Flashes of Color

Flashes of Color 

I have a routine. In the morning when I get up, I push the curtain aside in the bathroom and gaze out the window. Looking into the sky, past the fences, the rooftops, I look to see what kind of weather I might be facing when I walk out the door.  Lately, the multi-colored climbing rose with yellow-orange blooms has been gazing back with its beauty. Regally satisfied, the roses sit on the branches, content to have their blossoms revealed at last. I have to look past the red rhododendron which has flowers at eye level to see the rose and beyond the rose to judge whatever might be happening in the sky. Not an easy task with the flowers that vie for attention.

As a rule, the sky is cloudy, overcast or sometimes entirely hidden by the fog that has formed and drifted in hiding the flowers, the world beyond my window. Fat drops of water linger on the rhododendron bush leaves until too heavy the water streams toward the ground.

However, yesterday morning, I was greeted by a rainbow in the western sky above the ocean. Excited, I ran through the living room with my naked body chilling in the air—looking for my camera, searching for my purse where my phone should be.  Opportunity was calling.  I tried taking pictures through the window of the bathroom, frustrated by the screen blocking the view, I hurried into the front bedroom and without regard for my neighbors’ sensibilities, I pulled up the blinds, standing naked with camera in hand I snapped several pictures before deciding to chance getting dressed to scurry out the front door.

The man was still sleeping, it was Saturday morning after all.  With complete disregard for his opportunity to sleep in for I was up, after all, awake, and heading out the door; I yelled to him “Get up, get dressed and get out here.”

Later on, I would realize the earliest of the hour when I and the dutiful husband came back in from viewing the wonder of a double rainbow in the sky.  It was just after five thirty in the morning. The day continued with showers, clouds highlighted by the sun and a chill in the air.  The rainbow was a memory, its flashes of color hidden again.

Maybe all memories are flashes of color. I know that many of my memories have been washed off the canvas, painted over with only a dash of crimson, cerulean blue, or true black showing through.  I can’t say that I want the ones that I remember hanging in a gallery waiting for a viewing. Why? How personal are they? Or do I think that they just are not too interesting?  Definitely not titillating.  How exciting do I want them to be? I am just not paparazzi material nor do I wish to be.

 

I like living in the quiet. The man likes living in the quiet alongside of me.  The only drama that we generally experience is when we are on stage performing as actors on a community theater stage.  What bits of drama we experienced currently is on the world stage.  I tried not buy a ticket.  It is a difficult thing to do until something reminds me living a life is on a stage.

As I get older, my body is shoving out subtle hints that this stage I am playing on seems very real indeed until I am encouraged to self-heal, to gather myself out of the imaginary hole that I have allow myself to fall into.  Perhaps, what I really need to do is to gather the flashes of color place them back on the palette, mix them to begin painting my naked body with possibilities. I want to run out into the world to glow, to dance, growing in joy because the canvas is still here so I am going to color mine.