Obscure Heart: A Review of My Left Foot

A good friend of mine grew up with Cereberal Palsy. At a recent party, another of my friends asked him what he was going to do when he got to Heaven. While his disability obscures the impulses of his heart, his smile seemed sincere and sad at the same time.

-I dunno. I'll probably run I guess, he replied, pivoting his head toward the roof.

It was hard to keep the tone of the party light after that comment.

We tend to consider our bodies as the final expression of who we are. When we gain too much weight, when we sag around the edges, when our eyelids hang heavy, when our hands shake, when depression slogs through our veins, we tend to think, in one way or another, Look at who I am. Here, now, it shows.

We venerate the bodies that work best. The Anton Krupickas and Michael Jordans and Lance Armstrongs receive our worship because in their motion we see the poetry of the soul. Actors, models, and musicians all stand under on the altar of magazine covers, inviting our worship.

And there is some truth to this perception that our body, this collection of atoms, cells, impulses, and nerves, guides and creates who we become. But we can forget about the sheer power of the spirit. We forget or adamantly deny that the body is not all that makes us who we are.

Then, all at once, My Left Foot asks us, with its earnest portrait of love, relationship, and disability, Really? That's all there is to it? What about this man? What do you say about him?

The film depicts the upbringing of Christy Brown, an Irish writer and artist who only had control of one foot. He uses his toes to convey his tremendous heart and spirit in books and images that arrest his family, his countrymen, and eventually an audience around the world.

Christy grows up amid a swarm of brothers and sisters, surrounded and sculpted by their love and by their battles. With their tremendous company and support, he seeks to make his spirit known, despite the overwhelming, obscuring power of his CP.

Christy presents a resounding challenge to me, because for most of his life, his brilliance was obscured by his body. I still believe that our relations with our body shape our hearts and souls.

But I realize as I watch Daniel Day-Lewis's portrayal of the tortured writer, that I underestimate the power of our spirits, their enduring legacy, and the fact that our bodies are only a frail surface, the tip of the iceberg, a twisted little expression of tremendous will, potential, and love.

If Christy with his foot can shake the world without the cooperation of the rest of his body, then our frailties should not be treated as obstacles for our souls. We have a choice as to how we perceive them. They can either stand as distractions or as monuments to the powers beyond them.