WHENEVER I THINK about all the miles my shoes have seen, and about all the places to which they have carried me, I am reminded of a book that I keep meaning to read – Maya Angelou’s All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes. The opening paragraph alone is enough to stir a person’s soul out the door and to some far-off place:
The breezes of the West African night were intimate and shy, licking the hair, sweeping through cotton dresses with unseemly intimacy, then disappearing into the utter blackness. Daylight was equally insistent, but much more bold and thoughtless. It dazzled, muddling the sight. It forced through my closed eyelids, bringing me up and out of a borrowed bed and into brand new streets.
I hope that these new pair will carry me even farther.