5 minute read. Content warning: Brief mention of physical discomfort, neglect of personal hygiene, and minor injuries.
chatGPT Summary: Kay reflects on the neglect of their feet despite their importance in walking and daily life, drawing parallels between caring for physical tools and the necessity of caring for one’s body, while also contemplating the future of human physicality in a digital age.
Vancouver, on stolen MST territory – Today, I did some prints of my feet. Not too much of a deep dive on this one. Pace – stride – step – foot. Before I put my print-making tools away, I thought I would get some footprints drying as a ready-made for another day. I’m not sure if I’ll use them.
However, in thinking about my feet and pace, I come again to speed. I dislike walking with other people, struggling to hear but in the quietest places and am not one to window shop (or shop at all), but I love walking. I am a fast walker and refuse to stroll with another human more than a few times unless we sign. I will make up an excuse and meet people rather than offer (or take the offer) to walk together. I love being alone, and I love taking long walks to see where I’ll end up or just how far I can go before I call it quits. I will hike with others, but unless I am in front or trailing behind and left mostly to myself, I choose my walking companions with the harshest prejudice. You would think since I love walking so much, my feet would be precious and well cared for.
This is not so.
My feet are dried and callused, and my toenails are trimmed rarely and mostly when they remind me of their existence. They are neglected when I shower, my not-so-conscious reasoning that they get soaped with the runoff from my body. I scrub them when I go barefoot and don’t want to track junk into bed – but I’ll often just put socks on. I hate sand between my toes, but I don’t mind dry dirt. I love being barefoot.
My reflections today have me considering my feet as an essential tool (or pair of tools). It’s a bit of a challenge to pause and consider that my feet are precious and important to me and have been an uncared-for item in my toolbox.
I would never treat a pair of scissors the way I treat my feet, leaving sticky residue on the blade, covered by a cloth, only to deal with it when I washed all my tools. I wouldn’t leave my brushes soaking and shake them off without some brush soap or a few strokes of a comb, drying them fully before putting them away.
Do I neglect my feet because they are so far from my brain? Or from my eyes? I know I would survive, adapt and thrive if I didn’t have my feet, but I also know that I would miss the lifestyle I enjoy without them.
Digital feet
I fully believe we are on the precipice of existing as avatars, participating in digital double lives where our digital selves attend meetings or social events as extensions of our meat selves. I ready myself for a life where my meat body works in tandem with my digital body, not as a sidecar passenger but as a co-pilot. What then for my feet? Will they be covered in synthetic skin, requiring more or less care than I give them now? Will we become a seated or prone species where our feet go the way of our wisdom teeth and eventually become a burden or potential hindrance?
Even if I had a digital twin, servant, or employee to do my work or a drone to fetch my stuff, I would still want to walk. I would still yearn to hike, wander, outpace, and challenge my body. As we face increasingly poor air quality and pandemics, will our walking eventually be reduced to treadmills and VR simulation? My dear feet – what do you wish for? If you could speak, what would you say?
I take a moment to check in with my feet. They say nothing. I stretch and move them, and my right foot gets a mild charliehorse. I think my feet want water.
Don’t touch
I also have never been a fan of others perceiving or touching my feet, but that hasn’t stopped me from being a fan of attractive shoes or a regular user of flip-flops. I have worked on sites where my supervisor didn’t warn me to invest in steel-toed boots and have needed to regrow more than a few toenails. Shoes are how I pamper my feet as an adult – I don’t buy cheap shoes, and I repair them rather than throw them out (except for damnable running shoes). The idea of a pedicure makes me curl my nose, and visiting an esthetician hurts my head as it pinches my wallet (credit to their career – I don’t know how they do it).
My feet are my under-acknowledged workhorse or stagecoach team. That metaphor shames me into wanting to take better care of my feet. A neglected domestic or race horse is a pitiful and disgusting thing to behold.
As I wash the ink from my feet, I wonder when I last took a scrub brush to my soles. I consider grabbing the lotion, but the idea of greasy feet turns my stomach. I planned to be on my feet for a few more hours tonight – I don’t want to be sliding around inside my socks. Between anxiety, an active brain, and chronic back pain, sitting is not my jam. I WANT to be standing. I want to be walking.
How do you care for your feet when you are constantly standing?
How do you care for a tool that is continuously in use?
I am a child having a tantrum. The answer, of course, is that there are consequences to every action. Moderation and rest are essential. It is the ingredient that I am the most resistant to bring into my practice and life.
Today’s reflection is a pause to consider the unconsidered and to, again, rehash the need (and my resistance) to rest. To appreciate that which we have when we have them. While my ready-mades dry and I dig deeper into speed and pace as it relates to my practice, I am presented with this ongoing problem and challenge to consider. I…am not too enthusiastic. I hope by reflecting on this and by restructuring my thinking to consider my feet as precious tools, I will do better.
See-see.
Technology note:
I continue to test the use of AI within my writing and artistic practice. I used chatGPT to create a summary for this blog and to generate content warnings, and Grammarly to assist me in spelling and grammar.