I’ve become increasingly aware of the importance of feet.  They don’t get much credit for the work that they do, but I don’t get far without them.  And it’s remarkable that I can have such trouble finding appendages that are just that, attached to me with bones and ligaments, part of my physical whole.  And yet they can disappear, and I am left flat on my back without means of transportation.

I suppose this kind of thing started when I was a kid.  I questioned everything, as children are actually supposed to do at a certain point, but I was pushed back, compressed by my father’s anger that I didn’t automatically believe exactly as he’d already told me.  He was insecure.  I understand the reasons for it now, but at the time it had the effect of closing down my capacity to think for myself.  I wasn’t rebellious.  I wanted to see if I could make him happy once in a while, so I did my best.  That meant being silent, and there went my feet.  They became invisible and intangible, and I was left to stagger around all the way through part of my thirties, balancing on treacherous nubs and grabbing for handholds on reality.  I’ve got to say, that pretty much sucked.

I make no claims now that my feet are visible most of the time, that the ground I stand on is sacred.  I’m wrong a lot.  I flub and falter and fail.  I get passionate about things over which I have absolutely no power, leaving myself open to disappointment and despair.  However, I have to say, I’m not just claiming my feet.  I’m buying shoes.  Hell, I’m buying rain boots.  I’m protecting these guys, because at least when I’m standing on feet I know who I am and what I believe.  A person can’t actually make any progress starting footless where they think they should be, or worse, where others think they should be.  A person has to start moving by thinking and feeling honestly in the place where that person is actually located. That’s when the feet materialize, and that’s where I have to be to push off the ground and start to walk.

So here I am.  My feet are visible.  I’m somewhat terrified of them because I have a long history of hiding them if I sense others are uncomfortable.  That doesn’t matter, though. The discomfort is worth it.  I (and others) may cringe and groan about it occasionally, but I’m not stepping back.  These feet are taking themselves for a walk and coming out in public because the person attached to them has a few things to say.  They’re not perfect things, but they’re real and as honest as I can make them, just like my feet.  If feet are anything they’re honest, even if they’ve had a pedicure.  That just means they’re expressing themselves.