Still Unshod

I rarely write in dark times, in times where hope is elusive, when I feel like I carry thousands of pounds extra weight everywhere I  go, every move I make.  Now is one such time, so we’ll see how this experiment turns out.

The disclaimer I add to this is that even in times like this, when nothing seems possible, I do know that I will wake up one morning soon, ready to ensure things do indeed happen, ready to recognize them happening -  confident and hopeful.  That’s why I rarely sit to write at these times. I wait it out in relative silence.

I found myself in a boutique today, searching for the perfect boots.  The perfect boots are not at this boutique for I have searched there before.  I have been looking to replace 2 pairs of perfection I have worn to the ground.  I still wear them and they have a certain charm as they are, but it’s an everyday sort of charm, not what you might wear to a speaking engagement, meeting or out on the town (only 2 of the 3 nice shoe occassions are actually part of my life now, can you guess which?).   I’ve been to the usual stores and websites many times.

Today at this boutique, I tried on the pairs I have already ruled out over the months - too tight, too fragile, too hootchie-mama.  There are those that seem to be pretty close to my ideal, but come in European sizes only and therefore do not accommodate my size 6.5 dogs as there is nothing between 35 and 36.  But I keep trying them on.  I have a conversation with the sales clerk about ordering a limited edition Dansko in the smallest size for me to try on.  They do not carry that size in the store, but they could order it and if it did not fit, they’d make the exception to the in-store-credit only return policy and refund me.  Yeah, ok. I’ll do that.  It’s not a boot really and is a little more casual than I’m seeking, but it could work as a multi-purpose shoe through spring.  Maybe I just want to buy something to feel in control, to make decisions that lead to something concrete (or leather, as it were). I wait as she calls the company.  She comes back with eyebrows cocked in salesy-sympathy.  The déjà vu begins.  She tells me they do not make the limited editions in the smallest size at that particular company and begins to direct my attention to a shoe that would never find its way to my closet.  That is when I recall going through this exact same futile investigation, same conversation, maybe 4 or 5 weeks ago.

As I shuffle my old boots out of the store, I realize that I probably forced this situation just to have something meaningless to furrow my brow over, to rub my chin in concentration about, something mundane to fail at, and something that doesn’t really matter in the scheme of things.  To remind myself that even though I call it failure, it’s not for lack of trying.

The searching, the looking at the same things already ruled out, the having of the exact  same conversations, that is all happening now in a critical area of life for my daughter with differences. I have added different approaches and angles along the way, sought the advice of others, looked in other directions, but still I bang my head against the wall.  I am surprised when it hurts.  I am surprised when nothing changes.

I am failing at getting something for my daughter with differences, something important, something she needs.  And the weight of this defeat is more than I can carry some days.  Like today.

Today.   Today I give up.

Tomorrow or next week I’ll rear my head against that wall again, I’ll step into the perfect-boot-free boutique.  I’ll have expectations and I’ll believe I can impact the outcome.   One day, one year a new shipment will come in and I’ll walk out admiring the sound of my new soles on the pavement, the shape of the square toe.  The wall will give.

And then I’ll be free to concern myself with whatever’s next – perfect jeans, other tools my daughter requires for her own next steps.  Other walls to hammer, other walls to give.

Update on Tuesday, November 24, 2009 at 1:50PM by Insideout510

Good morning.  The toe is not square, but my new boots sound pretty good on the pavement.

Comments

[elizabeth]

"I am failing at getting something for my daughter with differences, something important, something she needs. And the weight of this defeat is more than I can carry some days. Like today."

How well I understand those three sentences -- and although I appreciate the disclaimer you gave -- I'm more struck by how similar our lives (those of us with children with differences) can be in the variability of moods and ability to "cope" and "hope" and, frankly, just keep going. I often compare this weight that you've described as something heaved by someone or something off a cliff. It lands, always, on me when I least expect it and eventually is dropped by what I imagine can only be called grace.

I hope the weight drops soon for you. And thank you for a beautifully articulated post.