I have never really given it much thought, how I connect to the Planet, but the other day on the radio some tomorrows world ecologically responsible person or TWERP as I refer to them got me thinking.
It was a simple concept.
As simple as walking about barefoot.
As human beings we have an electrical basis for our main functions. The Earth is also holding an electrical charge. Devoid of socks and footwear the Twerp was explaining that we are only truly capable of transferring our energy into the soil and strata beneath our own soles if completely unfettered.
It turns out that we are missing out on connectivity with Mother Earth if we insist on the insulation of our foot based portal with the latest fashions of shoes, boots and wellies.
I am comforted at times of storm fronts, thunder and lightning by the wearing of a good pair of wellington boots. A thick layer of rubber between me and the ground is some reassurance against not acting as a conduit or conductor in a highly charged atmosphere that is to be found in such an aggressive weather front.
A lad that I went to school with was the proud owner of a pair of Doc Martens. They were the boot of choice for the bully boys and equally a statement of affiliation to a certain youth culture.
The uppers in the original ox-blood red were striking and contrasting sharply with the laces which were best in bright yellow. The legend on the sole was of a patented air-wear composition, acid resistance and much more.
For all the strutting about and posturing that went part and parcel with the wearing of Doc Marts the lad was petrified that, on his walk home from school along by the river, if he fell in sporting the same they would with the air filled technology cause his feet to rise up to the surface first and he would be left dangling head down in a murky, watery grave.
I got the impression from his troubled teenage times and in his adult years a period in prison that he had little chance of attaining harmony and one-ness with Earth thanks to that very efficient footwear.
There may not be many opportunities to commune directly through our feet. I can think of a few such as on a seaside holiday when beachcombing barefoot can be exhilarating and then painful as sandy residues seep into the gaps between your toes end or are found for a few weeks after in the folds of your socks.
I walked about my garden today with nothing on my feet. This was only possible after a fingertip search for hazards which within my boundaries include ancient dog dirt (almost fossilised), shards of glass from when the football shattered the shed window, bits of various solar cell garden lights also succumbing to a sliced and poorly executed volley, fragments of plum coloured slate from the patio, bits of last November's fireworks, the shells of snails left holed and plundered by the local thrush population and the residue of many, many spiky, thorny and jagged plants that fell out of the big green recycling bag between flowerbed and the boot of the car.
With some hesitation the first tentative steps do feel strange.
The clammy, early morning dew soaked blades of grass gradually activate the senses in what we are told can be a gateway to our nervous system and wellbeing. There is certainly some awakening of an ancient and fundamental spirit but it can be difficult for our evolved minds to evaluate and appreciate.
We are, by throwing off the shackles imposed by sandals, plimsolls and flip-flops trying to get in touch with our ancestors from pre-history who wandered about in leathery abandon au naturel.
The cooling action and textures of the natural earth , almost alien to our feet which convention and decency dictate we keep out of sight, are refreshing and exciting.
I can sympathise entirely with Bruce Willis in Die Hard With a Vengeance when he enacts the advice of a fellow plane passenger and makes fists of his feet to alleviate not just jet lag but the disappointment he must have felt in missing out on the excellent buffet in the Nakatomi Plaza.
So, try it.
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