On a Saturday I
went to a hospital
in the city to make
a visit to a patient.
This was a big
place, and as
always I managed
to park as far as I
could from where I
needed to be, and so took myself on an
accidental tour of the entire hospital
campus, through miles of corridors and
hallways, most of which were deserted
because it was the weekend. I was
wearing new shoes, sort of fancy shoes,
and suddenly became aware of what a
racket I was making in those empty
hallways, clickety-clacketing in loud,
lonely, staccato echoes, sounding either
very important or very clumsy or both,
and either way, ridiculous.
I had read an article about the many
offenses for which the oppressive
Taliban rulers in Afghanistan might
arrest and imprison people. Among the
crimes was listed “women walking in
loud shoes.” They could go to jail for
that. They could be seized on the street,
or in their homes, for that. For some
reason this scrap of information floated
back to me that Saturday on my long
pilgrimage from the parking garage to
the critical care unit, and though I did
try to go respectfully on tiptoe when I
got to floors where patients might be
sleeping, I have to confess that in the
empty hallways, in the stairwells, the
corridors, once or twice, I wanted to
see exactly how loud those fancy new
shoes could be. And this was not just
for fun—I stamped with defiance on
the tiles, and that was a noisy prayer
and a blessing for the Afghan women.
My walk through all those
halls was long enough that
I had time to think not
only of women’s torment
by the Taliban but of the
thousands killed now by
our retaliatory bombing
there—women, like us,
their children, their old
ones, and men. And I had
time to think of women in
the West Bank,
Palestinian women with
no shoes at all, terrified
Israeli women, Pakistani
women, and the women of
India, who might or might
not be annihilated at any
moment by their leaders’ arrogance or
ignorance. I clattered for them also. I
clattered for the women and the babies
of Iraq, for the women and the babies
everywhere. It was a fearsome sound.
These days it sometimes feels as if
stomping our feet is all we can do—but
you know, even that can be a
sacrament, a first step, as it were; any
crazy act of solidarity with sisters
halfway round the world (or halfway
round the room) can be a prayer, if
you’re mindful, if you’re artful, if
you’re doing it on purpose. Once you
realize that walking in loud shoes (or in
any shoes at all, or simply walking,
safely, as many of us do every single
day) is a privilege and luxury, then the
burden is upon you. The burden of
response, of giving back and taking
risks for what is right, the burden of
courage and clear speaking and clear
thinking, the burden of gratitude and
compassion, is on you, and one thing
leads to something else.
by Victoria Safford, minister of the
White Bear Unitarian Universalist
Church in Mahtomedi, Minnesota, from
her 2003 meditation manual, Walking
Toward Morning. Published by Skinner
House, this book is available from the CLF library or
(617) 948-6150.
