Feet Bound By Leather Souls…

The image of hundreds of feet, dressed in fancy footwear, walking in some marbled concourse flashed upon the television screen the other day. Possibly the scene from some commercial, I’m not sure because I didn’t have the sound turned on; I rarely watch T.V. But in that brief instant, for some reason, the thought of how perhaps some of those feet, if not most, might not have ever known the touch of bare skin to soil. Some may have never known the fresh earthly embrace of the coolness when bare feet are allowed to explore the world around them. “Could it be possible?” I thought to myself. Then the verse below came to mind;

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

The whirlwind of life sometimes seems to put you on your heels, trying all the while to maintain your balance. When these times become too hectic, one place I find comfort is outside, on the farm. It seems whether it’s working with the cattle or in the garden, there’s an earthly grounding solace to it all. The smell of new turned soil, the feel of dirt under your nails all lend to a particular satisfaction of oneself you come to realize out here; working the land.

Recently, it was a long time overdue, I had to plow under the summer garden, or rather what was left that the weeds had not claimed as their own conquest. Knowing my neglect of visitation had led to this jungle of overgrowth, I gladly hooked the single blade plow up to my tractor to turn it all asunder. However, before I could begin I had to inspect the one recognizable item still growing therein; there was one beautiful cucumber vine that had volunteered itself to grow amongst the angry vegetation. It provided two of the sweetest little cucumbers which were quite rewarding since there had been none since the last vestiges of the spring garden had given up their sumptuous fruit. However, the vine being where it lay, in the dead center middle of the plot, I had no choice but to plow it along with the serpentine pestilence of weeds that surrounded it; another case of all or nothing in a world where singularity of beauty is often forsaken in order to succumb to the needs of the masses.

Once the soil was turned multiple times, the land was a dark, rich earthly aroma laying in rolled rows of earthen loaves. Then, with the disc attached to the tractor, we folded the land again, disking it into finer particles of dirt until it was a smooth precious tender bed ready for seed in which to impart. The growing storm clouds on the southwestern horizon made the project all the more satisfying, knowing the newly sewn seeds would be watered by the master’s hand. All that was left to do was to wait, for the new garden was all but done. One last item was needed, and that the good Lord would provide.

The gentle sound of rain on the rooftop later that evening provided a comforting knowledge of a job well done. Timing is everything in farming and when it all comes together, there is no better feeling. As I scraped vestiges of soil from underneath my grateful fingernails. The smell of earth was still with me…washed down the sink, but forever in mind and spirit.

Then returned the thought of all those dress shoes walking hurriedly to some destination…

“The feet bound by leather souls feel not the humbleness of the sod. They carry the person without knowing the terrain below upon which they frequent trod.”

Then again, it’s likely they never had the chance to even put their hands into that same sod, working the land with bare hands. Earthen soil pushed tightly under the fingernail, some easily knocked free with thumb or forefinger, other requiring the sharp edge of blade to remove. No matter the effort, there still remains a dark reminder of the hand that tills the soil, toils the land and reaps the harvest. No man knoweth like anything more than through what he has struggled or toiled, sweat laden brow, stinging eyes, weary aching backs that seem to lock in place only never to be bent back into their original youthful form. These toilsome folk only know the pain of unending labor to never sit at the master’s table until the very end. While the ones wearing the thick soles, who upon humble earth trod, insulated, cushioned from the realities of the torment by which they so freely live each day, take for granted so much. No thought, no pause given to the flick of the switch, a simple phone call, ordered food prepared by another unknown, then on to pursue frolicking enjoyment with mostly little or no care as to the wake they leave in their path. Then comes Monday morning when it’s back to the cubicled-office they return…wearing the patent leather loafers of life.

Perhaps one day, they too will find the satisfaction of a good days work in the soil upon which they trod, before it’s too late…in this we can only hope…

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