There's no doubt about it: these are the colors to wear.
These are the shades to dress up in. Yet no house of
haute couture can claim to have originated them. This is
our first hike together through this meadow after the early winter
provided enough water for any erstwhile dormant seeds to sprout,
rendering the floor of this once scorched summer grazing lea to be
covered with fine layers of mottled, grassy greens. And where there's
no green foliage, there are empty spaces through which the rich soil
shows, punctuating the landscape, complimenting the lush greens with
clayey reddish browns. This logo (if you will) should be
emblazoned on my chest.
The color composition of any sweater, any cap, any skirt, any socks,
any item of clothing or any furniture upholstery for that matter, woven
in fabrics of these shades would be considered inspired. Yet here they
are: seemingly discarded on the ground, left in the dirt (literally),
this way by
(as we may say), to be stepped on, to be kicked aside, so easy to miss,
so easy to be taken for granted ... and yet so
so gorgeously laid down, so divinely
But it's not only what's down (which is to say it's not only what's
under our feet) which transfixes and rivets my
ie which renders me spellbound. It's what's up as well.
The sky is festooned with cottonwool clouds between which the shining
sun is seen - it's seen, that is, until a mild breeze blows a cloud or
a veil of mist in front of it. There are blues and whites and grays,
all interchanging, all blending together, all separating then becoming
clear again as the clouds dissipate then re-form then dissipate then
re-form again, as the sun is hidden then becomes visible again.
Interchangeably it adds backlit gold and silver edgings to the clouds.
If they're too thick or too opaque, they mute the light. But not for
too long. As long as there is a breeze, they move, they spread out,
they thin out. It is a
in constant flux.
It's an exercise requiring concentration. It requires concentration to
not take it all for granted. I ask her "If I gave you a
all brushes you need, and any colors, any oils, any pastels you want,
paintthis?" and I make a sweeping gesture with my outstretched
hands to the lea below and the sky above. "No of course not" she says.
I can tell she is also marveling quietly at this masterpiece we're
hiking through. My point is gotten. It's not that we should or must or
need to be able to
what we see to validate it, to prove it. No of course not. What my
point it is, is that we are so surrounded by it all the time throughout
our frantic lives that unless we make a particular attempt not to take
it all for granted, we will take it for granted and barely notice it.
At best we say "Oh (ho hum), there's a color and there's another one
and there's another" - that is, if we even notice them at all. We never
say "Oh ... my
... would ... you ... LOOK ... at ... these ... COLORS!!!".
It occurs to me as well, while this
we're hiking in constantly changes, constantly morphs,
constantly reveals more of its pristine, ineffable nature, that there
we have to do to
it, rate it, judge it, or acknowledge it so it can be awesome like
this, except to get
and be with it. There is
we ever need to do for it to be perfect, scintillating, and magnificent
except open our eyes and notice it's already perfect,
scintillating, and magnificent. And
it does not matter what's going on. It doesn't matter
what's going on either with us or with
It, all by itself, on its own, is always perfect, scintillating,
And if there's any concern that it isn't perfect, scintillating, and
magnificent at any moment in time, if we tell the truth about it, then
it becomes plain it's we who see ourselves as less than
perfect, as less than scintillating, as less than magnificent, and in
so doing, transfer our less than perfect, scintillating, magnificent
consideration of ourselves, over to it. We do that, don't we? We do
that, and then we pretend we don't do that. We even lie about it, don't
we? Stop lying about it. It's all