What a morning; waking every day with regret at our feet and remorse at our heels, the unthinkable challenge of living. For some people it is as simple a thing as standing up, and for others, it is quite simply a terror. I seem to forget and remember every day, how precious, how beautiful it all is, this business of living. Even when I fail miserably, I think of how very lucky I am. To find something about what I am doing that has value and structure and purpose. To remember that I am deliberate and not just happenstance; that I am here because I am here.
I hear an echo of myself when I keep still. I hear a faint voice that tells me to keep going no matter what happens. No matter who comes and goes from my life, no matter what death steals, no matter what heartbreak crushes. Keep going. Keep getting up. And so I do. We all do. Humanity somehow manages to find a shred of goodness and carry on.
There are moments that I feel sure of everything, but those moments get swallowed by a world far too big for my shoulders. The moments that shimmer and glow, and make one feel as though you've finally done something right. And you cling to them; you cling and hang off of them like a mother who might well be leaving you forever. Arms wrapped around legs, holding on. That is the bigness of one of those moments.
I am suddenly looking down at my feet knowing that I have failed again, but I still have feet...OH mercy! I still have feet!
There is a Quick Trip just down from my home. I regularly see a woman, obviously homeless. I see her almost every time I go to fill up my tank. Rain, shine, wind, blistering heat, no matter, she is there. I know that subconsciously I hope to see her so that I know she is still with us. That she is still here and although she struggles, she's making it in her own way. I've watched her and studied her. I've seen her hunting for food, water, scraps, any shard of unwanted 'anything' that she can use to sustain herself another day…maybe to sustain her just another hour. She has matted hair and sometimes two different shoes on her feet. Her feet which are swollen and bruised, twisted into these shoes found somewhere dark I would imagine. One high heel and one low. Once, she was pushing a bike. She often wears denim cut-off shorts and a t-shirt. Both, uninhabitable by our standards. When we have passed in the Quick Trip parking lot, I've heard her mumbling. Was she asking me for money? I do not know. I didn't give her eye contact. Was I afraid to make her feel uncomfortable or was I afraid to feel uncomfortable by her needs? I was frightened of her scent, her hands, her breath, and her swollen feet. As she mumbled, a cloud of shame seeped into my marrow and took residence.
I looked down and saw my feet, and knew that somehow I had failed her and me and the world at large. I will never forget her feet. I can see them now like they were my own, and it aches.
