Lately my feet have been hurting and I don’t know exactly why but I’m inclined to blame my winter boots. They were a Christmas gift last year and have me looking much more youthful and stylish than I really am, but they’re good boots: expensive, I’m sure, and sturdy. I’ve had no complaints about them until I took a longer walk than usual one morning and paid for it the next day. But other than that, I guess my feet haven’t exactly hurt as much as they’ve just felt uncomfortable. I find myself aware of them a lot, which is not what I’ve found to be a normal relationship one typically has with one’s feet.
In all of this noticing, I’ve realized that I have somehow come into the habit of standing on the sides of my feet when I’m at home and shoeless (which, as a mother and a writer, I am quite often both.) This poor form must be contributing to the discomfort lately, I reason, and so continue catching myself and self-correcting a dozen times a day, like I am my own overeager podiatrist-on-the-shoulder who won’t let one wrong move slide. Or like an ever-present yoga teacher, reminding myself to firmly plant my soles lest I miss out on a full rootedness to the earth.
I like the second imagery much better (because I find Eastern exercise sexier than podiatry), but the problem is I am not actually anywhere close to the earth, and I know it. The earth, as it were, is currently covered in a foot of frozen precipitation—a state in which it will remain for the next two months, at least. I’m not actually interested in putting my shoeless foot into fully rooted contact with the earth anytime soon, and it’s hard to conjure up a deep longing to be one with my linoleum kitchen floor.
Maybe this is the actual problem with my feet: winter.
Because sure, okay, I’m no nature goddess in February but you should see me in July. Some days I don’t even look for my shoes. I acutely remember this past summer wondering in the shower if that layer of brown was ever going to go down the drain or if I should patron one of those sketchy nail salons that shave off your heel with a razor. It did finally wear away around October, which is good because I can’t afford pedicures.
I’ve read in a few places that masculine spirituality leans toward the heavenly and feminine spirituality is more earthy: what we all need (regardless of gender) is a balance of the two, yet Christianity is a religion that tends toward the masculine. This is bothersome, you see, because Christianity happens to be my religion. Had twenty-year-old me spent less time sitting through charismatic sermons about the “third heaven” (I was never sure what happened to the first two) and more time with my toes in the dirt, maybe I wouldn’t have such cranky arches now in my mid-thirties. Maybe I would also know what it means to embody a spirituality.
What I’ve learned about myself this past year—and it was quite a shock to the system—is that I actually communicate with the Divine through and in my body. Fancy that: this thing isn’t just a vessel to get me to heaven, where the real party begins. I discovered this by resolving to notice more. I noticed that my heart rate quickens with fear and distance in response to hearing something I disagree with. God, I need you there. Noticing the tears on my cheeks when I read something that moves me so deeply it can be nothing less than Spirit-speak. God, I hear you there. Noticing what my hips teach me when I stretch, reminding me not to rush away from tension. To not fear it. To welcome it and find that it will not, after all, kill me. That perhaps remaining in discomfort can somehow make me more than I was. God, I feel you there.
This, they tell me, is feminine spirituality, which is not relegated to women alone—that is an important distinction. Male and female both must have masculine and feminine qualities to our spiritual lives. But I’d rather shame my feet for hurting than ask them what they need.
Speaking of feet, I think I’ll go soak them now. I’ll run some warm water and find a clean cloth and remember a man who embodied the feminine as well as the masculine. I’ll wash my own feet because listening to my body is not nothing. Actually, it might just be the beginning of all the somethings.