You rarely see a sign on the front door of a house that instructs newcomers on shoe wearing etiquette.
Occasionally the evidence obvious. There are piles of shows outside the door that indicate: We take shoes off before walking into this house. Or, there are no shoes at the entrance, which might indicate: Go ahead, wear your shoes throughout.
Usually, however, shoe wearing etiquette, like most etiquette, is less obvious and passively communicated. Is the carpet stained, spills left uncleaned, and animals running through the house? Those are indicators that, indeed, this house is a shoe-wearing house. Are the wood floors cleaned to a shine and no visible scuffs on the wall? This house is not a shoe-wearing house. Does the owner have shoes on? Do their children? Both important pieces of evidence.
Sometimes a house has an aura—no explicit evidence, no clues, and no piles of shoes—that dictates the shoe-wearing policy. The space of the living room is inviting, the art on the wall and the easel in the corner are inspiring, and the hanging plants are life-giving. In a space like this, you may be compelled to remove your shoes because it invites you to fully feel the living room floor, intimately engage the surroundings, and take risks in conversation.
Our hearts wear protective shoes too. Some space there is a clear policy to keep it guarded. But often it’s the aura of a place that either invites us to takes risks and fully feel, or it does the opposite and we stay covered up.
True learning requires us to remove our shoes, but it can only freely happen in a space that is safe to take risks.
