No Shoes For A Stranger
This is once of my favorite excerpts from my book, The Art of Impossible. It’s a lesson on staying humble, changing perceptions, and being open to miracles in the most unexpected places. Enjoy!
No Shoes For A Stranger
1996. I am in beautiful Brazil. 40 degrees Celsius. I am sweating my entire body weight. 20 kids. I am teaching circus to a group of underprivileged youth under a makeshift big top. I thought I was there to share my enlightened wisdom of a North American professional performer. Actually I was there to have one of the most humbling learning experiences of my life.
Round-off, back handspring, back tuck. Again. And again. This is the routine that the kids are practicing. There is a dilapidated stretch of foam, 15 feet long, 3 feet wide, that separates the thudding impact of the kids’ bare feet from the packed concrete floor. It is hardly worth calling a tumbling mat, but the kids don’t seem to mind. The environment is enthusiastic. They are laughing, joking with each other, challenging one another to flip a little higher, a little faster, with a little more style.
I am teaching with my whole heart. There is nothing more inspiring than watching youth absorb themselves in the passion of creating a world of athletic artistry, with nothing more than a round concrete slab for the circus ring and pieces of wood and tape for juggling clubs. Here, under the tarnished blue and white chapiteau, dreams gather momentum, hardships forgotten, and kinships tightened. We are the circus of no time, no place, with no cares in the world except to let our hearts sing with the challenge of pushing ourselves joyfully to the edge.
I am fully absorbed in spotting a teenager execute a back flip when the head coach tells us that he needs the space for a new class and that we have to vacate the big top. Where to, I ask? We had the choice between hard concrete (at least it was shaded) and the dusty, gravel-filled grounds of the surrounding park (not shaded). The head coach shrugs. I’m on my own.
We file out from the cool protection of the chapiteau into the blazing Brazilian sun. The ground is littered with tiny rocks, broken glass, and pointy acorns that have fallen from surrounding trees. This is no runway for acrobats, let alone kids without shoes.
No sooner do I complete a hopeless evaluation of the new training grounds when I see the kids catapulting themselves into flips and handsprings. Not glass, rocks, or dust could stop them. There was no lack of enthusiasm either. It was as if any place could be their kingdom, their empire.
One of the kids calls to me. He asks me to show them that flip I do, the one that everyone wants to learn. It’s my favorite move, maybe because it’s the one I learned without almost trying, and the one that I’ve done in every show. I do a cartwheel and spring up sideways, rotate grabbing my knees and land like a cat. They want me to show them. I say yes.
That’s when I realize that I am the only one with shoes on. Not just any kind of sneaker – I am wearing the specialized athletic shoe that you get in North America at elite training stores for eighty bucks a pop. They’re worn-in and dusty, but light as a feather with that cool, flighty bounce that fires me skyward. I look down at my sleek Asics. I look over at their bare feet. A wave of embarrassment washes over me.
I am lucky to be born in North America. I have had the best in every respect – never been homeless, never been without clothes on my back, never been faced with begging for my next meal. It is a precious reality that is fabricated like a delicate veil that covers our daily perceptions of life. It is also a veil that can be easily pierced to reveal the deep, wounded scars of humanity. And at that moment, the full pain of countless suppressed societies floods my senses and moves me in inexplicable ways. At that moment, I realize that my good fortune in life is not a treasure to be stowed away, but to be shared and given away at every opportunity.
The kids are calling on me still. They are relentless, the way teenagers are. I look down again at my comfortable trainers, then over to their hardened, bare soles. In a robotic, dreamy way, I reach down and remove my shoes. I don’t know how the rocks are going to feel against my tender, fleshy under-pads, spoiled by years of cushioned air shocks and lycra-enhanced athletic socks. All I can do is to save my dignity and hope that I land on my feet without showing too much pain.
I ready myself for the flip. I don’t think that even the pressure of performing in a show has ever made me this nervous for a routine. I take a breath. I look for patches without rocks, glass, or acorns. There aren’t any. It doesn’t matter – I am this far, naked without my classy Asics. I throw myself into my tumbling sequence.
Five seconds later it is over. The kids cheer, happy to see the cool side-flip. I look down a last time, wondering if I will need tetanus shots to counter the gaping wounds on the bottom of my feet. But there is no blood, no trail of red along the dirt. Only a few scratches grace my skin, with the sting of landing just a little too hard on the packed gravel. I am okay, but my concept of reality has taken a beating.
I learn that day that I am not there to teach them. That day I am there to learn from them. I learn that their passion is boundless and not restricted by a few rocks or broken beer bottles. Their love for life is not held back by the symbols of poverty – being shoeless and shirtless – but exists without consideration for what they have or what they do. They simply exude generosity, even when we might think they have nothing to be grateful for. That day I learn that gratitude has nothing to do with what you have, and everything to do with what you give.
