Shoes And Wildflowers

I continue to go to ballroom class once a week – to put the proper shoes on my reluctant feet – feet long-accustomed to winging their way quite free of constraint. Poor feet… And poor dear body confined to repetitive gestures issued from without. I don’t understand my present acceptance of this alien format. It has always meant so much to me to be true to myself. And the truth always comes from within. Doesn’t it? Is it sometimes helpful to limit oneself? Can growth take place within while the outer self participates in perplexing occupations? Will I know when it’s time to unbuckle the shoes and flee the ballroom for the fields where wildflowers bloom?

After writing that last I jumped up from my chair and left the house in search of wildflowers. I found a generous congregation of the flowers I loved as a child. I thought of their nectar as provision for fairies and felt fey enough myself to pluck a few blossoms and sample the infinitessimal drop of sweetness at each center. I guess I still feel fey enough, for I couldn’t resist the plucking or the tasteing. Lovely to be released from questions and be the me I have always been, at home in the fields where wildflowers bloom – no matter what shoes I wear.

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