I spend most of my morning bitching to myself
about the painful blisters on my feet,
whining about this long torturous walk
that I committed to but am hating in the moment,
and then I look across a small meadow and see several people
sitting in wheelchairs outside a building,
which is perhaps a seniors’ facility.
I stop and look, rocking back and forth on my tired feet
to try to ease the pain in one foot and then the other.
Even then, I feel the ache and throb
in my complaining extremities.
But I stare at those wheelchair people, who I am sure
would give much to be able to walk again,
to be able to explore places that are difficult to access
with wheels, who, although likely generally happy,
are imprisoned in their seats with limited freedom,
dependent on others for many things,
simply for the lack of ability to walk,
and I become grateful, oh so grateful, for my feet,
for the muscles in my legs, for my mobility,
and I embrace the ache,
stop my bitching and complaining.
It is a pivotal moment because
from that instant early in my walk until the very end,
I speak of the foot pain only matter-of-factly,
never with complaint.
