If floors could talk,

They would slow you down when

You’re walking like the end of the world is within distance.

They would tell you affirming words

With every step you take,

Especially when your doubts find shelter in your ears.

They would hold your ankle

And caress it, as if to say “Keep going, you’re okay.”

Every time your legs wobble on the concrete.

They would tell you to let your feet lead the way,

Especially when your heart and mind are at war.

They would laugh at your determination

To step on them,

Always so busy to reach your destination.

They would tell you

“Slow down. Take a leap.

Hop and twirl in your step.

Dance and turn until your feet carry you

Like soft feathers in the wind.

You are here, slow down, and revel.”

For if floors could talk,

They wouldn’t talk at all.

Often, I find myself staring at the cracks in the concrete and asphalt below my feet, looking at the rough edges as if staring at them for long enough would tell me where I should carry myself. I find myself imagining the ground healing me with my every step as if my emotional wounds can be cured by a force of nature.

When the night approaches and my thoughts take me back to my home country, I imagine my feet roaming the peculiar, marbled floors in my grandma’s backyard, the sun hitting the glittering patterns engraved in the cracks, and I sigh momentarily. When I am there, a liberating energy pulls at my ankles, cradles my legs, and carries me forward, without me having to do any of the work. In my heart, I know this pull is the unmistakable love running in my veins when I am on the earth I call home.

I also find that I worry about my direction in life. I am certain many can relate to this element of living; my heart finds itself wrapped in plastic, trying not to be hurt by my mind. I worry. I worry if the path I am on is the right one if my shoes have tricked me into believing that this road is the one I should follow if I have lost myself along the way and if there is finally a place where my uncertainty can rest and allow me to relax undisturbed.

My mother once told me to always walk with my head held high, even if the turmoil inside me boils like sparking fireworks on New Year’s Eve as it did then. That is when I realized how often I walk with my head down low, assessing the floor beneath my heels, as if I am ashamed or lost in thought.

It is thoughts of the future that sting the worst parts of me, as I wonder whether what it holds is bitter or sweet, silently hoping that whatever it brings, I will be content with it. When I sit on the soft grass, I close my eyes and imagine the soil transferring all its wisdom into the soles of my feet, until it reaches the better parts of me that convince me that it is okay, that I am indeed on the right path, and that my brain should take a vacation from planting gardens of worry in every thought I have.

Somehow, I have found that when you are in a place you love, the floors speak to you. The floors beg you to listen to the birds and the flowers, to the leaves and the trees, and to the moon and the stars. In my time visiting one of the countries that bathe in greenery, I found that my soul felt lighter; almost like someone was carrying me in the palms of their hands, leaving me breathless.

I found that the soul relaxes when it realizes that the ground beneath the body is unthreatening, un-territorial, unobjectionable.

If floors could talk, they would laugh at us. They would double over in hilarity and collectively agree that the differences that “define” us are mere specks of dust, considering the fact that we all walk the same floors, yet have the nerve to discriminate against each other over frivolous oxymorons.

I have come to understand that in the end, we are all the same. Whether riches overflow your bathtub or your home sits in the cold of the street. Whether your demons win on most days, or religion matters to you more than anything else in the world. You and I are the same. We walk the same floors and bury our toes in the same grass. We run and wander, and stroll on the same concrete, and drive our cars on the same asphalt. We might even have the same thoughts as we walk by each other, unaware.

In a time to come, the floors may never talk, but if they do, I imagine this is what they will say. They will ask you, ever so gently,

The secret is, floors do talk, sometimes you just have to listen.ou