So, I was on the el heading downtown for a meeting. Being after the morning commute, it was not hard to find a seat.

About two stops after I got on, a young mother, after struggling a bit to get a very expensive-looking baby buggy over the threshold of the car, navigated the carriage to a nearby spot across from me.

With one foot, she engaged the brakes and began making very exaggerated, but very loving expressions to the child in the buggy.

I couldn’t see the baby’s face.  I assumed it was a little boy because I saw his legs in a grayish-blue and white striped onesie outfit poking out from under the awning of the cushioned cradle.

I fell in love.  There is something about a child’s little feet.

I remember when I had a romance with a visual artist.  A friend of his, an artist himself with a reputation of accomplishment in Eastern Europe, smiled and welcomed my lover’s stories of his new relationship.

He smiled and nodded.  Yes, right now, everything is PINK, he said.

I suppose it’s only natural that a visual artist would speak in the language of colors.

But that’s how I felt about seeing this young commuter’s feet.  The sight made everything PINK for me; tender and promising.

I’m not normally taken to sentiment, but I was totally taken, charmed, by these tiny feet.

The baby stretched his legs upwards, without giving thought to their effect or how sturdy they were, without trying to use them to stand or transport him to some destination.

He was just dancing in the air.  Totally absorbed by the sensation of moving his own limbs, of being able to move his limbs.

And his toes…it seemed like the width of his foot could barely contain the five fleshy digits.  He was too young to appreciate them for the way they would help him keep his balance or kick a soccer ball or pedal a bicycle.

He still probably welcomed an adult squeezing his toes, one at a time, and repeating This little piggy went to market…

I appreciated not having a full view of the baby.  Because I couldn’t see a face, I didn’t feel drawn to ascribe characteristics like cute, or smart, or happy.  I could not say whether this child was an old soul in a very fresh form or if the child was young and innocent in every possible way.

What is it about a baby’s feet?

I might look at a sadhu’s feet and contemplate what kind of pilgrimages they had already walked.  I might look at an old woman’s feet and consider in what ways, over her lifetime, she tried to make herself fit into different shoes and perform whatever was asked of her by others.

I might look at an athlete’s feet and think about how they were often overlooked in the training room while depended on in order for him to deliver on expectations.

I might look at a dancer’s feet and consider how much pain and discomfort they endured because of the dancer’s unwavering will.

But a baby’s feet is all HOPE.  An image of PURE POTENTIAL.

I like to be in the company of this kind of simple hope sometimes.  To know that pure potential is nearby.

Maybe this feeling can not only be seen in an infant’s feet.  Maybe it can be contained in other things.  It’s worth recognizing anything that provides even a glimmer of hope and being with it whenever it enters your head space.

Fully taking in an image or sensation or word that lets you imbibe hope —  even in a train car — is no small thing.