Some Sole Searching

For those of you who take my classes, you may be familiar with the foot pull at the end.  After an hour of grapevines, shuffles, squats and planks, we flop on our backs and rest, recover, receive.  Sometimes I will share some fleeting thought I had, sometimes David will read us his original and relatable poetry, sometimes there will be a song that just tears at the heart in those simple, healing ways.  And I go about and pull peoples’ feet.

It wasn’t an original act.  I attended a yoga class.  After an hour of contortions and twists, the ethereal instructor had us cover ourselves with a Mexican blanket, and she went about and pulled our covered tootsies.  I sunk.  It felt like a gentle return to my childhood.  Those evenings when my mom or grandmother would read to me, and I would nestle deep in the covers soaking in the cadence of their voice.  As they left they would curl the blankets around me, truly tucking me in, I would drift to sleep safely. So after several salutations and down dogs and my feet were held firmly and pulled, the same safe, deep feeling found me.  I have tried to emulate the same act of ending in my classes. And since we have been in Shelter (I believe it deserves caps now), I think pulling feet is one of the things I miss most.

It is a strange and vulnerable place, our feet.  For me, being a runner and not prone to the paying attention to details, my feet are similar to a hobbit’s.  When I do go get a pedicure (oh…how I miss that too), I am quick to apologize about their appearance. So when people surrender their feet to me, it feels like a trusted invitation to be near.  I try and grip feet around the arch or ankle, those tender spots, more apt to sensation.  I hold on and lean back, believing that there is something that happens in that elongation. It is the end of class and the beginning of the day after exertion. It is my attempt to be of service because service makes us feel aware of our place and purpose.  And it is a way to connect…touching in with each person in the space we have all shared for that hour.  I have found myself thinking a lot about feet. Mine Yours. Ours.

So here is an act of kindness you can play with.  It is an Ayurvedic tradition of feet oiling, and you can google all the benefits. It involves your hands, your feet and some oil.  Warm some oil (preferably something other than Crisco) in your hands and just massage your own feet with your hands. Try and catch yourself if you start judging  those blessed appendages that have carried you through your life, and see if you can replace it with a thought of acceptance or gratitude. Get into the sole, the heel, the arch, in between toes.  See if you can spend several minutes on each foot.  After soak your feet in warm water and let the oil sink in.  Pat dry and head to bed. See how sleep finds you.

I miss you. I miss your feet. I miss our laughs and our fumbles. I miss grapevines and shuffles. And in all the missing, there is a lot of finding too.  I am oiling my feet. I am digging in my garden. I am kneading bread. And I needing connection. And finding a bit of it in writing emails to souls that matter.  You.

From my hands to your feet, in service and such love…
Else