A(n edited) love letter to my feet

A love letter to my feet:

The first time I woke up in a bed not knowing where I was, it was disorienting. It was dark and I didn't know which side the wall was and I went to sit up and slammed my head on the low ceiling.

Now, the mornings where I don't know where I am number more than the mornings when I do. I've learned to grope carefully for my glasses and headlamp before moving. Reaching gently through the dark. I learned to take an extra breath before sitting up. To orient where my feet are, where my head is, where the nearest hard wall is.

Wanderlust is like the ugliest part of love and the most beautiful part of devastation met in a bar one night. They danced all the slow dances and held hands under oily street lights. They went home together but neither stayed the night.

The summer before my first year of highschool I went backpacking. Day after day I walked on my own legs, carrying my life with me on my back. At night we would eat like we were starving and sleep like we were dead.

Often, I would walk alone for long swaths of time. I was not the slowest or the fastest. I found the rhythm of swinging my pendulum legs as the days passed. Sometimes I would sing to myself or talk to myself or tell myself stories to keep myself company. Mostly, I would listen to my footsteps mix with the sounds of the forest and let the feeling of solid earth passing under my feet take up all the space in my mind.

Wanderlust is a feeling in my chest. Like my lungs are simultaneously empty and filled to bursting. It's the feeling where I’m in the kitchen and I’m so hungry that it hurts in stabbing pain but I can’t think clearly enough to decide what food I want. My hands are shaking but I can’t pick up a knife. My lungs are screaming for air but I can’t possibly inhale any more.

My sophomore year of college I won the "most likely to be barefoot" superlative. The seniors handing out superlatives called my name and I walked up to the stage to accept my prize, head held high and feet bare. What it says about my college that "most likely to be barefoot" is somewhat telling.

Two weeks later, when I received my associate's degree, I walked down the aisle barefoot. My dress shimmered in the wind and the grass caressed my feet and whispered congratulations.

Wanderlust is the trail of the "keep in touch" platitudes I leave behind me, kicking them up like dust on a dirt road. I make friends like hickeys. They stick around for a while but eventually they fade into fond memories, and I let them go. I watch them in my rearview mirror until they fade out a view but I’ll never turn around.

I started running every day in my freshman year of college.  Every morning before classes I would walk out my door and slap my feet against the unforgiving pavement for an hour or so. Sometimes I run with friends. Often I run alone.

Running is the only thing I have kept through fifteen states, three pairs of hiking boots, two pairs of sneakers, five different hair styles, three pairs of glasses, seven water bottles, four suitcases, two cars, and countless friends and lovers.

Wanderlust is running. Wanderlust is the blood pumping through my legs. It is muscles contracting and expanding. It is the power in my calves and thighs. Wanderlust is the persistence of my lungs and my heart. I run until I felt grounded enough to face the world.