The gray days of early February were weighing me down. Being used to moderate winters in North Carolina, I’d had about all I could take of sub-freezing days and the sun hiding out behind depressing clouds. At that time, I was in a group of women who were learning to knit scarves. When my mood continued to plummet along with the temperature, I had a strong urge to escape to the yarn store.
I instinctively found the section of turquoise yarn that ranged from solid bulky skeins to variegated finger weights. For a long while, I stood in front of the bins absorbing the colors. It was as if I was infusing a medication that immediately brightened my spirit.
Never had I been so aware of needing color.
Years before, my husband and I traveled to the Caribbean. I fell in love with those tropical, turquoise waters feeling like I’d found the place my soul had been searching for. Standing in front of the yarn I was back on that shore.
On my first journey to Sedona, the landscape was the opposite of tropical. Those cool colors were replaced by the warm earth tones of red rocks and bright sun that had a grounding effect on me. My life had been a dizzying whirl of eight months of cancer treatment and a stressful job— one I would paint a sad blue.
Standing on the warm rocks of Sedona, made me feel I had stepped into Psalm 40:2, that God had given me that firm, safe place. I needed the stability of earth, of the dust from which we came.
Later when I traveled to Colorado Springs for an April journey, I felt the sturdy red rocks giving me that same warm security.
When I traveled to the Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, I stayed at Colter Bay and felt nourished by the snow-covered Tetons that were mirrored in the lake—a double beauty to behold. Taking my morning walks next to the lake, I drank in that site that was dotted with boats of primary colors—like the crayons of school children.
I journeyed to upstate New York in search of beautiful sunsets. There I stayed at Tibbett’s Point Lighthouse Hostel at Cape Vincent, the place where the St. Lawrence River flows into Lake Ontario, a setting of famed sunsets. I’d realized that I’d been too busy most of my life to watch the setting sun. Observing the progression of the day giving into the night, it was as if I was watching a watercolorist applying her cotton candy pinks and swirls of lavender to the canvas dome overhead. That living color produced a joyful finale.
Now I trust the call to color, listening to what my spirit is telling me that I need. Especially when my cares weigh me down and life slips into tedium, I’ve found that the amazing hues in nature restore my sense of wonder, my belief in the goodness of God, who created us with the need for color to restore our souls.
What about you?
Do you realize the need for a certain color in your life?
What are ways to provide that infusion of energy?