The squares of days are filling with colors. Colors made by digital highlighters and not brush in hand. There is need even for organization of such colorizing. This alone, the push to tell a color what it means, what it stands for, has me feeling inside out.
I used to like it when the colors talked to me. Days or minutes I would sneak from this chore or that to feed to the pulse of creativity. The grid of time was more white than stripes of color. Or was it? When the color whispered and sang, I didn’t hear so many shoulds or need to lists. I paid attention to paper and brush.
Using color to try to make a busy life more palatable has not seemed to help. Digitized pixels of color shouldn’t bleed, yet it happens. It happened again today, a trail of tasks stuck to my shoe like toilet paper following me all the way home. The what I do to make a life discoloring my hours of living.
I have longed for a one piece life, an unpacked living.
I gave myself a gift last year when there was not much left to give from or with. In the box of color choices I explored, I found what I thought was my enough. My had enough and am enough working to define me–to color in that quilt of remaining days. Looking again at March on the calendar I find my feet falling in familiar footprints, circling again around enough. Opportunties in spring time for growth make me notice what should have been pruned in the fall.
Overgrowth, which can seem an oxymoron in such a situation, causes this anxious stuttering–a double checking of lists. A waffling between two tasks, two choices, two moves to be made. I long for the growth of shade to make work more comfortable. to provide a place to rest in the future. Yet to get there, money and time have to be sown. Money made and saved from one fertile bed transplanted into another. Ungrateful, tired me grumbles today over tending the bed that will create shoots for transplanting.
I find my way in the dark to the stars that beg my eyes heavenward. Stumble stepping with a knowing hope (also known as faith) that in turning my face, and setting my feet forward with words scrawled on the day of today, I will be able to sleep with only the colors of hand painted wishes.
*a gift before 11 a.m.* the rumble of jet engines shaking loose the desire to travel
*a gift nearly worn out* the floor in her kitchen where we stand and cook and talk, lament and laugh–making laps around the center island as we journey through our lives together
*a gift that changed today* Passport!!!
*a gift white* coconut milk froth in my last latte before lent