My Left Foot

I once gave myself permission to say anything to anybody at anytime. It has not been rescinded. I also recently granted myself permission to screw up, even big time. As everyone does.

My injured foot smashed into the staircase this week and tore open the wound on the sole. To distract myself from the pain, I recited the alphabet: Fuckin’ A, fuckin’ B, etc. And breathed. Cleaned up the blood. Changed the dressing. Rested. Came to terms with upturned plans to swim and grocery shop. 

An ex-boyfriend nicknamed me Suzy Le Speed, and I do tend to move quickly a lot of the time. Used to drag-race the boys in the ‘hood, and win. But my left foot says SLOW DOWN. What the hell is your hurry? Email can wait. Bills can wait. Look at Orion, wheeling across the sky. Listen to the furious wind moaning through the rigging during Northers. What’s that sweet smell every so often, a winter desert flower? And can you believe those burgundy Sierras?

When I was a kid, I dangled my legs over a dock on the Klamath River and watched fish. For hours. They fascinated me. Now I do that from the deck of my boat. There was quite a feeding frenzy the other evening, fish jumping and chasing and darting around the rudder. Bigger fish occasionally leaped sideways, their silver undersides glinting in the fading light.

I am back to Butoh, each step considered and contemplated, a walking meditation. When I race through life I miss so much: the shy blue fish under the ochre rock, the woman flirting with her co-worker, the guitarist playing “La Bamba” right after I published “La Bomba,” glitter on the floor from the last art session. Thanks, Lefty Foot. I’m listening.