Textures are everywhere: The rough edges of a stone wall. The smooth innocence of a baby’s cheek. The sense of touch brings back memories for us. What texture is particularly evocative to you?
Hmmm, there are a few that I could easily write about, but I’ll focus on one for the sake of writing this post (and, because I have 3 or 4 more posts to get to after this!)
Primarily, the most evocative texture for me is the feeling of grass on my warm soft feet just after I take my shoes and socks off.
Oh… OHHHH. It’s such an incredible feeling, and something that I completely took for grated after growing up in the country. Spending so many years going day-in, day-out of keeping my feet covered, or at the very least, walking around barefoot on the carpet, there is something almost freeing about frolicking around barefoot on the grass.
It always takes me back to my childhood. My emotionally-scarring childhood. I remember in spring time, when we lived in the country, and waking up on a saturday or sunday morning, with the sunshine pouring in through the giant floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom, and the smell of freshly cut grass wafting in on a warm breeze… it’s one of those sensations that will forever stay with me. The best part was getting up and having breakfast, then running around outside on the cut grass until my feet were stained green. Mum would then force me to scrub my feet and put some thongs on next time I went out tearing around the backyard, or tormenting the sheep in the paddock.
Then in highschool, when we moved into town after we sold the country house, our front yard had this really tall, hard, crunchy lawn, which was surrounded by a garden, and the cat was usually hiding in there somewhere. I remember sometimes on the weekend, or even coming home from dancing, pulling my shoes and sweaty socks off, and just walking around on the grass for at least 30mins. I loved the feeling it gave me on the bottom of my feet. Given that I have very sensitive feet, it was somewhat like a pleasurable torture. It tickled my feet so much, but the feeling was fantastic. Not in a sexual kind of way (you bunch of perverts!), but just in a oh-god-this-feels-so-good way.
I remember sometimes when I had finished my ballet class, every now and then, a couple of the girls and I would walk across the road to the giant park, kick our shoes off and examine all our blisters and manky mangled feet, and then prance around in the grass and the sunshine going over the adage we learnt earlier.
Admittedly, even now when I get an opportunity to walk around barefoot on grass, my inner ballerina starts screaming at from inside, trying to make me bound around on the ground doing a little enchainement.