Tomorrow I'll go barefoot

I remember wishing for the sun to arrive. It felt like we hadn't had a clear day with the hot sun for years. I told Ada all about the sun. "It's warm," I'd tell her. "You'll like it. It's bright and yellow and happy."

As soon as the sun peeked its head out for a few weeks in May we spent all the time outside that we could. Ada and I would lay a blanket out and watch the breeze move the buds and branches. We would watch birds land and fly. We would watch bugs crawl. We felt the grass on our feet and faces.

A friend of mine blogged about how much her son loves being outside. Ada Lou loves it too. There is some sort of magic about the outdoors that puts babies at ease. (Maybe I should start having The Lou nap outside like the Scandinavians do?) Is my baby crying? Stop jingling that rattle in her face; no she's not hungry. Just let me take her outside. Ba-bing!! Silence.

After watching the lightning storm last night and standing mesmerized by the pounding rain this afternoon, I can't help but feel a longing to be outside more; to feel the rain on my skin and sticky tree droppings on my feet.

Why?

What is it about the outdoors that makes us feel so at one. Why does my soul soar when I stand and look at the sky's expanse over the mountains?

I think the longing stems from a general disconnectedness with nature. How often do I go without setting my bare feet on grass? True stuff-from-the-ground greens. I put on my shoes to go outside. I walk across the cement, get in my car, get out and walk across the asphalt. Go inside. Come outside. Take a walk on the cement with Ada in the stroller. Sit outside on the back porch.

While being outside does a man good, I think there is something electric about letting all of your senses take in this beautiful earth.

I've decided that touching living things takes conscious effort, but it revitalizes our spirits.