Why “Where are my heels?” That’s easy. Because I’ve lost them. They’re gathering dust in a closet somewhere.
They’ve been replaced by an inner rupture, a rumble, a stirring to fill the world with words and ideas and stories. We’re talking the type of rupture that changes wants and needs. The type of rupture that causes grand canyons to form. Canyons too big to jump. Canyons that force you to reroute, change destinations, change journeys, change.
I want to talk about the journey.
When you take off your heels, when shed your protective skin, your expectations, and unload… when you’ve been uprooted and that elipsis acts as a preface to a complete thought… and you’re searching, searching, searching, [like the rest of the world] for something to dip your toes into. When you’re so tired. So tired. [Like I am right now.] And you want to move, but your eyelids are falling. Find your feet. Let’s find our feet.
Let’s find our feet and take a walk, no RUN.
Ya, let’s run.
Let’s run like we’re five years old and time goes slower because everything is new again and we don’t yet know what every day will hold because we’re still using our imaginations to make it up. We’re still playing house, playing James Bond, playing make believe. Like we’re five years old and running through the grass, jumping over the dog poop, [stepping in the dog poop] and running for no particular reason except that we feel alive and we’re breathing and we can.
Then let’s stop, out-of-breath, crouching down with our hands on our knees, looking at our feet. Let’s notice our feet in the grass for the first time because we’ve been too busy soaking in the moment, the run, the make believe – just like a kid. Let’s stop to notice with our adult brains that we’re not wearing our shoes. That our feet are dirty.
And then let’s laugh, and ask, “Where are my heels?”
Because at that point really, really, are you going to care where they are?