Sitting on the long ride back from Sedona, I took off my shoes and planted my feet up on the dashboard. Being that we were in the desert with unending shrubs and cacti, I had the time (which I never really have) to take a good look at my feet (which I’ve never really done). My feet that have served me well for 48 years. A bit wrinkly, the weight of my life flattening out my heels just a bit. Not gorgeous feet…but certainly good feet. Solid, sturdy, a bit calloused, still flexible. Slightly bent big toes from 20 years in high heels. The spread that occured during pregnancy and left my feet 1/2 size bigger than pre-baby. So I took a picture of them…my feet…because I realized that I’d never, ever photographed my feet before and I might just want to look back on them when I’m 78 and they are a bit more crooked, a lot more crinkled and quite wrinkled. Like the lines of life that mark our faces, our feet tell the story of how we moved, walked, paced, ran through life and they bend and change through bearing our emotional and physical weight.
When my child was a teeny baby nothing thrilled me more than to look at, play with, nibble on her little toes. My daughter’s feet, up until 8 years old, were perfect. Not a callous, scar or blemish. I’ve got pics of her feet at 1 and 2 and 3 years old…and, now, at 8, she is developing a few little marks here and there. Life’s challenges are slowly starting to permanently change her little feet. On that long ride, I made a pledge to take pictures of her feet from now on. So that when she is 48, like her mom, she can proudly study her own feet with her life’s travels upon them.