so lets start here – feet, legs. I must say my feet are worn are tired and well used. I suppose that my feet are like my hands, they hold my life line, my fortune and downfall. As a runner and a mother, my feet see little rest, and well it likely shows – my toes are rarely perfect, it also shoes the many summers of bare feet in the grass, long walks on the beach, aching heels, and sixteen hours shifts with no break. My feet show my wear and tear more than any part of me. And yet, my legs are my (in my opinion) best asset, and favorite feature. Strong and shapely. Toned and tight, the legs of a runner. My legs have brought me through more tough times than any hand can claim to. They are toned, presently tanned, not long as I am short, but long for someone so small. There strength and slender combine to make them sensual. They are always the feature I choose to show – tight hamstrings, swollen knees and all (as that is what years of running will do). More to follow…. There is something to be said for self examination, and only in the most critical sense. To take a good picture is hard, and I certainly do not take claim to any sort of photographic integrity, however, it is perhaps even harder to take a picture of any part of one’s self; further more, harder still to view it, as the results, thus far, are not the most flattering. Therefore, it is good to note that I have played with the minimal access to photo alteration techniques available on my mac and tried at the least to make these images more, well interesting, at least to me. In doing this it is hard to ignore the image. This is me. There are a great many details I have begun to notice about myself. Some manifest themselves in ways that are obvious and visible, others are only decipherable to those that know me well, and then there is what I see. Legs are symbolic of strength. They are my strength. I am most comfortable here on my feet that bear the burden of my legs. They are uneven, in tone and length, they house scare tissue, feed mosquitos and brave the climbable elements of nature; they run, and stroll, the wrap and twist in comfort and distress. In my sleep they curl up, coaxing me into positions long forgotten outside of REM. They are my pillars of strength, my grace and my glory. I love my legs. They are long and strong, though I am short, in fact a staggering 5’1. None the less, I would argue that for someone of this stature, in proportion to the yet seen portion of me,my legs are long.One is longer, the arches on my feet are almost flat, largely as a result of running, one leg has two prominent bumps which decorate the front, the other, tiny indications around the knee cap of the swollen misery to come. Both are sustained by feet that are strong, and highly abused. Rough, and delicate; tiny and able. My feet support my burden. My burden is held largely in my legs. legs I love, legs I have earned, legs that have not failed me yet; and I call on them now more than ever to maintain my course and keep me steady.

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