Brown Eyes

I just can't do it. I can't look into those brown eyes staring up at me, pleading to stay and refuse.

I'm not talking about the guinea pigs, even though every day the thought of what they taste like breaded and deep fried crosses my mind. It has nothing to do with hunger, but the fact that they create their body weight in poop every single day. We're not getting rid of them anytime soon, don't worry. I love them in that obligated kind of way.

I can't bring myself to get rid of my hiking boots. I'm not sure how old they are, but it must be close to a decade. My mom got me a lovely, much needed new pair I wear around the house, but I can't bring myself to wear them outside without great feelings of betrayal.

I know this is ridiculous, but I can hear them chiding me about all the streams we have crossed, cliffs we've scrambled, and roots we've navigated without twisted ankles or worse. They have been faithful through all the adventures and now that the tread is worn and gashes are deep, I am moving on?

My feet have never been easy to accommodate so perhaps it is pure practicality that drives my resistance to parting ways and experimenting with a new pair. Why is it boots wear out just when you get them worn in? Knowing myself like I do, it has nothing to do with practicalities. I'm emotionally attached to the memories of where those boots have taken me.

I've packed child after child through the woods of the Upper Peninsula, picking up beautiful  leaves in brilliant colors, gathering blueberries, and wandering through wilderness. We hiked the Chilkoot following the trail of the ancient miners. I might have gotten a little slap happy at one point and jumped from boulder to boulder pretending I was Tigress from Kung Fu Panda. Did they let me tumble? No. We've trekked up every accessible mountain around us with stories of sweat, blood, and tears. They are a part of me and that is always hard to let go. I thought duct tape might work for some spots, but I know it is time.

Hiking out to the glacier yesterday with Keith and Logan reminded me it was time. The boots I depend on weren't quite the traction or support I need. But, there was also a lovely moment as Keith and I were talking about Kirt at academy.

Keith said something like, "I think I know why you get all weepy when we go off to college or adventures, you know we'll come back different. It's kind of that way with Kirt now, isn't it?" Of course it is. All of it is exciting and as it should be, but it does feel like just when you wear something in comfortably, it changes and something new comes along.

The new hiking boots will be great and they don't smell. It's a good thing.

I know that I will get rid of the old ones, but I  need some ritual act and words to mark the transition as something sacred. I will need to mark a moment of thanksgiving and appreciation as corny as it is. I did find a lovely prayer for the disposal of Bibles that have served their time, "The pages once read, now brittle and yellowing, are now returned for renewal. May they make new paper on which truth, beauty, and joy may be known." 

I kind of like that. "The cow hide once supportive and full of adventure, now worn and tired, are now returned for renewal. May they decompose and let truth, beauty, and joy be made known in these new boots made out of some synthetic material that will probably never decompose." Maybe it loses something in translation, but it will be a few more weeks before I actually bring myself to trade so I've got time to work on it.