designed to make me a liar before i even thought about talking to anybody. with his public image of mr. congeniality, he made quite sure that nobody would ever believe anything i said about the way he behaved privately.
but last week, two men whose opinions i happen to value saw this man through my eyes. with no convincing from me and without hearing his side of the conversation, they recognized him as a bully – their positive remarks about my side of the conversation proved it. they didn’t dismiss me or erase me, they validated me.
with their words of support and validation, i’ve turned a page in my life story. it’s big, i tell you: big. that validation is so big, it’s all i can do to resist the urge to embroider their words on a pillowcase marking the day i was a pencil with no eraser.
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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