Little Pinky Toe is an idea. 

Take a moment to look at your pinky toe. What do you see? The smallest, most scrunched of all the toes. Little, bedraggled toenail (if there is one at all), skinny, pointed head. The poor victim of sadist foot ware. Maybe you think your pinkie toe is just absolutely gorgeous (good for you!). Still, I think we can agree that it is the most-stubbed, often-broken, most-stepped-on-while-dancing part of your body. 

Now let your mind go and listen. What does it say? I know that sounds ridiculous, but you might be surprised by the answer. Think of that part of your whole self that could be represented by your pinkie toe? The smallest part of you. The one that most likes to hide. Search for that part and listen. Do you feel a sudden pang of tenderness for yourself? 

In my Little Pinky Toe I see a powerful symbol for compassion. I see the best of myself. In that part I unconsciously try to protect and hide away, I find my truth, my humanity. 

LPT (Little Pinky Toe) is a philosophy of sorts. It is an honoring of the smallest part in each of us. The part most vulnerable, most likely to get stashed away in a world that threatens to swallow us up. In embracing our vulnerabilities, and honoring vulnerability in others, a statement arises: “I could use some help with this part of living.” And a question follows: “Can you help me with that?” In that interdependency is the key to healing society’s wounds. When we see the struggle of others and can hold that struggle without judgement. When we realize that the same thing is happening to us and that in witnessing the struggle of others is the pathway to our own healing, we have found compassion. We are medicine for each other. LPT embodies this compassion. 

So why Chai? 

Chai is another beautiful symbol for compassion. It is the coming together of many things in a way that is welcoming and nourishing. Each thing, measured with attention brings balance, carries the intention of the whole. It is the story of a drink that through trade, imperialism, slavery, and war became the common drink of a more than a billion people. Chai is an invitation to the table. It is a way that people can connect and feel like they belong. Come and sit at this table. Hear what I have to say. I will listen to you. 

There are two stories here: 

In 2016 I met Neil Harley, the Chai Man, at the Saturday Farmer’s Market in Brattleboro, Vermont. It was a homecoming for me. I grew up in this town, but hadn’t lived here for many years. The Market is tucked in a shady copse, set against the backdrop of the Whetstone Creek as it passes under the wooden timbers of the covered Creamery Bridge. Banjos, guitars and fiddles fill the soundscape adding melody to the orchestral droning of the wind through the trees. It is the meeting place for middle-agers and young families, a showplace for farmers and craftspeople, and a wondrous respite for tourists visiting from bigger cities. It is a harmonious blending of forces, and, for me, it is the heart of this town.

I had come with my mother who was suffering from a debilitating form of dementia called Pick’s disease. She had been unable to speak for more than two years and seemed to be in a perpetual state of shock. I moved back from California with my wife, Lucia, and our kids to care for her full-time. At that point we had been caring for her for six months through a long, New England winter, and the isolation and stress was wearing on me. And as I held her hand and led her to the chai stall, I realized that the last time we had done this, I had been a child being led by her. As all of this was going through my mind, Neil broke my silence with his trademark, British, “Halloo!” and a bright grin on his face. I’m sure he noticed my mother’s blank face, but he greeted her like there was nothing abnormal going on. She didn’t respond, and I mentioned that she couldn’t speak anymore, to which Neil nonchalantly replied, “Aha!” But he held her in his gaze and didn’t divert his attention as most other people tend to do. “Would you like some chai?” he said to both of us, and I ordered one. And somehow in this regular, everyday exchange, I felt seen. Chai was the vehicle for belonging, and Neil and my mom and I now 

belonged to each other. 

This exchange is one we would repeat every Saturday until the market closed. The following summer, Neil didn’t come to the market, but we wouldn’t have been able to come anyway. My mother was too far along in her illness and would pass that June. Still, I thought about Neil that entire summer and often thought about just calling him up to volunteer and help him build his business. When I finally ran into him a year after that, it was like seeing an old friend. In the midst of Covid, we couldn’t help but embrace. He told me he was thinking of selling the business, and I suddenly knew what I was going to be doing for the next few years. All of this through a cup of chai. 

To be seen and accepted as you are is the greatest gift you can ever receive in this world. It is the very definition of compassion.