The Life of M

I’ve been staring at my toes lately. It comes with spending all this time in the car. When I travel there are constants you can always expect of me: I’ll need a pillow in my lap, a book, something to write with if necessary, occasionally some music to listen to. If I sit in the front seat, my feet go on the dash and my knees touch my chin as slouch low in the chair.

Thibodeaux toes. That means they look like fat little sausages crammed onto my can of a foot. They’re solid, square, pudgy, stubborn toes prone to dirt and blood. They look best when framed by grass and dirt. They look best when barefoot.

These are sturdy toes, working toes. They’re meant for digging deep into the cool dirtiness of the mud and for staying firm and solid when my foot arches and my body pushes against gravity to go higher and higher. These are toes I’ve seen on cousins and uncles and family members, all who have the same light-hearted, determined and hard-working souls that I respect.

My feet aren’t beautiful or dainty by any means but they have a bit of perfection to them I can’t help but stare at every time I look down to my toes. From my toes I draw the strength that feeds the rest of my body: legs, torso, heart, soul, mind.

“Our soul is in the place where our feet touch the ground.” Dagoberto Gilb.