My Feet

My feet are so nasty. Calloused, hard, blistered and gross. Dry and peeling. Tired, sore, sometimes ticklish. Deformed by a horse’s hoof. My toes are so messed up, some of them turn in, some of them turn out. They are too long, like fingers that got misplaced and ended up on my feet. And my feet are so stinkin’ huge I trip on them all the time! They are constantly cold and sometimes blue-ish as a result.

But my feet have danced. In jazz shoes, in socks, sneakers. Barefoot in the rain. Onstage. In my kitchen. They’ve walked on beaches, on gravel, on broken glass. On and off airplanes. Hiked mountains in hardcore hiking boots. My feet have saved lives. Seriously, whether they were running for help or being grabbed while the rest of me swam towards rocks at Mdumbi, they’ve assisted. They’ve supported me when I really needed them to. They’ve walked through Kliptown, being stepped on by little children. Been coated in paint. They’ve been washed by loving hands. They’ve been penetrated with sand and kissed by the ocean. They’ve run, free and swift. They were trampled during small group challenge; they’ve climbed trees. Jumped the leap of faith and rappelled down a waterfall. They’ve taken me to seven different countries in one year.

I wouldn’t trade them for the world.