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Much of my time in the garden is spent barefoot. Not when it is dark, of course, and not at the height of winter, or when I am using the power scythe or digging with a pitchfork or shovel. But when I go down to my wild garden to see if the flax is blooming? The squill budding? Or to gather seeds and trim shoots that have grown around tree trunks? Perhaps to look for and repair leaks and bird pecks in pipes? Then I wander around barefoot, and I like it very much.

Most people I know are incapable of walking barefoot on the earth, nor do they wish to. People even wear shoes while walking on the beach. It is true that caution should be exercised so as not to tread on broken glass bottles, dog poop, and other treasures concealed in the sand, but usually modern man is afraid, abstaining from unmediated contact with the earth not merely out of caution but as another expression of the sterility that has penetrated our lives in all kinds of ways and through all kinds of doors.

This is also expressed through the Hebrew language. The word yachef, “barefoot,” is a neutral word, but the word yachfan, which comes from the same root, not only means “barefoot person” but also “vagrant”: yachef is a current situation; yachfanut, “vagrancy,” is a syndrome, and anyone possessing that syndrome grew up in the semantic field of paupers, idlers, irresponsible people, and also a certain sense of anarchy. In other words, the reluctance to walk barefoot also stems from considerations of one’s public image connected to poverty, deviance, and inferiority. Perhaps this is because, in days gone by, only the rich could afford shoes and because prisoners and deportees were sent barefoot to their fates. King David, who could afford to buy his own shoes, and likely had three or four pairs at the least, demonstrated this when he fled from Absalom, his rebel son. King David ascended the Mount of Olives in a show of mourning and wretchedness, “and wept as he went up, and had his head covered, and he went barefoot.”

The prophet Isaiah once removed his shoes and went barefoot. He did so in order to attract attention, to elucidate the exile that Assyria intended for Egypt and Kush. This is also evident in God’s famous command to Moses: “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground”—and as such is an expression of humiliation: one must lower and diminish oneself when in the presence of God. To this day we say “Remove your shoes!” in Hebrew when someone is being boastful or denigrating and needs a reminder that he is in the presence of someone greater and more important than the likes of him and that he should return to his natural dimensions.

In spite of all this, there are those who go barefoot not in a theatrical or qualitative way but for simple financial reasons: Abba Hilkiah, the grandson of Honi the Circle Drawer, who brought down rain, was once asked why he carries his shoes in his hands when walking but wears them when crossing areas flooded with water. His answer was this: “I see all the way, but in water I do not see.” In other words, while walking I can see what might hurt the soles of my feet and so there is no need to wear out my shoes. But in water I cannot see what I am stepping on and I fear for my flesh.

As for me—since I neither grow burning bushes, nor run away from sons who rebel against me and ask for my head on a platter, nor make prophecies about political or military developments in the region, or am inclined to gimmicks to attract attention—I go barefoot for more basic reasons. First, because I can, because I have been doing it since I was born. Second, I enjoy it and this is the way I like it. I relish the direct contact of my foot on the ground and the sensation that dusty pathways and dry leaves give me, and also sandy ground and earth drenched in mud. And I am happy with the information that my foot receives from the ground and I revel in the agreeable pressure that the variable terrain applies to it. I like the game play between the muscles of the soles of my feet and toes, which do almost no work at all inside a closed shoe. Mostly, I enjoy the feeling of freedom that a bare foot gives its owner. It is no coincidence that manoul, the word for “lock” in Hebrew, and na’al, “shoe,” share the same root, whose meaning is “closure” or “imprisonment.”

Even when wearing shoes, many people stumble when stepping off a sidewalk or a road onto a path or into a field, and even more when barefoot. The issue here is both habituation of the soles of the feet to unmediated contact with the terrain and also the way a person presents himself on it, and then steps onto it: the toes dig into the ground a little, gripping it, releasing, activating minor muscles, forgotten ones, recalling abilities lost to the human body a long time ago. And not only this: over time, people who go barefoot develop eyes in their heels and toes and eventually do not have to look where they are going. The foot itself sees the surface of the ground.

And sometimes, when I pause, standing barefoot on the soil without treading farther, I feel the ground holding me gently, reminding me that even if I normally wear sandals or shoes, this is where I came from and where I belong. In short, I recommend that everyone forgo wearing shoes from time to time. Walk barefoot on the ground! It is both pleasant and beneficial to the body, reviving the spirits and offering a lesson that is undoubtedly good for the soul.