Spirits, Magic, the Color of Sad, the Power of Words

I woke to frigid.The pellet stove had given up the ghost, spewing throat-gagging, nostril-wrinkling fumes throughout the house. Struggling through a thick haze to find the thermostat, intent on upping my carbon footprint in the interest of thawing my fingers and toes, I hastened into my morning routine … inviolate and comforting.

Coffee. Stat. 

Little Shit, the parakeet, starts the twitter [no, he is not tweeting on Twitter, though I must say he is far more interesting than most of the inanity out there], the gentle reminder that a cover needs removing and seed needs dispensing. The canary sits by her water dish awaiting fresh warmth for her morning ablutions. She's a Gloster – brown with yellow streaks, smooth-headed, though many have what I call 'Beatle haircuts', a ruff of feathers hiding eyes with comical effect.

Fire up the laptop.  

The firstborn, and his noble steed, are in Florida preparing for a 75 mile endurance race, leaving Mom to handle the morning stables. I tuck my iPhone in my quilted jacket, suit up with a full-face knitted cap, thick fleece-lined leather gloves, lined boots … and waddle out to the barn. I strip said gloves, hat and quilted jacket because I can't move. It's refreshing and suitable motivation to get my butt in gear and feed, water, spread hay, clean stalls, dump the wheelbarrow, tidy the feed room and suit up again.

Miss Winnie stands at the all-you-can-eat-buffet, so I capture the moment as she gleefully steals hay off the mow in clear violation of the rules. She gives me her usual 'tude but ambles off willingly enough. 

Off to the southeast, cresting the hill and the ragged tree line, bleak and weary a moment before but now illuminated from behind, an orange-gold scarf wraps the chocolate haze with teasing promise. Shadows take form, colorless, a transparency of bleakness, but for one. Skidding down the slope, I duck under the electric tape and plunge further until an old grapevine snags my cumbersome boot and brings me up short.

The tangle of stalks face me down with Tim Burton fervor, yet one beckons, bold in its cock-sure display. Sumac. Barren burnished gold, prideful against its near neighbors of grey and weary taupe. The sky's mask mutes the chariot charge, settling instead to a gentle stealing across the zodiac, rolling back the blanket with unsteady hands.

At peace, content, more so than I, the sentinels bid me wake from the color of sad. But I wear the 'blues' in shades of brown and trudge to the house, feeling lonely and out of sorts. 'Tis the season, say some - false, inauthentic, unrealistic. Not even the hazy orb peeking from the corner of the neighbor's indoor arena can rock the ennui, its heat sparring weakly with a living chill, the promise unfulfilled.

There's a stampede of furred feet as three felines race into the house and assume positions in the kitchen. Without opposable thumbs they accede to my one superiority and acknowledge due service with polite purrs. I pour the long-awaited mug of coffee, no longer fresh, rather more on the 'bracing' side, but welcome as the first sip slides down and warms my innards.

I settle at the laptop, pinging irritably at the little box and Norton's insistence that now is the perfect time to call life to a halt while it plays with itself doing who knows what manner of unspeakable things to my registry.

I open Outlook … and my world changes.

I have a friend, one I've never met, but one with whom I've shared deep-seated misgivings and railed against injustice and argued and debated on the big issues … whose words and mine somehow resonate and harmonize despite our disparities in beliefs. He sent me a manuscript. Would I look at it? Silly. Of course I will. I've read all his books. I've been smitten with one of his minor characters for a very long time. I've campaigned and begged and pleaded for him to give the character 'more'. This book … this very one … gives Etienne center stage.  Somehow the spirits align and the color changes.

Magic.

The words have power and I muse that I am fortunate beyond measure for I hold that magic in my virtual hands. For, these days, I've become a gatekeeper, a midwife, a gardener, a coach. 

Would you like to read my story? Will you love or hate the figments of my imagination.  Are they real or not real enough? Does it flow, will you laugh, will you cry, does it touch your heart? 

Will I be the mother proudly pinning the page to the refrigerator door or will I be the evil witch who scorns and belittles and guts with surgical precision?

Each day I receive a offering of words - a story, an allegory, a smattering of wisdom or a clever turn of phrase, a knowing wink or a stab at my heartstrings, a belly laugh, a sigh.  And it is not so much the tale, or how the words follow each other, or the tone … for these are the colors of craft, the metric by which I will measure and evaluate and decide.

The true gift is the subtext. It is where the magic resides.

It is the color of hope.