When the Sole Gives Up Before the Soul

My slippers gave up on me again.

Last month, my Crocs cracked open. This month, the straps on a five-month-old pair just gave up. A clean break — like they’d had enough.

At first, it was just annoying. But then I found myself quietly disappointed… and suddenly, back in my childhood.

I remember a time when slippers lasted. A year, sometimes two. They traveled with you through school years, summer holidays, and monsoons. They weren’t perfect, but they didn’t fall apart like this. Not after five months.

We used to make things to last.

The Cobbler’s Effort & the City-Made Problem

I tried fixing my Crocs. Took them to a village cobbler who still practices the forgotten art of repair. He glued on a sole, stitched it carefully. It held for a while — until the farm life wore it down again.

That’s when I realized: It’s not the slipper’s fault.

Most of what we buy today is designed for clean floors and soft terrain — not mud, not rocks, not roots. Not the kind of life where you move with the sun, get your hands dirty, and walk through uneven paths every single day.

City things don’t survive country rhythms.

A Return to Barefoot

So I’ve started walking barefoot more often.
Not because I have no choice, but because it feels right.

The earth feels cooler. My body feels calmer. My mind — quieter.

Barefoot walking connects me. To the soil, to stillness, to something I can’t quite name.
It reminds me that maybe we don’t need as much as we think to feel held and grounded.

Nothing Lasts — But Maybe That’s the Point

I haven’t yet found a pair of slippers that can survive this life.
Leather warps in the tropics. Rubber gives up. Nothing seems to last.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe farm life isn’t just about growing food or living slow — maybe it’s about revealing what’s real, what endures, and what’s just decoration.

My slippers gave up.

But I won’t.