The Secret Lives of our Feet

Once I’ve had a pair of shoes for a while I look at them as if they are wise in their old age. After all, they’ve seen so much.

When I travel to distant lands, my feet are what lead me to discovery. With eyes above always busy darting here and there, and a mind often wandering to anywhere but the present moment, my feet are always marching tirelessly ahead — tethering me to the here and now.

I remember dining in a restaurant that entertained its guests with a violinist. The music was pleasing; the performer’s ambience pervaded the entire restaurant as he drifted from table to table. I’ll never forget the tranquility that settled on the man’s face as he swayed his bow over the instrument pressed against his throat.

The unlit corridors beneath the tables came alive. Everyone in the restaurant was sharing an experience amidst their feet. While the banter of our dignified upper-halves spewed politics and pop culture, all our feet abandoned control from above to join in the subtle, yet joyful dance of the underworld.

I think of all the dust my shoes have kicked up as I’ve rambled across the world. I imagine the puddles they’ll splash in, the imprints they’ll make and the other feet they’ll find to tap with beneath the table. Our eyes see world of their own, but none of us will ever escape the secret lives of our feet.

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