Three things from DAH.

DAH is me, David Anthony Hance. I wonder what's waiting around the corner. 

First up this week, Sandals …  
I forgot that I wear sandals. At some point I just started wearing shoes, shoes, shoes (no socks), until I wore out the soles of my favored pair. I'm usually barefoot at home, but out and about my feet are too tender for the real world. One day I thought, "I should get some sandals!" I remembered a pair I'd liked, and researched them, mentioning this to CHance. "How are those different from the ones in the closet?" she asked, reasonably. Oh, yeah, those. The same ones I was researching. The ones I already had. I used to wear them all the time. And I am again now. Even if it is getting chillier. I really like them. My feet can breathe. I'd rather be barefoot, but I'd also rather not be foot-punctured by a thorn or broken glass. What a money-saving tip! If you already have it: No need to buy it. TEVA Hurricane, black.
Society for Barefoot Living | Free Your Feet and Your Mind Will Follow

Second up this week, Sustenance …  
I met a man named Seamus in San Luis Obispo CA. He was operating a … I hesitate to say "business" because I don't think he ever intended to make money … so, let's call it an "interesting human endeavor." Sustenance Studio. The idea was that it had members, that food would be made and shared, somehow, in a comfortable kitchen-centered clubhouse. It didn't last long, but my thoughts about the concept, and what Seamus (sadly gone now) was attempting, linger. Sustenance in terms of food, yes. But also sustenance in terms of companionship and belonging. Being together, cooking together, doing together. A pie-in-the-sky notion of a third place (where everyone knows your name), and where you share good food and good times together. Many create something similar by joining in supper groups, and regular potlucks. Nine old friends (including me) enjoyed a pop-up sustenance experience at our "Wine Camp" in Fort Bragg: Communal share-prepared meals and wine tastings (and wine drinking) in a house we rented for the weekend. We've been doing something like this every year or two for more than 30 years. Sustenance, indeed. 
Why Cookbook Clubs Should Be the New Way We Entertain

Third up this week, Salad Days …  
"My salad days, When I was green in judgment: cold in blood, To say as I said then!" So says Cleo in Act 1, Scene 4 of Antony and Cleopatra, by William Shakespeare. It's easy for me to recall my own salad days since I still occasionally join in companionship with those who knew me when. Last weekend I was barefoot except when I ventured outside our group lodging. Those there all remember me from my salad days, as I remember them. Remarkably, I think, we've all steadfastly supported and encouraged one another. I suppose we wouldn't have lasted as a group of friends if any of us were nasty or negative. They know who I was, and who I am. We all made it out of our salad days, somehow. Now, I think we're in our sushi days (we did have a young sushi chef prepare our supper one evening, so that colors my thinking). Are we all (metaphorically) balls of cooled sticky vinegary rice, made unique by interesting topping selections? Occasionally salty and spicy (that wasabi can really clear one's head), sometimes elegant and sometimes rustic. I like thinking I'm in my sushi days.
I'm Like A Sushi Roll, and So Are You

And a bit more: 

Barefoot, by Anne Sexton

Loving me with my shoes off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don’t really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark

And that's all for this week.
From Mary Oliver’s poem "Sometimes" …  
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it. 

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