The pinks and purples and in-between shades that make life such a gloriously confusing and challenging journey are what intrigue and appeal to me most in the color wheel. I want more than red or yellow or blue. I yearn for wilder things than such primary basics. And despite what a drunken homeless man once proclaimed to me while walking in Central Square, the world is more than black and white.
In these dizzying times, some of us want to put labels on everything, to make sense of the madness, to find our tribes and feel safe and stable again. Personally, I’ve never felt such stability, so maybe this is an easier time for me to navigate. Maybe that’s wishful thinking – some sort of survival mechanism because the idea that everything we thought we knew might be wrong is a little overwhelming. Maybe the world is overwhelmed and simply trying to right itself.
On this Sunday night in September, the next to last Sunday night of summer, I celebrate these pink and purple blooms, the ones that aren’t yet giving up, the ones that still bloom and carry on despite the coolness creeping into the night, despite the quicker passing of sunlight. They inspire and astound in the smallest and grandest ways, and for that I am grateful.
It is the gratitude of a moment.
