by Marie Davis and Margaret Hultz.
Such a curiously mobile child. Born a nomad, more had passed under her feet than the average person. Great calluses rimmed her soles, lifting her an additional four inches off the ground. A bit more than a wisp, she was three-feet, nine inches tall—great calluses included. And walking was her passion.
She learned to walk at only ten months old, mastering the skill with the first step. Not-so-wobbly second and third steps began her journey. She walked right out of her mother’s grasp straight in to the scrub brush, circling twice around every banana tree just to make a game of it. So, except for ten months of her life, this barefoot child walked day and night—asleep or awake.
Under her grand feet passed arrogant fields flaunting their scant flowery grasses, moss-slippery, fish-chatty streams whispered walla walla while sun-baked rocks clapped at her passing. Her tread followed dust covered plains right into tight mountain crevices; sands gave way unnoticed between her toes. Giraffes, elephants, hippos and lions all stopped to admire her gait. Even flying birds looked down with envy, some wished to trade their wings for a better set of energetic feet.
A walker from this here — this spot — this very second. And as each new here arrived it brought a new moment. Yes, in walking, she belonged to the here and now — and her feet belonged to the ground — wherever the ground.
Navigating the Earth, no country spoke up to claim her. No one language pinned her down forcing an explanation. Only the unencumbered clouds with their remarkable vantage truly understood her. The moon, the sun, the rain, the stars — all fickle companions — joined briefly on her endless pilgrimage. Yes, thanks to her feet, freedom was free.