Mr. Bee surprised me with a nice pair of rubber boots for my birthday. They are blue with a slight red trim, and a gray lining that keeps my toes from getting too chilled while completing morning and evening outside chores. Oh, did I mention they are waterproof too? An important feature for any work boot in the rainy pacific northwest.
Something strange happens each time I put them on though.
Within moments of stepping outside, my head is lifted high and my steps are determined. I feel my body call my muscles into action and coordinate each task with a foreign deliberateness. I muck out the duck house, milk the goat, collect the eggs, and stack the wood...and notice something different.
I lack the self-consciousness I've grown accustomed to. In my new boots, I stomp out the idea that I'm a homesteading imposter, and trudge past the belief that I'll never be good enough at life on our mini farm. I wiggle my toes and trust the experience I've gained, and the generations of strong women who have filled this role before me. I firmly plant my small feet in the tall grasses, the sticky mud, the fresh straw, the mound of gravel or the backdoor of our house for it makes no difference where I stand. I even wore them to the grocery store in a country dress and felt more like an accomplished lady than I've ever been in heels, nylons, and enough hairspray to support the beauty industry for a year.
Call it a placebo-effect if you are scientifically minded, or the Emporer's New Clothes if you draw your knowledge from folktales. Tell me that you gave your six-year-old daughter a cape and told her she could now ride her bike without training wheels or that your son swore his blankie gave him the power to go to bed each night without bad dreams until he was nine. Whatever you say, I won't be persuaded out of my practice. All I know is that it works.
Something strange happens each time I put them on though.
Within moments of stepping outside, my head is lifted high and my steps are determined. I feel my body call my muscles into action and coordinate each task with a foreign deliberateness. I muck out the duck house, milk the goat, collect the eggs, and stack the wood...and notice something different.
I lack the self-consciousness I've grown accustomed to. In my new boots, I stomp out the idea that I'm a homesteading imposter, and trudge past the belief that I'll never be good enough at life on our mini farm. I wiggle my toes and trust the experience I've gained, and the generations of strong women who have filled this role before me. I firmly plant my small feet in the tall grasses, the sticky mud, the fresh straw, the mound of gravel or the backdoor of our house for it makes no difference where I stand. I even wore them to the grocery store in a country dress and felt more like an accomplished lady than I've ever been in heels, nylons, and enough hairspray to support the beauty industry for a year.
Call it a placebo-effect if you are scientifically minded, or the Emporer's New Clothes if you draw your knowledge from folktales. Tell me that you gave your six-year-old daughter a cape and told her she could now ride her bike without training wheels or that your son swore his blankie gave him the power to go to bed each night without bad dreams until he was nine. Whatever you say, I won't be persuaded out of my practice. All I know is that it works.
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