Sunflower . . .
Bee Pollen . . .
School Bus . . .
M & M . . .
I don’t know how to name it; that deep, saturated, syrupy, golden-yellow that hitchhikes in on a slant of late summer and gifts the world with the profound, happy wisdom of a primary color.
When I gaze at the word “primary” and rotate it around on the lazy Susan of my mind, I think of it as meaning: First. Original. Source.
It’s a beginning. A piece of purity. It stands in contrast to the mangled creations of my imagination. The ones tainted with memories and habitual reactions to those memories.
The chaff I’d like to rake out from my fields of mental-thought, so that I can live in the cleanliness of pure yellow. In all its happy innocence.
But somewhere along the riverbanks of life, I lost a lot of my innocence. And I began to dwell in melancholy.
It was comfortable. In a strange way, it felt like home. As though I’d lived there before.
I knew the protocol and the inflections. I could walk the gait of the lonely along the moors.
This is the onset of my private Blue Period. It arrives like a marauding uncle without much warning . . . a drifter sad and blue.
The antidote is: Yellow.
When I’m conscious enough to catch myself hoboing into the silky arms of melancholia – that train without a track – I halter myself with images of yellow.
And I follow like a Velcro balloon craving attachment. Once we connect, I feel a lighter beingness. I begin to settle into the coven of contentment. I start to peel my sagging countenance up from the sidewalk and stand in the spotlight of a loving, happy force that applauds my discipline.
I’m at war in these moments. A quiet inner war. With the blue note in my soul that I was born to wrestle in this lifetime. With the minor keys I’m destined to play on the piano of my universe.
My peace is to huddle next to a yellow wall. An entire wall of blossoming, rising happiness – the warm air of love on a vacant street corner.
This wall is especially seductive as the world turns tortoiseshell.
As October marbles into November.
As colors swirl from gold to brown.
As the browning of late autumn signals the advent of burrowing in for winter.
As musing twirls to mocha.
As I peek through the lacework of naked trees, it’s the cozy of yellow I chase.