I Have a Theory

Today is Friday; it is the day a community of writers set a timer, take a prompt and write. It is an opportunity to spill unedited thoughts across the blogosphere for better or worse. I'm working toward that five-minute limit; I can't seem to corral my thoughts before the timer dings. But I know this is a community of grace and encouragement, and blessed fellowship. The Five-Minute Friday links can be found here. They are always worth the time to read. Today's prompt? Green.

I have a theory about Fall color.

No, it isn't scientific. It isn't provable or quantifiable. It doesn't lend itself to experimentation. It really doesn't sit well in a world of measurement and precision.

In fact, it kind of leans toward the romantic. As in Romanticism. As in the art and literary movement of the first half of the nineteenth century -- with its emphasis on imagination and emotion as opposed to the Enlightenment values of reason and order. Yes, I had to look up the definition - thank you very much to the Metropolitan Museum of Art...

I adore the colors of Fall. I love to watch as the leaves turn, day by day, from deep, summer green to frosted tips of bright yellow and orange, to full-on sunbursts across the spectrum of warm - red, pink, neon brilliance. Just like Paris has it's fashion parades, the trees have theirs; and God, the designer outdoes himself. Season after season. Year after year.

Did you know that the colors we see are actually the reflection of the colors in an object? Light comes in waves. Objects either absorb or reflect those waves. The lightwaves that are reflected back to our eyes, are the colors we see. So when we call a leaf green, we are actually calling it by the color it does NOT contain, by the color it has reflected.

Interesting, right?

So, here's my theory about Fall color. We see green leaves all summer because the leaves are busy absorbing all of the warmth of the summer sun. Not just the warmth, but the warm colors. The reds, the oranges, the yellows. These are being banked, like a savings account, for the future.

And the future is Fall. These amazing colors we see, this cacophony of show-off brilliance, is that savings account.

It is the trees giving back the sunlight of summer.

But what if the future wasn't Fall, but was the future of God's Kingdom. The one Isaiah spoke about: the Glory of Zion? What if Fall color is God's promise to us, like the rainbow, of our future with him? God made the light. He made the trees. He designed the colors of Fall. Why not remind us of the day when He will be our everlasting light and glory.

The sun will no more be your light by day,

nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,

for the Lord will be your everlasting light,

and your God will be your glory.

Isaiah 60:19 (NIV)

Green

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul.

Psalm 23: 2-3

My back conforms to the canvas chair - striped green and white like an awning - like garden-party favors - as I rock back and forth, catching the morning breeze.   I am still surprised by the green - I who spent years in the deserts of Arizona living with volcanic rock and cactus, painted-pebble yards and cinder block walls.  Even the name sounds dry and sere.

I am mesmerized by the color green.  Variety of hues indescribable, too many to catalog.  These shades are not labeled in jumbo crayon boxes, prismacolor pencils, acrylics and oils; they are subtle.  Startling.
Cool and refreshing.

It calms me, this green.  Makes me feel subtle and cool, like the slip of water over algae-coated rocks in a glassy stream.  Like the inexorable climb of ivy, reaching, clinging, then anchoring.  Like unfolding leaves and shoots of new grass.  Like venerable tree trunks with north-facing velvet cloaks of moss.

It recharges me, this green.  Growing.  Reaching.  Ripening.  I look for it each spring, after winter.  Walking the yard, the neighborhood, camera in hand, lens narrowing my vision, focusing my eye.  The first green.  It is hope.  It is promise.  It is faith.  It is real.

Sitting on the balcony, mesmerized by green - and life goes on.  Not just growing things.  The shadow of a hawk sweeps across the lawn below, fleeting and bold.  Red, red cardinals streak through the canopy of leaves, and stop to pose against evergreen-deep limbs of feathery needles, sharp and soft.  Contrast.

Life goes on.  Sitting on the balcony, rocking, my mother tells me about her plans for the day.  She is one-thousand miles distant yet close as the words we share.  The lives we share.  Daily.  I remember the days when a phone call was anchored to the wall.  I remember writing letters and waiting.  I remember libraries and card catalogues.  But life goes on and I gladly use this technology that keeps me close to those I love.  Contrast.

Life goes on and my husband works.  Away and busy, purposeful.  Life goes on and airplanes careen from the sky, rockets flare across desert cities, children ride busses to temporary homes, soldiers watch while families wait, secrets are told, newspapers sold, marriages made, and politics rage.

Life goes on and I am surrounded by green.  I rock back and forth, catching hope in the gentle air, breathing in promise of a new day, held in verdant, growing faith that all will be well.  It is real - life goes on.

Heavenly Father, 

Thank you for reprieve from today's headlines.  Thank you for green.  

Help me to keep your green pastures in my heart as life goes on.  

Help us to find your myriad hues and purpose.  

Help us to live in you.

Linking with Monday's Musings, and Unforced Rhythms

Green Leaves

 Their fruit will serve for food and their leaves for healing.

Ezekiel 47:12

Again with the drive.  When I took this job, I knew I would be in the car awhile, twenty miles each way.  About 30 to 35 minutes.  And I don't mind.  

I don't mind.  First, there's very little traffic.  It's the time of day.  I am fortunate in that I leave my house after early-morning rush hour, and I leave my job before most late-afternoon/evening congestion.  Second, my car is pretty darned comfortable.  I can heat the seat and the steering wheel in the winter, and it has an amazing sound system.  It's not too big and it's not too small; I like it's zip and maneuverability.  Finally, I love the view.

I like looking at houses.  Because the route I take is along county roads and highways, most of the houses are not cookie-cutter development homes.  There's variety.  Brick colonials, shingled capes, stone ranches.  There's one house with some kind of glass-cathedral type of addition, built right next to a stream.  As far as I can tell, the only way into the addition would be through the basement of the house.  By the time I reach the little section of town I work in, the houses have changed to turn-of-the-century victorian, with crenellated details and ginger-bread colors.  It kind of fascinates me, to think of all of the people who live and work - who make decisions about their homes - who get out and mow their yards and plant their flowers.  People with full lives - complete strangers.

I love looking at the trees.  So much of my way is tree-lined - tree-tunneled.  And again, like in the fall, the variety of color amazes me.  Green.  How many shades of green are there?  Mustard-yellow green, aspen green,  florescent spring-green, olive green, forest green, kelly green...shoot, I swear I've even see red-green.  This is my first spring in Virginia, and I feel rich beyond words.  In the last week, I feel like I could just about watch the leaves grow.  One day, buds.  The next day, leaves.  And it's just beginning.  Some trees bloom first - full-color blossoms.  Then they get their leaves.  I am thrilled to see the tall trees - those stately sentinels standing guard in the woods - I am thrilled to see them fill out.  At first, just a hint of green on limbs silhouetted on the sky.  Now, branches still visible, but green-lined with new leaves like little feathery wings. 

Yesterday, when I got home from work and turned the TV on, I watched in horror as the news agencies reported about bombs in Boston.  At the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  Among the spectators - men, women, and children.  The bombs were made for destruction.  They were made to hurt people, and the news reports were full of descriptions and video of the broken - bodies, blood, glass.  My daughter came around the table to give me hugs.  She might not have understood the thoughts that were going through my mind - screaming silent thoughts of why, and anguished thoughts of deep sadness.  But she saw something in my face - something that told her to comfort.  I saw people helping others - emergency crews, soldiers, police, first responders.  I saw bystanders become upstanders - they did what they could to help.  Like my daughter.  I saw victims patient, silent, shockingly still, waiting for their turn.  We prayed together, for the injured and for their families, for the responders, for the ones who did this thing.  Could their lives have so little hope, so little love, so much despair - that they would do this thing?  To strangers?

Today, I'm thinking of trees.  How they bend, how they grow, how resilient they are, how they survive.

There are nine to ten references in the bible for green leaves (depending on the singular or the plural).  Mostly metaphors for a good life.  I can imagine.  I grew up in the desert.  These trees, these green leaves are the result of water and care.  They bear fruit; they give shade.  They offer respite from heat and glare.  They offer comfort.  They heal.  I am healed, everyday, on my drive to and from work.  I am healed when I go for a walk.  I am healed when I look out my doors and windows.  Today, I am thankful for trees.  Again.