He was my first crush, this tall lanky New Englander, this saunterer who died a hundred years before my birth. He gave me permission to be different, to not feel bad that I preferred the company of trees to people. Marching to a different drummer he called it and I hugged him in my heart.
And so he would understand my gratitude this day for feet.The ones who will carry me two miles around my neighborhood this morning, that took me to the sands of Jones Beach as a child and daily, the street in front of my house.One summer my feet were so busy that the red Keds wore out on the bottom after three weeks.A new pair had to be bought; the parents were not happy. Feet. Taken for granted.
In Fall , those feet took me up the street to the bus stop, kicking a stone on the way.Parental disapproval was instant. Summer hikes at Hunter Mountain, and for 30 years these feet obeyed and served my need to jog on Georgia roads that became in a strange way, mine.A teary saunter to the rim of the Grand Canyon where my gaze caught sight of inexplicable pink among the greys and tans.
The Camino in Spain where I really knew I had feet when they screamed for mercy after 13 mile days in boots.Massage, change shoes, rest. And the next day, they again were willing for another 175 miles.They have been my ready servants to my desire to jump rope, hop, climb, amble, run, meander.
Without his strong feet we would have no Maine Woods or Walden Pond. So I offer a paean,. which is a hardy hymn of praise, to Thoreau and my feet.
2 comments:
Good writing my friend. Love the perspective.
Beautiful! You are right, much neglected and generally silent through the sometimes torturous journey's they take us. Grateful too for my feet. Thanks for sharing your thoughts.
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