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U nderneath the table at which I sit to write this are my feet. I cannot see them, but I know they are there. No one born with feet and still in possession of them questions the presence of their feet.
Neither, one expects, do my feet question my presence. I am taken for granted in bipedal mode. At least Gaul had three parts. This foot-self relationship got me thinking, the other day, about the nature of trust.
Coincidentally, my dog has vast amounts of trust. Now, I see it as no coincidence at all that my dog, the furry, lovable creature, has an intimate relation with my feet. She sits on them all the time, as if worried they might get up and walk away when I am not looking.
Once I left the hospital (thanks to everyone who sent cards, I was truly touched by the outpouring of concern) I gained a new appreciation for my feet, as it had been literally months since last I used them for anything but holding up the end of the bedcovers.
Readily available, my feet are the way I move through life. I would have been sorry to have lost them, which, I am told, I nearly did.
Know then, that I appreciate my feet. I am grateful they are there.
Everyone, please, take a moment to appreciate your feet. Write them a poem, sing them a song or just reach down and give them a pat.
Doesn't that make you feel much better? It does me.
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