My Fantastic Feet

My mother hated feet. In her opinion, it was acceptable that they existed, but unless sleeping or showering they should be tucked away, hidden from the world inside a nice pair of shoes. Definitely not flip flops or sandals.

When I was very young, maybe five, hearing her complain about feet made me suspect that I was somewhat disgusting, being the unwitting owner of two of them. I am sure my mother’s foot-hatred did not extend to the chubby feet of her three children, but still, I was concerned. Enough to keep my socks on when inside the house, just in case the sight of them would make her love me slightly less.

As an adult, I have inherited my mother’s dislike of feet. Well, other people's feet at least. I insist that mine are great; the toes reduce in height like little steps, such perfect proportions. I totally could have been a foot model. They also serve as a reminder of how great it is to move freely through the world as a fleshy monster called “human”.

I don’t really believe in grounding, the process where standing barefoot on the grass supposedly does something for health purposes – absorbing electrons or such. But I’m not about to mock someone else for ascribing to this practice, and am first to admit my lack of belief is based in my own ignorance. One quick google tells me there are scientific papers on this process.

That said, I had a moment the other day. I was in the backyard reading (completely alone – my favourite activity), when for no reason (other than I felt like it), I took off my shoes and felt the grass beneath my feet, and thought, “Yes, this is it. This is what it’s all about”. By which I meant that somehow “feet to earth” represented the whole shebang, the whole point of life.

The interplay where we are temporary, tiny aspects of the universe. We start off with specific circumstances, in a certain part of the world, with a set of parents we love, tolerate or loathe, and from there we set off – co-creating our own lives, ruled half by whatever’s happening around us (the earth) and half by our own choices (the feet). 

Does this make sense to anyone but me? 

Life is fleeting; around 72.6 years for most, 50 for my foot-hating, but lovely mother. For some much less. I wonder if we expect too much from it, and forget that it's nothing but a brief, bewildering experience. The interplay of feet to earth – my choices meeting my circumstances.