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>My daughters are much the same at this time of year. >As winter creeps in, they know to wrap themselves >warmly from the ankles up — coats, scarves, woolly >hats — but their feet remain bare, their toes a >little flushed from the cold yet unbothered by it. >We’ve found that as long as the rest of them is >snug, they’re perfectly happy to feel the bite of >frosty grass or the smooth chill of damp pavement. For >them, the cold is just another texture, another layer >of experience. > >This first Advent Sunday we strolled into town for the >Christmas tree light switch-on. It had been drizzling >since the afternoon, and the streets glistened under >the streetlamps. My girls padded along barefoot >through slick pavements, their soles meeting the cool >wetness without hesitation, chatting excitedly about >the lights and carols to come. By the time we reached >the square, the tree stood tall and bright against the >dark sky, its thousands of tiny bulbs reflected in >puddles at our feet. The drizzle didn’t dampen their >spirits one bit — they danced in place waiting for >the countdown, stamping little raindrop rings around >themselves. When the lights burst into life, they >gasped and grinned, as if the whole town had suddenly >stepped into a storybook. > >Walking home, their feet were marked by the evening >— a faint glaze from rainwater, a trace of grit from >the pavements — but their smiles were brighter than >the lights we’d just seen. And, like you said, that >lingering afterglow stayed with them long after we got >back, encouraging them to embrace the next barefoot >adventure no matter the season.

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