Posted in Great Outdoors

In the Midst of Beige

Speaking of color . . . we were, weren’t we?  I am a highly visual person with a brain hard-wired for color association.  I dream in vivid technicolor.  The colors often symbolize feelings.  I once had a very passionate dream about someone I should not be dreaming passionately about.  The walls were a deep cranberry red, the flush of lust.  Outside the window, there was a light illuminating the innocence of pure white snow.  It was a calm, quiet, flurry of snow, but I was content to stay inside.  I woke up just as the kiss touched my lips, my heart pounding against my rib cage!

As a mother of young children, it was not uncommon for me to hear people remark how cute it was that I dressed us all in the same color, something I would never intentionally do!  Clearly, it had been a red day (or blue, or green, etc.) and the clothes I chose for each of us reflected the color that fit my mood.

When I see a color that catches my eye, I will instantly see other items in the room that match it.  I will say, “Ooh!  I like the color of your blouse.”  Then, “Oh look how it matches the straw in your drink and the book on that shelf!”  I notice immediately if two co-workers are wearing the same color.

It should come as no surprise, then, that this is my least favorite time of the year.  The hues drain from the trees and flowers, leaving behind the browns, tans and grays of death.  I’ve noticed my mood spiraling downward, weighted by the bleak of winter.

Walking with the dogs today, I forgot my camera at home, but did have my phone with me.  Setting up a scavenger hunt for myself, I went to work searching for signs of color in the drab landscape.

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A fiery twig announced its presence along the trail near the fence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sumac and red berries (nightshade?) light my way along this desolate scene.
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Raspberry vines in subtle violet bow to winter’s cold.
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The patient pine dons her dress of evergreen, having watched the other girls in their crimson frills and gowns of gold. Finally she is the belle of the ball . . .