My feet formed when I transitioned from embryo to fetus. I, or my body (hard to tell), was just over 8 weeks old then. Perhaps, once enough cells had differentiated, when mitosis exponentiated and my feet were new, I stretched and wiggled my toes. 28 years since, my feet have been some of my closest companions and friends.
Before I could speak, my feet scribbled my signature upon the Earth. As intercessor, mediator, and paraclete, my soles plead my case to sand, grass, and water. My feet translate the Earth’s voice into language I can understand. She uses a grammar of sensuous textures to say, “Step here, not there.” My feet fall to the Earth and the Earth rises to catch them. My footprints, evidence of our lifelong dance.
My toes, five twined sets, grow plainly from my soles, each pair with their own personality. The Pinky-pair always seem calloused. Perhaps they are tired of being snagged and grabbed on chairs and ottomans. I know I am. The Big-twins carry the most weight and have the loudest voice. So long as they don’t in-grow I’m a happy host. The Long-twins balance the Bigs, both aesthetically and ergonomically. The Mid-twins and their siblings the 4’s are more alike than unalike. Fraternal quadruplets more like. Each of the 10 has a keratin face uniquely hewn from the stubs, clips, and bruises of their lifetime.
I think my toes especially love the Earth. For on hikes they seem to constantly catch on tiny stones and pebbles—sending me heaving forward. Like lovers unwilling to part, my toes cling to the Earth with a magnetism that’s earned me many scratches and skinned knees. A small price to pay for toes so loving and adept at what they do—evenly spreading my weight over the plentiful surfaces Earth gifts me.
If only my arches felt the same. When I was a kid, the arches vanished almost overnight. With ducklike footprints, I have signed my name all my adult life. They are sorely missed. Artifice and implants attempted to compensate for what nature never gave. A legacy of pain and stiffness is left by plastics and pediatrists. Such is my lot. Arches I was denied and arches I will never have. But I am content in their absence and love the muscles, tendons, and bones that have born my soul all the same.
My soles, however, are amazing. With the task of translating socks, shoes, carpet, and Earth through my skin, they have become multilingual. True polymaths, my soles discern sandstone from sidewalk, muck from guck, and ocean from pond. Every year they toughen like leather as I prefer bare feet in the spring and summer. Their capacity for transformation astounds me. Leather softens to enjoy the embrace of wool and warm beds as the sun creeps southward.
And while my toes are loath to release stones and pebbles, my heels are patient, knowing that with each methodical step, they will kiss the ground once again. With similar wisdom, my heels unify the efforts of sole, toes, and tiny arches. Anchoring the Plantar Fascia, my heels allow my foot to be both strong enough to run and supple enough to tip-toe. However, my body made me heels for keeping in musical time. Melodies transferred through air emanate through my heels as they tap the rhythm into the Earth—in case she couldn’t hear the music.
Atop them all lay my instep, the crown of my foot. Aspiring after hobbits, my instep grows wisps of translucent golden hair. The joy of my instep is sunshine. No other part of my feet feels the warmth of summer light in quite the same way. Yes, my toes, soles, and heels feel the sun’s heat in stone and pavement. But my instep sees the light and soaks up the cosmic rays. They have the pleasure of sunburns and suntans, open-air and raindrops, icy streams and goosebumps.
And of course, not least of all, are my ankles. The bodily intercessors of the earthy intercessors. Joining my feet to my legs, my ankles will always be worked and worn. And they bear the wounds of a life spent in the wild and on soccer fields. My wounds are my weakness and my strength. Bones have been chipped and muscles pulled. Rolled and twisted are the names for each ankle. On hikes, my toes will catch and my ankles will roll. But the advantage of loose ligaments and tendons are painless twists and sprain-less rolls. My ankles learned over the years that if they must roll, they should roll well.
Of all the toes, arches, soles, insteps, and ankles in the world, I choose mine. They have born my spirited tabernacle over thousands of miles of wilderness. They held me as I first walked, ran, shuffled, danced, and leaped. My feet have been with me through friendships, romance, heartbreak. They will hold me through many future pains and ecstasies. And when my feet lay me down one final time, I will be as grateful then as I am now, for my friends and companions—10 unique toes, fallen arches, leather soles, wise heels, tanned instep, and loose ankles. They are the only feet I have ever known. And I love them.
To paraphrase a stanza from Pablo Neruda, “I love my feet because they have wandered over the earth & through the wind & water until they brought me to me.”
