Oh, these low skies that indicate sadness, grays like shadows saddening the heart, instantly forgiven because of its fierce North’ wind screeching, out of control, until that also gets old again and creaks. Of all the seasonal transitions, Winter to Spring must be one of the biggest leaps into the unknown, yet familiar. Taking a stroll around our p’tit domaine this morning made me realize that the hope and trust I sense, waiting for some kind of revival, is for sure based in experience more than reality dictates, cold’s sleep still dominating.
I know it’s my personal preference that is making me ignore the overpowering yellow of our Chinese golden bell trees, deeming it cheap and denouncing its quality whilst secretly admiring its premature cheer, dramatically putting aside its abundance as a coincidental chance of coloring up. These are the glory days of this plant and it’s obviously not fair that I commemorate their insignificance most of the year, when they turn into just greens shrubs, and be ungrudging.
Yellow will never be the color drawing me in, convincing me, winning me over, unless there’s some pink embrace of a kind. When, years ago, I moved into an apartment in an old orphanage I did decided to paint the ancient wooden ceiling sunflower yellow, casting aside historical objections, but only because of the many other colors fighting for attention, thus accompanying that rather bold choice, meanwhile quickly reversed by successive residents, without obvious reproach.In a life where color plays such a distinctive part, you will probably not be surprised to hear that when visiting my home country I do drive by that place, by now totally whitened and creativity obliterated, to look for the stripe of cloud blue I once put on its bedroom ceiling, seen from the outside but apparently not from within, hence its continuing survival.
For me, yellow, if nothing else, simply accounts for all that could have been and as such entails an undescribed significance, a wordless sanctuary I rarely voluntarily spend time thinking about, but forced to, like now, am more than willing to evaluate its glory and jocundity. It’s a start and a good one, I gather.