My feet don’t like shoes and rarely feel comfortable in socks. They have been married to Rainbow Hemp flip-flops for at least five years. The bottom of my feet are worn and calloused and usually dry. They have created a thick later of dead skin just in case the flip-flops wear out. A home made armor of sorts. They love the touch of sand and the salty sea. They feel the burn of the hot concrete at pool’s edge. They’re not pretty. And they’re not meant to be. They’ve been around and have served me well.
The pinkies are disappearing. It’s like they have an evolutionary head-start and could be gone in my lifetime. They shed the pinky-nails years ago. Now they’re just stumps with a clump of calcium at the tips. They both fold under the nearest toe like runty piglets snuggling for shelter. The nails on the big toes are made of stronger stuff. They are currently coated with specks of weeks old golden nail polish. They like to be lacquered, usually in black, somehow makes them feel more masculine when in polish. They’re saying, "yeah we are wearing ladies paint, but damn it, look at us- we are rugged and can walk miles in bare-feet. We have been to nearly every continent and recently learned how to run long distances. We can do anything."
My feet are covered with large veins and hairier than I remember. Small tufts on every knuckle and a bigger patch on the crown. As a teenager, I suffered from long-term athlete's foot, which was ironic because I rarely associated myself with athletes. For years, I tried to rid myself of the fungus, apparently all I needed was a good pair of flip-flops and the open air. The skin between my toes is drier now and crackles like a reptile’s, the way I imagine a good foot should. One toenail has inexplicably turned black. It doesn’t hurt, so I am hopeful it will not fall off and cause me pain or intervene with my running schedule.
I have been an American size ten and a half since I was in high school and my left foot is almost a half size bigger than my right, so it is more like an eleven. When I have to wear shoes, my feet prefer Vans, though they miss Doc Martin boots. At the moment I have three pairs of shoes- one pair are brand new and the other two are in various states of decay. My feet wear shoes until they fall apart. They never wear leather.
My feet like to hike and trek and stand on paddle boards. They wish that they could have learned to surf, and although they feel cramped they miss being shoved into fins. They have never climbed a mountain and are wondering what the hell we are waiting for. Mount Kenya is right there they tell me every time we go to Daraja.
My feet feel strong and solid and literally ground me, although the ankles feel more and more frail each year. The finger-prints have been rubbed raw and tell few stories these days. Or maybe there is only one story all feet tell- memories blurring together one step at a time. Walking in circles until we all lay down.
My feet don’t like the cold or snow or being bundled up. They cannot breathe and feel suffocated in that darkness. They have not smelled in years and they are proud of this fact. Open air feet are free and happy. They are my roots, each tendon playing its role like a sophisticated machine.
I love my feet even if they are ugly and old and weary and tough. I love that they are both still working like champions to take me from here to there and back again.
…
Survived a late Sunday afternoon Ikea run, but we needed a few things- my bedside lamp just stopped working. Came home with a plant/herb shelf for the balcony I am pretty excited about and Mairin bought a stand up desk for her classroom. I spent an hour putting the things together, switching back and forth between a zen-like calm proving to myself that I am a mature and confident man, and a frustrated rapid breathing monster who just couldn’t get that damn screw in straight to save his life. Such is the art of mindfulness.
Looking forward to growing some flowers and herbs on that shelf in the next few weeks. We have four small balconies and except for two small pomegranate trees we have little else in the way of greenery. I hoping this shelf will change all that. It’s funny how a busy life will force you to forget the little things that could bring you joy.
…
The night ended with me snuggling Kaia on the couch as we watched Supergirl. Made me think about how big she is getting and how soon she will not want to snuggle with her dad anymore. I remembered her as a toddler in Doha and as a little girl in Jakarta and I swelled with an unnamable pride and a crippling sadness. I spoke with my mom today and she said how much she missed me. I wonder how much she misses the times we shared on a couch as she held her baby. This parenting thing seems to get harder and more complicated the longer you do it.
My mom told me that they published one of her poems on the Tassajara website. Here are a few lines I found:
The little girl within,
surrounded by the mountains,
grounded on the land,
with the intention in her heart
to walk the path of compassion
on this earth.
The pinkies are disappearing. It’s like they have an evolutionary head-start and could be gone in my lifetime. They shed the pinky-nails years ago. Now they’re just stumps with a clump of calcium at the tips. They both fold under the nearest toe like runty piglets snuggling for shelter. The nails on the big toes are made of stronger stuff. They are currently coated with specks of weeks old golden nail polish. They like to be lacquered, usually in black, somehow makes them feel more masculine when in polish. They’re saying, "yeah we are wearing ladies paint, but damn it, look at us- we are rugged and can walk miles in bare-feet. We have been to nearly every continent and recently learned how to run long distances. We can do anything."
My feet are covered with large veins and hairier than I remember. Small tufts on every knuckle and a bigger patch on the crown. As a teenager, I suffered from long-term athlete's foot, which was ironic because I rarely associated myself with athletes. For years, I tried to rid myself of the fungus, apparently all I needed was a good pair of flip-flops and the open air. The skin between my toes is drier now and crackles like a reptile’s, the way I imagine a good foot should. One toenail has inexplicably turned black. It doesn’t hurt, so I am hopeful it will not fall off and cause me pain or intervene with my running schedule.
I have been an American size ten and a half since I was in high school and my left foot is almost a half size bigger than my right, so it is more like an eleven. When I have to wear shoes, my feet prefer Vans, though they miss Doc Martin boots. At the moment I have three pairs of shoes- one pair are brand new and the other two are in various states of decay. My feet wear shoes until they fall apart. They never wear leather.
My feet like to hike and trek and stand on paddle boards. They wish that they could have learned to surf, and although they feel cramped they miss being shoved into fins. They have never climbed a mountain and are wondering what the hell we are waiting for. Mount Kenya is right there they tell me every time we go to Daraja.
My feet feel strong and solid and literally ground me, although the ankles feel more and more frail each year. The finger-prints have been rubbed raw and tell few stories these days. Or maybe there is only one story all feet tell- memories blurring together one step at a time. Walking in circles until we all lay down.
My feet don’t like the cold or snow or being bundled up. They cannot breathe and feel suffocated in that darkness. They have not smelled in years and they are proud of this fact. Open air feet are free and happy. They are my roots, each tendon playing its role like a sophisticated machine.
I love my feet even if they are ugly and old and weary and tough. I love that they are both still working like champions to take me from here to there and back again.
…
Survived a late Sunday afternoon Ikea run, but we needed a few things- my bedside lamp just stopped working. Came home with a plant/herb shelf for the balcony I am pretty excited about and Mairin bought a stand up desk for her classroom. I spent an hour putting the things together, switching back and forth between a zen-like calm proving to myself that I am a mature and confident man, and a frustrated rapid breathing monster who just couldn’t get that damn screw in straight to save his life. Such is the art of mindfulness.
Looking forward to growing some flowers and herbs on that shelf in the next few weeks. We have four small balconies and except for two small pomegranate trees we have little else in the way of greenery. I hoping this shelf will change all that. It’s funny how a busy life will force you to forget the little things that could bring you joy.
…
The night ended with me snuggling Kaia on the couch as we watched Supergirl. Made me think about how big she is getting and how soon she will not want to snuggle with her dad anymore. I remembered her as a toddler in Doha and as a little girl in Jakarta and I swelled with an unnamable pride and a crippling sadness. I spoke with my mom today and she said how much she missed me. I wonder how much she misses the times we shared on a couch as she held her baby. This parenting thing seems to get harder and more complicated the longer you do it.
My mom told me that they published one of her poems on the Tassajara website. Here are a few lines I found:
The little girl within,
surrounded by the mountains,
grounded on the land,
with the intention in her heart
to walk the path of compassion
on this earth.
