Fingers and Toes

Small bare feet with fat Fred Flintstone toes stepped both carefully, yet clumsily on the wooden deck stairs.  Chubby fingers gripped the railing.  This is what caught my eye.  The movements both clunky and care free at the same time.  They were set on some bigger plan, one in which only the owner of those toes was privy to.  While the steps were somewhat unsteady, they were not undeterred.  If anything they were single-mindedly focused on the task at hand – freedom.

I remember Fred Flintstone like feet.  I remember round fingers, sticky with the morning’s breakfast, gripping banisters, touching counter tops and generally leaving their mark on the world in goo.  They no longer have a place in my house.  Instead they’ve morphed into a lankiness, but also grace. I suspect this set of little toes and fingers that I’m watching from a distance will do the same.  

I continued to watch.  Captivated, yet not quite sure why.  Was it the movements awakening memories?  Was it the juxtaposition of unsteadiness yet assuredness?  Maybe, but the culprit was more likely the fact that the rest of the body that belonged to these toes and fingers was clad in a red Santa suit.  Yes, a Santa suit – in July.  On a morning that has hit almost 80 degrees before 8 a.m.  

Perhaps it was the dissonance, that caught my attention, but I suspect it was more the imagination that was embodied in it all. 

I found myself longing to put on a Santa suit and tromp down the deck stairs, head turned to shout an invitation to join me at whomever was left inside.  I longed to be oblivious to the expectations of what should be, focused instead on the possibilty of what could be.   

Those stubby toes and chubby fingers were perfectly suited to the small body that wore the Santa suit.  This carefree nature, concerned only with getting those toes into the plush grass below, ready to start the day in the land of imagination, were perfectly suited to it too.  

It was this quest for joy, creativity and possibility that caught my eye.  Somewhere along the line, we lose that inhibition.  We forget the joy of playing dress up.  Of exploring.  Of focusing only on the joy and adventure that lay before us.  We become lanky or graceful.  We become focused, not on embracing the moment, but grasping at success or achievement, or contribution.

While these are perfectly acceptable aspirations, I was reminded of other perfectly acceptable aspirations – imagination and possibility.  I don’t know that I’ll jump into a Santa suit and frolic in my back yard, I am tempted to embrace the childlike wonder.  I’m tempted to do something so outside of the expected and see what inspiration may follow.