Because writing love letters is something I adore and having an undiagnosed foot problem is something making me sad and mad and frustrated, I decided to write a love letter to my foot.
I mean why not? I write them to strangers, friends, God, the Universe, my pussy, money…whatever part of me is showing up.
Right foot, to be specific. You are hurting and I am having a really really hard time staying off you. I have to go to work and work means a super busy preschool yard.
I love you and I don’t say that lightly, especially now that I know much more intimately what you do for me. Walking, dancing, skipping, getting me to the bathroom in the middle of the night with ease. A quick load of laundry while cleaning up after dinner, or in the morning making breakfast and lunches and tea while brushing my teeth and maybe even cleaning the toilet bowl when it’s gotten so disgusting I can’t take it a moment longer. You really help me get shit done. My whole body depends on you to stay in balance.
I am happy to soak you in epsom salts and ice and gently massage you, but that does not seem to be enough.
What do you need? Are you trying to show me something? At first I thought you were telling me to slow down. Way down (to take notice of multi-tasking ways). I am learning that that is a damn hard thing for me to do. Which is weird, because I am not one of those constantly on-the-go types. I dig staying home with a good book. And yet, I can hardly find time to get to said book with all that needs to get done—life as a single mom is demanding. I bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, pay the bills, clean the bathroom, plus I’m creating my life as a writer.
Thank you, foot.
Because of you, I am starting to deeply appreciate myself in new ways. In fact, I’m kind of a badass. I think seeing my badass self clearly and honestly is the first step in allowing her to soften and relax. To find balance in my masculine (doing) and my feminine (receiving).
Still, I don’t know how to heal you.
The podiatrist told me to get some fancy shoes. You hated them. I got a parking ticket today, trying to take care of you (yes, by parking somewhat illegally). An MRI is going to cost me 400 bucks. Sheesh. I’m really needing a break here. I do want to heal you. Just don’t ask me to stay home from work. Impossible.
Ok. I think you are freaking amazing and I am so grateful for all that you do for me.
P.S. I promise to have the kids do the dishes and clean the kitchen tonight while we kick back with an icepack and a good book.
Anybody else writing letters to any or all parts of themselves? I invite you to share them here, it can open doors you didn’t even know were closed. 😉