Barefoot: A Return to Knowing
Day 2: Rain and Wings
It rained that morning. Not a gentle drizzle, not the kind of misty blessing you walk through in a daydream, but that thick, Southern kind. The kind that comes with thunder rumbling in the gut of the sky, and clouds splitting open like something had to be released.
Usually, she stayed indoors during storms like that. Everyone did. The rain here was unpredictable. It always came sudden, intense, and often dragging lightning behind it like a tail.
But today, she didn’t turn back. She stood barefoot at the edge of the porch, watching the rain carve rivulets through the gravel path, her toes curling slightly at the cold wet wood beneath her. Her instincts told her to wait. But the voice was still quiet, still certain and it nudged her forward.
Earth Angel, Earth Angel, keep walking.
She stepped into the storm.
The rain soaked her within seconds. Her hair flattened. Her dress clung to her back. Her feet hit the softened clay with a squish, warm and earthy, and the path that had stung so sharply the day before now felt different. Not painless, but familiar—like skin that had already begun to toughen.
The burrs weren’t as sharp this time. Still there, but easier to brush away. She felt the heat of the ground rise through the soles of her feet, even through the water and mud, and beneath it all there rose a pulse. A frequency that moved through her and guided the rhythm of her stride.
She walked slowly, letting the rain trail down her face, her neck, her arms, until she could no longer tell the difference between what was falling from the sky and what was rising from within. With every step, she whispered, "I am listening."
The world around her quieted, despite the storm. No cracks of lightning, no thunder now. Just wind through the trees. Cicadas pulsing their electric hymn in the pines. And in between it all there was a stillness. And in that stillness, she remembered her wings.
Not from a dream. From before dreams. Wings not seen but felt. How she used to rise, unconcerned with gravity or explanation. Back when she was allowed to go barefoot, running wild across green grass and black pavement, before anyone told her otherwise.
Before the church bells. Before the sermons. Before she was told that flying was for angels. And angels were not little girls with dirt on their feet.
Earth Angel, Earth Angel, take flight.
The words rose up unbidden, a song she used to hum under her breath before she even knew what it meant. She smiled, quietly, at how strange it would sound if she sang it out loud, sang it along with the wind, the birds and the earth below her. And yet, something in her spirit knew it was true.
She had always been more than what the world tried to make her. Not above it, just deeper within it. Rooted and rising at the same time.
She paused beneath a willow at the edge of the pasture, rainwater dripping from its branches. Her heart beat strong and steady. The soles of her feet throbbed, but not from pain. Something was coming back.
Earth Angel, Earth Angel, remember who you are.
That night, she dreamed again.
She flew just inches above the ground at first, then higher. Not alone, but with the fairies and fae, butterflies and birds, even the wasps and bees. The sky above opened, and they all rose together, flying over the fields, over the trees, into something bright and boundless.
And her laughter returned. The kind of laughter that spills out from a body that still believes in magic. The kind comes from the child within.
She woke up with her pillow damp—not from rain, but from tears. She didn’t cry because she missed it. She cried because part of her knew it never left.
Powerful!! From the depths and experienced!!
There's always overlapping in our words. Chapter 18 my book titles, Earthe Angels.
Love this piece Chera