It is a stunningly difficult process that I would never have anticipated. My entire posture is forced to shift in order to find a path of motion that least generates pain. I had never realised just how awkward my habitual gait must previously have been; in my newly enforced alignment it feels like my hips are thrust forward with my legs prancing far out to the front. I am almost tempted to neigh and gallivant like a prancing pony, or perhaps I would be if voluntary motion seemed like even a remotely good idea.
Having devoted a lifetime to the pursuit of footwear comfort: no heels and cushioned soles that carry me anywhere I want to go, the constraint seems beyond belief. And, unlike a plaster cast, I could remove my feet from the offending beasts at any moment I choose. It feels like a bizarre, self-inflicted torture not to. My mind roams continually to days of endless wandering, of enjoying the feel of foot meeting pavement or grass, or gliding along cool tiles. Everything in me calls to return to the days of freedom and I recoil at the thought of ongoing constraint. There is the hope that one day these diabolically miniature prisons will feel normal, even helpful, and I know that for many this has proven true, but right now it is hard to imagine. I have a sudden and complete sympathy with all who fail to comply with measures designed to benefit their health: for all their promise of improved independence and quality of life, these measures also represent a stunning loss of individual freedom of choice, autonomy and carefree enjoyment.
There are transitions in life, many of them, that we perhaps do not take seriously enough. Times of loss and letting go that are so apparently trivial in themselves that we do not recognise them as symbolic of something greater. We chastise ourselves for our superficial concerns, so irrelevant in the face of true sorrow. But perhaps what we are really confronting is the yawning chasm of impermanence, uncertainty and an inevitable progression through change we cannot control or understand in advance. Perhaps, after all, compassion for our own small, frightened selves, is the most loving and mature response.
As I continue to hobble tentatively but with increasing skill in my newly structured shoes, I look forward to the possibility of improved posture and movement, and to a "new normal" of freedom. Who knows? I may even have greater cause for vanity in future. But when the shoes come off at night I gratefully scrunch my toes into the forgiving, understanding carpet and I mourn the loss of what has been. And that, I feel, is as it should be.