Once I painted a tree. She posed irreverently with branches sprawled every direction. She had no regard for the ways and regulations of symmetry. She was wild and free. Her vibrant pink blossoms danced to a song no one else could hear. Once you paint something you know it, in a kindred spirit sort of knowing. I saw her today, or perhaps it was one of her kind, but as I drove down the street, I whispered, hello, it’s good to see you again.
Once, I painted another tree. He was pensive and captivating, bearing his spiny form for all to see. Black lines etched against the grayest sky. I saw him today, too. Soon, before we blink, a new coat will appear and he’ll proudly wear a green masterpiece, the “it” color of the season.
These trees, I carry them with me through all the years, as though the paint on canvas was still shiny and wet. It’s not only trees. Once I painted a sunset and years later it came to life. In the moments when we meet again or for the first time, oxygen is insufficient and eyes see past human capabilities.
A day is so many colors.
Today, the world and all its tiny sub-worlds were just too full of noise.
So, I listened to the colors instead.
I watched from my desk as the rain fell diagonally to the ground. It turned to snow, giant flakes fell on the branches already are bursting forth with white blossoms. A confusion of seasons set against the grayest sky. In-between phones and files, I listened. I saw the ominous clouds introduced a freezing rain and then they were sliced through with radiant light, as a golden sun illuminated the tops of the trees, creating the most marvelous of shadows. Eight hours worth of effects set against the same backdrop.
It’s March and I’ll tell you, this month has a history of big changes for us. In the last four years, we’ve moved three times during a March. Tonight, we’re just a few days shy of 365 days after Minnesota. And that saying, bloom where you’re planted is not exactly my first nature. I think I’m downright awful at it. I’m more of a float wild and free in the winds of change girl. But, this March, we’re not changing anything. It’s the most peculiar of feelings. I’m itching for the calendar to announce that I can plant things in dirt, because it feels like a declaration of intention. Bloom, this is where you are planted. Pressing seeds into soil and surrendering to the germination. It’s obvious in plants, as we celebrate inch by inch, sprout by sprout. And it’s nearly painful in ourselves, with all the impatience and desire for understanding. Surely, we are a complicated breed.
Trees. I like trees, noticing the way they bend and stretch towards everything above. I rarely stop to consider just how fare below the surface the roots travel.
Do you see what I mean?
A day is so many colors.