One cool autumn my dad looked down and saw that he’d hiked the heck out of his boots, all the way down to the dirt. So we drove to the mall where we faced down a long line of blue and red and brown and green and purple boots. Being sixteen years old, I went for the purple suede ones and that was that. But daddy took his time, scrutinizing the spec sheets for each boot. Weight. Width. Waterproofness. Warrantee. Being a statistician, he probably couldn’t help himself.

Purple suede notwithstanding, I too inherited the analytical gene. I like knowing I got the best price for whatever it is, from boots to beernuts. I like knowing that there is no project so complex that it could outwit my orderly mind. Not that I don’t consult my feelings, but they are just a factor in the equation, not the whole equation. My friend Angie thinks it’s all pretty daft, particularly when I enlist her help with blind taste tests. She’s more of the intuitive sort, which is probably why we get along so well. Not that she’s suffering any; last week we compared chocolate chip cookie.

Of course, knowing you have the best boots in town is pretty satisfying all by itself, but what really puts the zip in my zipper is something else entirely. After all, life would be pretty dull if it everything were always filed alphabetically, even if the folders are color coded. My raison d’etre is that squirrely feeling when the smoke of a cranberry candle whispers by; the shiver down my spine when I bite a marinated artichoke; the tightness in my chest when I sing Ave Maria; the lust in my heart when I try on a purple velvet scarf. Is it just a memory of things past? Just allergies to some ingredient? Just sad lyrics? Just fabric?

In the Christian tradition, the body is separate from the soul, seething with lusts that must be controlled, part and parcel with the “sin” of Eve’s craving for the apple, or pomegranate as it may be. In contrast, many eastern philosophies see the body and soul as one, be it the joys of the physical (food, sex, bubblebaths) or the spiritual (meditation, song, prayer). A sensual thing like that cranberry scent becomes a reminder of the closeness of spirit. An artichoke is God’s gift of nourishment. The song is a joyful noise. Velvet is the touch of a loving spirit.

This is the wholeness that I live by, where there is no more dichotomy between my analytical and emotional sides than there is between the body and soul. In the heart of spirit, all these things are one. So while my head might still be turned by purple suede boots, I’m sure to get them on sale.

Copyright January, 1999