Bringing in the Color (Zinnias at the Sink)
All through August the oranges, yellows and pinks of bright Zinnias bloom and bob down in the garden. I can see them from the window. One of my great summer joys is heading down the old brick path, stepping through the gate with scissors in hand, ready to clip and clutch color.
Yes, and I am giddy lining up vases and cutting stems to create a cheerful cache of color and set it down on the counter next to the sink or on the pine planks of the kitchen table. Even as the rest of the vibrant colors get tired throughout September, and the tall sunflowers brown and droop, I’m still eyeing up the Zinnias, and traipsing down the path.
Back in May, I dreamed of these Zinnia-days when I deposited tiny green plants in a neat rim around the old bricks. There were no weeds then, and everything in the garden was (fairly) orderly and lined up in promising rows. I could walk away from the cobwebs and dirty floors, the dusty shelves, and piles that accumulated throughout winter and spring. I could create neat furrows in the dirt and drop in little seeds or perfect plants and feel the therapeutic calm that comes to so many of us when we find some corner of our world that we can set in order, even if it’s only temporary.
Things were still a bit brown and dreary in May. The color hadn’t yet reached me. The Bee Balm along the front gate hadn’t shocked us with deep red-pink. The Hydrangeas were only thinking of deep violet. And the Salvia sat still, small, and green, no spires of purple, white, and fuschia. But the Iris graced me with pools of purple and white, just to keep me hoping. I suppose the delight I get from growing things seems a bit over-the-top...boring to some, childish to others. But hear me out. As much as I love wood chips, mulch, and digging trowels, it’s really about the color. What keeps me smiling in early May, even when I still have to wear shoes and nights are too chilly to look at the moon...is the promise of summer color coming. I’m rejuvenated by the knowledge that it will come. In my mind I can see the Zinnia-days ahead, when I can bring in the color.
Come October, I enjoy the visual hunt for oranges and yellows, fiery reds too...great trees holding hands and ringing the edge of our back field. I’ll gather in the leaves, even as they drop from their life-giving bows, and scatter them across tables, so I can feast my eyes on them a little longer. They’ve relinquished their energy. I have not.
Once I learned from the kids’ botany book that these bold hues we only associate with a few short weeks in Fall, are really the leaves’ true colors. The color chemicals, carotenoids and anthocyanins, are present in leaves all throughout summer, but they’re hidden by the greens produced by chlorophyll, the chemical that helps trees take in the sun. With shorter days and longer nights, chlorophyll is no longer produced, so green begins to fade into the glorious color we know in Fall. I ask myself why their blaze of triumph is so short-lived. At least in the end, those leaves come to their true selves and make their boldest statement.
Why this craze for color? In our bleak, brownish-gray Northern winters, I crave what’s missing... what I can’t have, can’t snip in the garden, can’t touch in the waxed, bumpy surface of red maple leaves. There is a powerful connection between the eyes and the heart. My eyes seem
custom-made for resting on beauty. My heart seems to malfunction when I can’t find it.
But, is beauty merely visual? Surely, those who are vision-impaired find beauty...and maybe more. Why am I so limited by the eyes? Can I see beyond color...make it a window to even more sumptuous views? Color in my daughter’s voice; color in the rattle of wind through the great tree on the back field. The white canvas of winter doesn’t offer much variety of color, but who could deny the beauty of fresh, new snow, making the whole world into a sparkling frosted cupcake? The quiet hush of snowfall is a color all to itself. Laughter, the shape of a familiar face, the steady hand of a friend on my shoulder...these are colors yet unnamed.
Maybe for me, falling leaves, barren branches, and dying Petunias are a challenge. I can set color on tables, plant it in my garden, paint it across my walls, but can I press through the visual to the deeper meaning? What if colors, in every form, are signposts? What if they’re clues, shouting, “Hey! Over here! Pay attention and you might get to open a present! I’m just the wrapping paper!”
So, the old blue shutters on my wall remind me of the eyes of a friend; I really must call her.
The last hurrah of Autumn trees makes me think about the true colors I could call out in someone who needs encouragement. The grays and beiges of winter remind me of pages in my journal, fresh and clean for a new story, a new start. The black branches of naked trees look like ink across the many pages I’ve filled...so thank you God for the stories I’ve lived. And those happy Zinnias...they remind me that life moves in seasons, joy can spring out of hard, frozen earth.
Days are getting shorter. There won’t be many more sunshiny walks up from the garden.
Some of the buds may not get to bloom before cold closes in. And I’ll eventually have to dump out the flower vases and put them away. But I am learning that there are more ways than one
to bring in the color.
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