Toes.

I tiptoe, making plucky violin sounds, and cackling piano sounds, careful as to not disturb the scurrying, bustling world that is trickling beneath me. This swish and swoosh of activity, it's there, always, but you can't usually see it. If you've ever been barefoot whilst stepping on a rubber mat that has those bristly finger-like tentacles jutting out of it, you should be able to understand, at least to some degree, the point that I am trying to make. You may cover your feet with slippers, or with socks, or with sneakers or boots or sandals, rarely leaving them unprotected. It is this practice of turning your second-most tactile appendages into nothing more than a means to get from one place to another that seems to cause everything to go wrong. The only time you ever acknowledge them is when you step on something sharp or sticky. Or perhaps your tights bunch up around your toes which requires adjustment. Or when you give them a once-over in the tub, careful not to let yourself slip in the process. Or when you tuck them under the covers because they are as cold as popsicles. Or you complain about a blister on them when you're wearing a new pair of shoes. Or often when they ache from working so tirelessly carrying you around all over the damn place each and every day. These are the things that we most often do. But I dare you to leave the slippers be for a while. Shed your socks as though they were a snake's skin. Feel the floor beneath you. Pay attention to it. Give intent to each step. Play hopscotch on the cool kitchen tiles. Hone in on every texture. At the life you don't notice nearly enough. Let your toes be the second set of fingers that they so long to be. Allow them the dignity that they deserve. And most of all, allow yourself to be a little bit freer in the process. Let go.