Feet

I recently discovered what I should have always known.  My feet are faithfully waiting to take me onward.  They keep going.

I believe feet are under-rated.  Perhaps you can contemplate your own feet and write about what they’ve meant to you, where they’ve taken you, how they have been good to you.

Look down.  They’re ready!

 

20 responses to “Feet

  1. Loving Yourself

    I have a black and white picture of myself at the age of four mowing the lawn, barefooted, in 1963. It cracks me up when I look at my grown up little face on my chubby little body with feet too large for my frame. I want to take a step back in time and reassure her that her feet are only strong. Strong enough to propel her forward at age 16 when her Mom develops Alzheimer’s. Strong enough to see her through a painful marriage and subsequent divorce to an addict she loves. And, most painful of all, strong enough to care for her youngest child severely afflicted with schizophrenia.

    And, P.S. kid, you did a great job on that lawn.

  2. Her feet are strong! You make it easy to imagine all the paths these feet have trodden. God love ’em.

  3. This is so funny, because this afternoon I injured my toe while walking barefoot outside. It folded under, I screamed, and tonight it is purple. I was searching info on possibly broken toes, and came across a blog in which the author had requested broken toe stories. As I read, (most of them were pretty amusing) I thought, hmmm… I wonder if Ann would go for something like this. So I popped in here to see what’s going on, and Whoa! You’re asking about feet!
    I may come back later with an actual thoughtful response, but I needed to say this!

  4. Feet
    White sweet meat
    Meets the heat of the summer street
    Concrete sole
    Heartbeat retreat
    Not effete, just petite, pain receipt
    Burned athlete
    Run incomplete, how bittersweet
    Shoes obsolete is indiscrete now non-compete
    So we entreat, don’t delete, and hence mistreat
    It’s complete defeat
    And so downbeat
    As you take your seat, thumb a tweet, and mop the gleet
    It’s never neat to beat your
    Feet

  5. Looks like you’re having fun. I always think of you enjoying the odd blog post!

  6. Sandra Degrow (Sandrella)

    My feet dance as I prepare meals, as I imagine twirling around a dance floor with my Husband. We had a lot of fun trying out different styles such as, the polka, waltz and the twist. We especially enjoyed hamming it up to “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” and “The Time Warp!”
    Many of us gals look back fondly to when we were able to wear 31/2″ heels but now look down wistfully at our flatter feet, shod in sensible sandals.
    I have happy memories from childhood of digging my toes into beach sand and wriggling them free, then picking my way over the hot sand to the cooling ripples ahead of me.
    Where will my feet take me today? Guess what I work in a shoe store, surrounded by many interesting and oddly shaped feet. Bye for now.

  7. Love the part about dancing. Good foot associations!

    • She discovered that her feet could rescue her. They were ready, capable, and reliable. They came to her aid.

      Once she had to run away from a bad experience. The problem was that she had to leave on foot. She had a cell phone and money, but the nearest town was over four miles away. It was cold, but she’d grabbed an extra sweatshirt as she ran out.

      Her anger took her the first mile, but then she had to decide: Did she go back or could she walk that long country road to town and find a motel to stay in? It was March. It was 4 PM. There wasn’t much of a shoulder on the road so she’d have to watch for cars and make sure they saw her too—a woman wearing two sweatshirts, carrying a purse, walking along the highway. She kept going.

      Everyone drives everywhere these days, and when they walk, it’s because they’re on a hike or in a mall or visiting a park, always in spaces designed for walking. She was on foot because of a fight. She would not go back, not that night.

      She was happy to discover that her shoes caused her no pain, no blisters. She was happy to realize that two sweatshirts were enough to keep her warm. She was happy to see the moon rising in a clear sky that turned darker blue as she walked.

      Four miles is not all that far to walk. It’s long, but it’s doable. Time slowed down for her. She traveled the road she had driven dozens of times but had never walked. She examined houses, barns, fields, meadows, a creek, two intersections–all close up. She looked down at her feet, taking one step and then another, over and over, moving her along steadily, never letting her down.

      By dark she made it to a brew pub and sat. She used her phone to find a motel. Only one was open and close enough for a tired person on foot. She spent the night. The next day she walked home. One foot in front of the other. She was ready to take her life back into her hands, on her own terms. Her feet had taught her that she was free.

  8. My feet don’t eat
    My feet aren’t sweet
    And unlike Trump….MY FEET DON’T TWEET !!

  9. Perched on tip toes, undetected, I stalk an unsuspecting victim, then deliver a piercing strike.

  10. Zelda, I’m seeing a heron. What did you see? Very poetic!

    • Ah! I can see a heron now that you point it out, Ann. I was recently appointed caretaker by Luna C., a sweet, stray 3-month-old kitten. She told me what to write.

  11. Remember the wet sand between our toes,
    As the waves kissed our feet?
    The midnight moonlit walks
    With stars in our eyes.
    We swore that we would live there
    Some day.

    Now I wash the blood soaked sand
    From my boots
    The stroll we so loved
    Now tarnished with war.
    Never will I yearn to feel those sand pebbles again,
    If I return to you.

  12. That last line sure got me wondering. A great pleasure.

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