the temperature of our toes.

I don’t mind the idea of purplish circles under my eyes if it means I have been up late writing.

I don’t mind the idea of cold toes so much if it means that I have been walking on the earth, like so many sojourners before me; if it means that I have seen the moon standing there alone, reminding me that there’s a beauty that comes from being so still and watchful.

Ah, the moon. She’s a nice ancient dame who’s done it all and now she’s too old to care about the things that don’t matter anymore. You don’t see her hiding her face for embarrassment and you don’t even see her covering her mouth in one of the few times it’s really open. You know, gaping and wide with a smile. Though I’ve never really been able to see anything but a touching sadness written on her incandescent face.

I am not sure what that says about me, but I don’t think it says anything too terrible. There is a ying and yang to life. There is a contrast that, consequently, makes both the light appear brighter and the darkness darker. So it is with joy and sadness. Each makes the other more poignant. I have learned this; I will continue to learn this.

I have always been a happy person.

No.

I have always been a curious person.

No.

I have always been a sensitive person.

No.

I have always been a person.

Yes.

And that requires a description involving more than just one word. We are all such a mix of longings and bandaged up parts that don’t work so well lately and little hearts with astounding amounts of resilience and quietnesses that we’d rather be loud and words that we wish we’d not said and big eyes that look out and see a world that makes us wonder if this is all there is, afraid of the finality of either yes or no, when it comes right down to it.  We are all so very much; we are all fantastically powerful creatures. The earth trembles with this knowledge, I think. The trees know it and speak to each other about it. We would do well to listen. We would do well to have cold toes because we were out and about, listening to the trees.

And a dear friend just texted me. He says he’s been muttering bad words and, at my suggestion that he drop them off at the bad word pound–since bad words don’t go so well with the kind of stellar heart he has–he threatened to drop himself off at the pound instead. Because at least that would be a change.

And yes, I know that feeling. Sometimes I feel like I am that feeling.

But progress and change. They aren’t the kinds of pets you keep on leashes and they certainly don’t just come when you call. They are tricky and spotted and blend in with your surroundings so well that you might just as easily miss them or worse, smack right into them in the dark and get angry when you stub your toe.

And perhaps one of these days we will open our eyes and actually see. And we’ll look back, shocked over the miles and miles of desert we have traversed, not having even realized we were going that far, other than the slight burning sensation we felt in our toes where the soles of our shoes had grown ragged and worn.

So yes, it is good when our toes are hot. For this means we have been traveling through the desert. This is progress.

And yes, it is good when our toes are cold. For this means that we have been outside, listening to the trees, experiencing January in a way we never could while simply parked next to a space heater, our life knitted up in socks and sweaters and a very warm pair of pants between.