Where in the wilderness of shoes is God?

Recently read (and very much enjoyed) Louise Erdrich’s Books and Islands, about visiting the lakes that cross the American-Canadian border with her 2 year old daughter. There are introductions to the Ojibwe language, belief system and territories. There are family memories. There are love letters to books and to…well, love. And there is shake your head in agreement so hard it might fall off writing.

For a week before I leave on any trip, I am distracted and full of cares. Just at the last minute, I find myself doing things that I have put off for months, even years. I always change my will, then clean out cabinets and file old letters. I make certain that we all have sufficient underwear, that money and phone numbers are in relevant hands , the dog’s vaccinated for Lyme’s disease, the manuscript of the last book is in production, the baby has her shots. Then I get more specific to the trip itself. I read books on pictographs and decide which notebooks to take along. Change oil in the car… There are so many small things. It is the small things that will consume me. The sunblock. The elms must be treated with fungicide. The shoes. The many sizes and types of shoes girls wear all through their lives. I tell myself that God and meaning are in the small things as well as in the vast. But where in the wilderness of shoes is God? In the laces? The rubber bumpers? The heels that swiftly rise at age twelve? On the other hand, none of this matters at all. The attention to details is just a way to stave off facing the truth. I hate leaving home.