Present Over Perfect

armor for a frantic professional world—in search of a cozier,
plainer, simpler way of living, I bought a pair of white
Converse All Stars. Practically speaking, I needed a pair of
shoes to wear to a camp. And I needed desperately to go to
a camp—to reconnect with nature and silence and water and
people who knew me well.
The Chucks, then, became a symbol of the transition
from one season to another. They have become the shoes I
wear when I want to feel truly grounded: low-key, low-
drama, my plain old self. They’re like the jeans you’ve had
forever, the college sweatshirt you can’t throw away, the
baseball cap that outlasted the boyfriend and has now
become part of your own story, part of who you are.
When I see them in my closet, I remember that I want to
live both feet firmly planted on this gorgeous green earth,
that I want to be right here and right now, that I am loved
and known and that I don’t have to hustle or perform.
I know that’s a lot to get from a pair of sneakers. But
sometimes, especially when we’re in seasons of great
transition, we cling to a couple things very tightly—physical
reminders of deep inner revolutions—and I’ve held tightly
to these white Chucks.
They’re not my first pair—didn’t everyone my age have
a pair or two in high school or college? I certainly did, along
the way—green ones, red ones, black ones. So these feel
familiar, like a return to an essential self, like I’m traveling
back to reclaim something, which is exactly what I’m doing,
in many ways: I’m retracing the steps I’ve taken across the