It's 5:52am and I'm laying in bed, covers draped over my body and a cup of coffee calling my name on the bedside table. Wyatt, sitting in the rocking chair at the foot of our bed, is lost in a world of Sunday morning cartoons, his feet dangling of the edge in his soft and warm pirate slippers.
Oh how I would rather close my heavy eyelids again and drift off, back to sleep. But alas, the morning beckons.
Although the street lamps are still burning, illuminating the light dusting of snow that fell over night, and the sky has yet to show any signs of life, I can already tell it's going to be a gray day, after all, most of the winter here is just that, one big gray and drab kind of day.
Although the street lamps are still burning, illuminating the light dusting of snow that fell over night, and the sky has yet to show any signs of life, I can already tell it's going to be a gray day, after all, most of the winter here is just that, one big gray and drab kind of day.
I have this picture tucked into the corner of one of the kitchen cabinets.
My eyes get lost in this sky from time to time. The blue is unreal, as if someone picked the brightest most vibrant blue crayon from the box and carefully colored every inch of sky, and then cranked the saturation dial up to 10 for my viewing pleasure.
On especially gray days I dream of that blue, that sweltering Mediterranean heat, and the clear as glass, warm as a bath, water that would envelop my feet on the beaches in Greece that summer. If I close my eyes hard enough and block out the cartoons and the snoring pile of dog at my feet, I am there. I can feel the sun burning down on my shoulders and the sound of everything and nothing, a million silent people bustling about, soaking in the beauty, the history, imprinting this moment in their minds. But my eyes, although they are begging to, can't stay shut for long, and I open them to my gray day, with my little splash of color sitting just past the foot of my bed.
A recent blog post I read, from an amazing writer, talked about finding the color in life. And some days lately I feel like I went to the box of crayons for the day only to find I had the monochrome collection. And every crayon was a subtly different shade of gray. Yet other days I open that box to find the neons, blaring so brightly that even when I shut the box, you can still see the color spilling out of the cracks where the lid folds in. And some wonderful days, it's the classics. The simple one row box of crayons boasting classic red, blue, green, yellow, and orange. I drink those days in. The perfect mix. Those days fuel me up just enough that I can draw from their leftover energy on days when I open the box to find those shades of gray.
On especially gray days I dream of that blue, that sweltering Mediterranean heat, and the clear as glass, warm as a bath, water that would envelop my feet on the beaches in Greece that summer. If I close my eyes hard enough and block out the cartoons and the snoring pile of dog at my feet, I am there. I can feel the sun burning down on my shoulders and the sound of everything and nothing, a million silent people bustling about, soaking in the beauty, the history, imprinting this moment in their minds. But my eyes, although they are begging to, can't stay shut for long, and I open them to my gray day, with my little splash of color sitting just past the foot of my bed.
A recent blog post I read, from an amazing writer, talked about finding the color in life. And some days lately I feel like I went to the box of crayons for the day only to find I had the monochrome collection. And every crayon was a subtly different shade of gray. Yet other days I open that box to find the neons, blaring so brightly that even when I shut the box, you can still see the color spilling out of the cracks where the lid folds in. And some wonderful days, it's the classics. The simple one row box of crayons boasting classic red, blue, green, yellow, and orange. I drink those days in. The perfect mix. Those days fuel me up just enough that I can draw from their leftover energy on days when I open the box to find those shades of gray.
But don't get me wrong. Even though some days I see the world through my slate colored glasses, the color is always there.
My boys, in new handmade by Mama, pirate pajamas ; my ruggedly handsome, I'll open that jar for you type of person, husband ; My parents, who judging by how they play with Wyatt, never fully grew up; my cup of coffee in my favorite cobalt, blue as the Greece sky, coffee mug.. that is the color in my days. It's always there. I just have to remind myself to dip my brush back in the water, and then mix in my rainbow.
And now my littlest splash of color is starting to stir in his bassinet, pushed as close to my side of the bed as possible. His rosy cheeks ready to be kissed ever so softly and his eyes, that same bright and luminous blue, ready to shine their color on the world and blaze up this gray kind of day.
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