Thaw

Yesterday, as the spring-like weather of Saturday succumbed to temperatures more typical to a February day, I painted my front door brown. Tired of the blue which previously donned the entrance, I brushed and rolled a rich coffee with a hint of cream colored brown onto the door, and I love everything about it: from the color itself to how it contrasts and sharpens the brilliant white trim in which it is framed. Earthy and subdued, the color, in my opinion, exudes warmth and comfort which will assist, I hope, in creating an atmosphere of welcome and refuge for all who enter into our home.

I cannot pinpoint when exactly I became so enchanted with color and the arranging of colors together in a creative way in order to produce a certain ethos or feeling. Much too anal retentive and detail oriented by nature, I am no visionary. Nor do I possess any true artistic ability. Still I am able to appreciate and marvel at the emotional effects colors have on me. Vibrant reds, blues, greens, and yellows, as found in the majority of works by artist Marc Chagall, elicit within me feelings of deep joy and a profound sense of the goodness of life while muted hues–the golds, grays, browns, olives–create a twinge of melancholy accompanied nonetheless by feelings of peace and well-being. 

Saturday the temperature soared into the lower 50s. The sky was clear blue dotted with wisps of white clouds and the sun shone brightly. Running in from a quick trip to the Farmer's Market, I directed the boys (Jared included) to get ready for a walk. As socks, shoes, and coats were assembled, I flipped off the heat and opened windows throughout the house. Within minutes our motley crew was ready. Thomas, coat unzipped, sunglasses on, pounced onto the seat of his bike while Russell and Elliot discovered their places in the all but forgotten double stroller. "It's summer," Thomas shouted, and we were off to the park. Rolling and splashing through the small rivulets of water which ran down our street and occasionally avoiding large chunks of melting ice and snow, we arrived at our destination, which while barren was at least devoid of winter's remnants. The children were ecstatic, Russell and Elliot especially, to be free from the constraints of the house with its gates and my constant suggestions for redirection. Together we swung, wandered, climbed, slid, and got dirty resurrecting lethargic limbs and muscles until naps could no longer be ignored and reluctantly, but light-heartedly, we headed for home.

Though another "balmy" February day, by mid-afternoon on this Monday, the sun lost its previous brilliance and acquiesced to haziness, gradually darkening until a light rain began to descend. Though I love warm sunny days and the feelings of being full of life and potential which generally accompany them, these warm, cloudy days are my favorite. A glance out my opened front door as I went about my Monday living room dusting and as the children slept revealed a landscape of earth and sky–browns, gray-blues, dull greens–profoundly beautiful because they lacked brilliance. Outside it was still. No one ventured out to walk their dogs, ride their bikes, stroll their children, or take down the final vestiges of the Christmas season. In the distance, I could hear the whistles of trains as they sluggishly passed by the Mississippi carrying unknown cargo to an unknown destination. Within, I too felt still, quiet, thoughtful, at peace. For a time, I mentally cast off the list of things-to-do and was present in the moment.