Upside Down Kris

Flying Feet I'm gathering up my toes and my want with them–my want to walk, to take graceful steps in life even if at times I may stumble. I suddenly realize how much I have curled them under, squeezing my whole leg with them. Sometimes the length of my big toe throbs, or there are quivers following the long side of my arch.  All I have to do is stretch my toes out, let them know that they are being listened to. If I step out distributing the pressure on all toes they feel better. They grip the ground and delight in its roughness or smoothness. It's when I don't pay attention to them that they suffer. My feet are long and thin like my father's. They are slight and my toes form a perfect angle. They could be considered "attractive" even with the thickness of my big toe nail and the slight scar as a signature across my left foot. I never really know where my feet might bring me–only my head and maybe my past know that. I feel like my feet glide with their own pu

  Sea Legs The rushing of leaves reminds me of the rushing of waves. We are miles away from the ocean, however–nowhere near it, in fact. It has been a while since I have seen the sea–or heard it, rather. The summer has been wrung out with two dips in the pool and to-do lists. I'm not missing the sea, however. What I really crave are walks through green and expands of breath. And my wish has been granted, woven into wants of home and what I know. I will soon be walking through the woods on the western side of the U.S., and then over to the eastern fields near my father's house. But the present sky brings me back to the sea. It promises a sea storm in the smears of cobalt blue-gray that paint my mood. In reality, the air is cool and brings respite. None of the heaviness of the water beads clogs its current. It's this mix of sea and city that makes me unsure of where I am, of my place on the connecting chord. Am I being pulled to the sea as my feet grab onto the rushing sand t

  Heaven Heaven has to be black and white, I've decided. Clouds are luminous there, so shadows are all the more prominent. The outlines of every soul are etched into a brilliant sun.  I think we wouldn't have wings in heaven–just long, ivory robes like Emily Dickinson described in her poems. They would flatter any figure, but we wouldn't care, being souls. Could we choose our soul form, I wonder? The one that we felt more inclined to on Earth, or one that wraps us in a toga of charm? Could we choose our most beautiful remembrance of ourselves on Earth? No, more likely in heaven our soul is at its purest–perhaps a beam of light or a quiver of energy. We could shine as much as the sun or just a prick of periwinkle.  Maybe we would don robes on the way up and then they would automatically permeate into the atmosphere once we accepted our real essence. Maybe some souls would be carried into the cloud canopy still decorated in human skin, only to realize in looking down that sou

Animal Magic  Are animals magical or are they just in sync with that magic that moves everything?  For instance, cats are so in tune with your vibes that they crawl into your lap or make a buffer to the outside world by sitting on your belly. If you are one of their "preferred humans", they feel your vulnerability or somber mood and try to ease you into tranquility. Yesterday I read an article about an elderly man named Francis Romeo who was in a coma for a month. The hospital allowed his dog to stay with him and he never left the gentleman's side. When Francis finally woke, he said: "Where is that white angel who constantly whispered in my ear that everything would be fine?" He then noticed his beloved dog lying next to him. Stories like this make me teary-eyed, and there are so many, even from my own reservoir. For instance, when I was recovering last summer from my surgeries and Sophie the cat sat by me all day on the couch. She also slept on my stomach when