Further Up and Further In

The other day I finished reading the Chronicles of Narnia series. I read the whole thing beginning to end over the past six months and never in my life have I ever been so taken with a fictional idea or place. As silly as it sounds, I have been yearning for the mountains, the sea, the hills, the forests. I want to dance around the fire to the beat of the dwarfs' drums with the satyrs and the fauns. I want to feel the spirits of the trees and trade verses with the horses, eagles, badgers, foxes, beavers, sparrows, rabbits, and mice. I want to go on adventures with Peter, Edmund, Lucy, (NOT Susan), Eustace, Jill, Digory, and Polly. I want to feel the warm breath of the Great Lion and hear his voice. I want to meet the kings and queens that sit enthroned at Cair Paravel and feast with them, overlooking the Eastern Sea where mermaids and fish and dolphins jump out of the water and rejoice. Can you imagine? The joy, the adventure, the warmth of the fire in the beavers' dam, the chill of the snow, the tickle of the breeze. 

I found this in a castle on the southern coast of Devon, England, and stood in front of it, waiting for Narnia to appear on the other side for longer than is probably appropriate for an adult.

I found this in a castle on the southern coast of Devon, England, and stood in front of it, waiting for Narnia to appear on the other side for longer than is probably appropriate for an adult.

I get very caught up in the words of C.S. Lewis. Each one drips with magic and thoughtfulness and wonder. The lands he describes and the emotions and textures. I can imagine no place more wonderful than the world he created. Since I was a child and read these books and heard the stories, I knew that it was all an allegory for the creation of the world, the sacrifice of Jesus, the relationship of God with His people, but reading these books as an adult is an even richer experience than I could have anticipated. As I've had to depend more and more on Jesus and His righteousness, the beauty of THAT story, of Jesus and me, has become more beautiful and believable, just like Narnia to each of the children that stumble upon it. Reading the last few pages of The Last Battle and hearing the description of each part of Narnia and the journey further up and further in as each inside is bigger than its outside, gave me so much hope, but also so much heartbreak. I mourn the reality of the fallen world. We should have been that beautiful Narnia, but we're not. We should feel no pain, but we do. I do. And as hard as that is to swallow, regardless of Narnia, it becomes so sweet at the same time. Each character wished to leave Narnia at one point, and eventually they all do. Each one had to sweat, worry, bleed, cry, fight, climb, crawl, stumble, hide, run, swim, and work before their task was done and the sweet breath of Aslan wrapped around them in perfect approval, forgiveness, and love. And even as they went back to their own world, thinking they'd never return again to the exceedingly beautiful world they so loved, there was gratitude for the grunting, sweating, crying, and worrying. Each of those things taught them something they did not yet know about themselves. EUSTACE. Can you imagine a more horrid child? And by the end, you just want to wrap your arms around him, kiss his forehead, and say "Well done, mate." And glory be, GLORY BE! Aslan works perfectly and deliberately until finally he can call each good and righteous Narnian- native or not- home to their proper place next to him as the world darkens. All hope is threatened to be overtaken too, until you move further up and further in.

Further up and further in. Is there a better call in all this world, all this life, than to move further up and further in? I don't know if you know this, but Narnia is Heaven. It's Heaven, y'all, the real one. It beckons and receives absolutely and perfectly. There is a lot of worry, blood, sweat, crying, stumbling, rejoicing, mourning, playing, dancing, and celebrating that comes first, but in the end, all the characters who Aslan smiles upon and blesses with a big Lion kiss are brought further up and further in. Each new layer to the world that has been perfected is better and richer than the last. There is no mourning or crying, except maybe joyful crying. And that's what we're bound for, you and me, when we feel Aslan's pull away from the world we thought was our own, only to find out that there's another one waiting for us. "‘Glory be!’ said the Cabby. ‘I’d ha’ been a better man all my life if I’d known there were things like this.’" Indeed, dear Cabby, indeed.

But what makes this so disheartening is the waiting. I know there's a Narnia out there. I know this world, our world, will one day be redeemed. I know that like King Caspian I may die hundreds of years before that happens, or like Jill and Eustace I'll be there when it does, more alive than could be (more or less). But does that make the waiting any easier? Not for me. Is there anything I want more than redemption of this wretched world? I don't think there is. I want freedom, courage, bliss, joy, kinship, friendship, love, all boundless and timeless. But I have to wait. And I have to believe that there is hope in a new Narnia and there is hope in a new Earth, if only we have the patience, courage, faith, and pluck to make it until then. I doubt my possession of those things quite often, but I'm reminded that I don't have to get up every day and work until sundown to make sure by the end of the day I can lift the robes of righteousness and wrap them around me. I must believe that they are always on me, head to toe, covering the blood, sweat, worry, tears, scrapes, scabs, panic, and doubt that are nullified by Jesus. By Aslan. By the Perfect One. The Ever-present One. The Alpha and the Omega. The Beginning, and most certainly the End, and everything in between. 

And here's what I imagine Cair Paravel to be.

And here's what I imagine Cair Paravel to be.

an occasion

Yesterday we celebrated our first wedding anniversary, and I have to admit, I had mixed feelings prior to it. I'm all about occasions. ALL about occasions. Pomp and circumstance, frills, unnecessary decor, themes upon themes. It is not easy to rein me in. The budget has been tight the last few months with only one income, so we were pretty limited with what we could do to celebrate. That's where the mixed feelings came in. I had pictures in my head of flowers hanging from the ceiling, a backyard strung with lights, an elaborate dinner, but I had to be reined in.

I was pretty bummed to be honest, and pretty selfishly. Maybe I also was hoping to prove something to myself, to Tucker, to Instagram, that even though I've been pretty knocked down the past few months, I can still pull together an Occasion with a capital O. But then, the magic of Trader Joe's reared it's beautiful, $3, eucalyptus-crowned head. And a vision was born.

I thought about going to buy some new candle holders, but why buy when you can very subtly steal/generously borrow from loved ones? So shout out to the late and great Laura Head for collecting beautiful pieces, and for instilling the same quality and eye in me so that all of our things blend and complement seamlessly! 

So I give you a humble table covered in eucalyptus and candles that are only lit when the air conditioner is off so it therefore can no longer blow out the aforementioned candles. Glamorous. But glory, glory I had a beautiful afternoon playing with plants. And I am inspired to be more creative with my few little dollars, because that's all it takes, if that.

failure is as failure does

Do you believe in failure? What do you believe about it?

I've always thought that those people who say they don't believe in failure were just trying to cover up or ignore mistakes they had made. "There's no such thing as failure." Well, really? You sure? Because I could point out where you definitely failed. Please, allow me. 

I saw this quote on an Instagram post today: "Failure is a part of life-not just business. Almost every successful person we admire has experienced some type of failure, but their failure becomes a big part of their future success." So says Jonathan Levine to the Great Discontent. So say I? I might have six months ago, but I'm not so sure anymore, because for the last four months I've been lambasting myself for my failures. Here's the list I've often recited:

1. Depression.

2. Neglecting to seek real treatment for depression.

3. Quitting my first real job because I neglected to seek real treatment for depression and anxiety.

4. Allowing myself to fantasize the idea of suicide. More than once. (Disclaimer: I never attempted anything, but I got damn close.)

5. Thinking I don't need help-from family, friends, professionals.

6. Retreating away from people who would have helped me. Retreating away from God. Indulging Satan's whispers of lies and believing them. 

7. Thinking I could handle everything, every problem by myself.

That's seven failures that really only scratch the surface of what I have recited to myself for months, or even years, on end. But through grace upon endless grace, I can look at that list and feel free of blame. It doesn't have to be a list of failures. It can just be a list. A list of facts, of experiences, of days, of truths. These things will determine a lot of my future, and that's okay. They'll become a part of my future success, even if I find that success after I die.

So no, I don't think I believe in failure. I don't have grand illusions of being a revolutionary with this line of thinking. Edison found 99 ways not to make a lightbulb, right? This is not new, but it is freedom, a daily freedom that I can recite to myself. I didn't fail. There has always been a plan for me and these were all parts of that plan. I don't think I deviated from the Plan of Me, the Plan of Catherine. I deviated from what I thought was the Plan of Me. Failure isn't real. Failure is finding out that you didn't have the current update of the plan. Failure is mistaking future ideas for future guarantees. So in that way I failed, but in the real way, I was just walking towards someone else's future, mistaking it for my own. I've been plucked up by the One who is really in charge and placed back on the trail where I'm being led forward one pace at a time. And that's good enough for me.

Let's Take a Break, From Us

I quit my job three months ago. It was necessary and I'm not looking back with disdain or regret or embarrassment. However, I did promise myself that I wasn't going to use this time to sloth around, as I'm prone to do. I reassured people that I wasn't going to fall and land softly on a pile of Netflix. Of course, it's taking me awhile to type this because I have Friends on in the background. Okay, foreground. But I'm having a change of heart, sort of. I love Netflix. It's been my pal the last few months. Friends, Gilmore Girls, Bob's Burgers, Portlandia, Mad Men. I like those. Netflix has those. But also, those stories don't change. I watch them over and over, which is not inherently bad, but it takes my time away from me, something I covet deeply.

But last week, I had a shift to new stories. I started back up again with the Chronicles of Narnia series and blew through them. I read three of the books in I think as many days. So much to be found there! So many pictures of God there. So many pictures of me there. My doubts, my fears, my sins. Then redemption and lessons of trust and faith, with plenty of humour (it is an English book, after all) and lovable characters to snuggle up with. The value of new stories and classic stories, for the young and the old, is immeasurable to me. The gift of imagination that each book seeps into our fingertips as we hold them is precious. The new worlds or eras we are invited into are perhaps not better or worse than our own, but supremely different and rife with adventure. Books hold more power than do television shows. Not to say that tv and movies and Netflix are not worth something and do not provide great room for engagement and story-telling, but it is no secret that books and stories on pages possess a unique ability to enchant our minds and hearts and take them soaring to new heights of creativity, imagination, intelligence, and adventure. 

So I hope to find more stories. I hope to continue to be engaged in musty pages and clean, crisp ones. I hope to escape to Narnia over and over again and smell the enchanting perfume of the Great Lion's mane and plunge my toes into the soft grass, dance with the dryads, drink and feast with Bacchus, catch a favorable wind setting forth from Cair Paravel, and brush my fingers along every blooming flower and soft pelt and hide of the Talking Animals.


Last week, my dad's mother died. She was ninety on her last birthday and was suffering from a myriad of heart-breaking ailments: dementia, hip replacement after hip replacement, breast cancer that they didn't even try to treat, and finally a stroke, among other things. This last stroke left her unable to swallow, which was a pretty clear indicator of the end for her. I haven't seen her in probably ten years, if not longer. She lived in England, you see, along with the rest of my dad's family. He's the only defector. The last time he saw his mother was 8 years ago, because for too long now, she wouldn't have even recognized him. Her husband has been dead for almost twenty years. I was only four years old when he died, so I have more memories of my grandmother than of my grandfather, but they both are precious to me.

We call them Nanny and YaYa. I couldn't tell you where that came from, but I've always loved it. Those names were always one more fascinating, unique layer to my English heritage, which I take great pride in. Nanny's funeral will be in June. My dad, my sister, and I will be there. My dad will be speaking, like he did at his father's and my mother's funerals. We talked on the phone for a little bit yesterday and I offered to help with the eulogy if he needs, so he charged me with forming some thoughts about dear Nanny from the perspective of me and my sister. So here they are:

She had the most lovely, childlike little giggle. Watching her laugh at my dad's jokes was a delight, as she playfully scolded him, "Oh, Michael," followed by a series of giggles.

I was always intimidated to talk to her on the phone because of her accent. I loved it so much and have always wished I had the same one, but as a child, I was terrified if I didn't understand her she would be disappointed or think me a silly American. I always had Dad right there, listening as well, to translate when the accent became too thick, or the phone connection was bad (hello, 1998), or she used some English slang or jargon that I didn't know.

She seemed so small, but sturdy. She looked like a perfectly pleasant Englishwoman, but one who could hold her own as well.

I'm fascinated by the fact that she lived through the second World War, and the London bombings to boot. The idea that she was one of the children sent out to the country to preserve a generation seemed so romantic and idyllic to me. That is, when focusing on the country and not the war zone left behind. I wish I had heard more of her stories.

I remember going to the big grocery store with her where she bought frozen pizzas for me and my sister, because we were such picky eaters as kids. I remember the smell of those exact pizzas too.

I don't remember it at all, but I know the picture. When she and YaYa pretended to be the king and queen of England for Meredith's (my sister) birthday party, well, I don't think anything could ever outdo that party. 

I remember how she said my mother's name, Laura. It sounded like Looorah, and made my mom seem even more classy than she already was, if possible. 

I remember the way she smelled. She smelled English. I don't know how else to describe it. Old-fashioned, elegant, sturdy, proud. I think she wore Chanel No. 5, but that's not what I remember smelling. I loved her Nanny smell.

When she used to go through every male name in the family until she finally landed on the right one to address who she was talking to, I thought it was endearing. Now I realize it was more of a warning sign. "George, Pete, Malc, ugh, uh, Michael! Michael would you pass me the sugar?"

One time when I was about five or six, probably, I asked a question which my dad answered. I looked at him and said, "I wasn't talking to you, fatbelly." It's a family joke now, my little insensitive attitude, but Nanny and YaYa didn't find it quite as endearing and laughable as most people do when they hear the story. I've always been a little embarrassed about them disapproving of that moment.

I remember her little house in Ipplepen. Drinking tea. Being fascinated by the chairlift on her stairs, and even more fascinated by the fixtures in the bathroom- pull chains on the toilets and showers, what a strange, foreign land.

She didn't like for silverware to be crossed over each other, forming an X. She asked my mom to fix it one time. Superstition, I suppose.

I wish I knew more about her. Maybe I will hear some stories next month, but she is the last of her siblings to die. An entire generation gone. Uncle Pete, Aunt Mol. The many others whose names I remember when prompted, but only then. I'll tell my own children one day about Nanny and Yaya. I'll tell them these things and about England, and one day take them to see those places. I'll take them to the Newton Abbot market day, Broadhempston where my Uncle Malc lives, Portobello Road, the Bloomsbury Park Hotel on Southampton Row in London where we looked out our window onto the pub in the alley and the ballerinas pirouetting (drunkenly, I'm sure), and the little church in Ipplepen where my grandfather, and soon my grandmother, are buried, where my parents were married, and where my sister and I were both christened. I'll show them the kneeling pillow with my name on it. I'll tell them these stories and more that are sure to come. I will make them overly proud of their English heritage. One day, too, I'll be someone's little Nanny who they love dearly and will miss when I'm gone. A little old lady who lived in the old days with stories and stories to tell.

Every time I drink tea, I think of my English family. Every time I drink tea, I'll raise my cup to George and Betty Head, my Yaya and my Nanny.


When I was in high school, I was miserable. I have an older sister who was off at college already while I was doomed to trudge through the hallways, avoid the mean girls, dodge the obnoxious boys, meekly try to get my favorite teachers to like me. It was awful. I truly hated high school. I also hated the place we lived. We moved there right before I entered middle school, a very inopportune time for my dear parents to uproot us with the best of intentions. So I was a depressed, angry, anxious, Gilmore Girls fanatic who just wanted to go to college and find myself like Rory did. Truly, didn't we all? It all came to a head at the start of my senior year when the principal called the class into the auditorium for our big beginning-of-the-year assembly. I remember very little about what he said (sorry). What I do remember is his praise of our school, calling it the Ritz Carlton of high schools (HA okay) and then his big finish:

"These are the best four years of your life! Don't let them go to waste! This is the best time of your life so enjoy this last year and appreciate it."

Or something to that effect. WHAT? I sat in my seat, horrified. All the other faces were beaming, beaming! I was surrounded by buffoons (sorry) who would follow the same path their parents carved out or inherited from their parents: go to the big high school, go to a big state university, then MOVE BACK and live there FOREVER with all the same people they've gone to school with for their entire lives. Now, maybe had I liked the place we lived, that fate wouldn't have induced my most dramatic eye rolls and sounds of disgust. But knowing that system of this weird, wacko Florida town, and coupling it with that speech, my vision for my future seemed all the more in danger. This is it? We've all peaked now? THESE are the BEST four years of my life? Oh dear God.

We shuffled (I shuffled, they skipped) back to our classes and I went back into the photography lab. And those next moments lifted the relief off of me so quickly that I swear had I tried, I could've floated right out of the room. My teacher, more than slightly eccentric but dear to everyone's hearts, had us all sit down and look her in the eye before we got back to work. She told us,

"Don't listen to that man. These do NOT have to be the best years of your life. Do not peak in high school. That does not have to be you."

(Again, or something to that effect.) I mean, I wanted to fall down on my face and worship her. In a sea of settlers, here was this amazing woman telling us to do better. To make better years. To aim higher for our lives, not even just for our education. So I strutted around the rest of that day feeling infinitely superior to everyone else for already wanting to aim higher and to have better years and to move on from high school and and and and... 

I had an amazing college experience, I mean truly remarkable. I could talk to you for hours about how amazing and superior my experience was to anyone else's. Humility is not my strong-suit, as you can probably tell by now. But my last (fifth) year in college was different. Most of my friends had graduated and left, I was ready to be done. Granted my mom had just died, so I was raw and low, so low. My best friend, my saving grace that year especially, was staying for another year too. We had talk upon talk about how it just wasn't the same that year, that we wanted everyone to move back and be friends and live within five minutes of each other and be pals all the time. Is this sounding familiar? I had idolized college and the freedom from that high school and those people for so long but I was doing the exact thing they did then. I thought I had peaked. I thought that nothing would ever be as good as college was. 

So settlement. I genuinely thought I was destined to settle. Ugh, shudders down my spine. I may not have put it in these words until recently, but I neglected my ideas and values because I didn't think I could make anything as good as those years were, so why try? Why put in all the effort just to be disappointed? A lot of layers to this thinking. But then I had to quit my job. I was suicidal. I haven't publicly acknowledged that before now. But I was. I'll spare the details for now, but suddenly I found myself without any purpose. I had to figure out what I wanted to do. I had to determine if I'd go back to design, or just find any job to get by for the rest of my life. Then little creative thoughts entered my mind. I wanted to be a woodworker, a writer, a florist, a painter, a stationery designer. I still want to be all of those things, but realistically I cannot. Talent only goes so far with some things. But, I can be something. I can be something. I can be something. I can make a grand life. I can plan it all out, but chances are those plans are probably in vain-worry not about tomorrow today, for tomorrow has enough problems. Is that how the verse goes? Anyway, I can't determine every step, every turn, every hill, every valley in my future, but I can move forward expecting things to go up. I'm anything but an optimist, so I don't go further blindly thinking nothing will ever go wrong. I have really bad days. Then I have really good days. But what matters is the general upward trend. As soon as that line on the graph starts flat-lining or declining, I'm in trouble, because settlement is dangerous. It halts every ambition and deprives you of hope. And after all, what more do we have than hope?

A handwritten note

It's something I've always loved. Loved to give, loved to receive. Handwritten notes are some of my most precious belongings. Over the past two weeks I had the privilege to be a part of maybe a dozen handwritten notes from sons and daughters to their mothers for Mother's Day. It was one of the most fun projects I've ever undertaken. A good deal of my time for about a week and a half was spent painting little flowers, a pineapple, an Alabama A. Those little cards were sent out, then sent again or hand-delivered with writing inside. Being a facilitator for little pieces of joy like that is a gift to me, now especially. Two years ago on May 7, 2014, my mom died after a long tug-of-war with cancer. I've hated Mother's Day since then. I've avoided talking about it, didn't attend church on that day, sunk back into myself to the little shelter I've built out of grief, depression, anxiety, fear, anger, and the like. It was a safe little place in that there were no emotions that could catch me off guard there. I was miserable, but in control. Acknowledging Mother's Day, wishing the other mothers in my life a happy day, is painful. It always will be. But this year, I got to channel all of that fear, anxiety, depression, anger, and grief into delicate little cards. I couldn't send a note to my mom, but I got to send notes to moms across the country. A lot of them I don't even know, but all of them played a special part in my Mother's Day this year. So I'm thankful for those strangers. I'm thankful that in their honor I got to paint and relish Mother's Day. I'm thankful I got to look at pictures of my mom and smile, knowing how excited she would have been to have gotten one of those cards from me. I'm thankful. And I'm okay.


Adult Barney drinking a martini. Can't tell you how tempted I am to just leave it at that.

So I'm making up for a missed post yesterday and thought about leaving it at the olive color on the left, but took a chance with the Generate button at our trusty hex color code generator and got our lavender color on the right. Green and purple---->dinosaur. Olive---->martini. So I give you the possibly childhood-ruining image of a hardened, boozy singing dinosaur.

*This post sponsored by wine.


Today's color is not too stimulating, which is unfortunate. Immediately I saw... khakis? Since I've already ranted about my Emily Gilmore gardening outfit ambitions, I have to find another route. While some, maybe most, people would reserve this stream of consciousness for their own observation, I would never deprive you, dear reader that may not even exist, of it. But that's mostly because this color is stumping me and I feel the need to produce content so right now my game is putting words on the digital page. So far I'm succeeding, so can you really fault me for that?

UGH so this color. My only other thought is poo. Yes, poo. Although, the root of that thought may be due more to the fact that I changed two poopy diapers today. Babysitting gigs have drawbacks, y'all, but the resulting dollars and hours of toddler cuteness usually don't. 

Since my words are acting more to fill space than actually entertain or communicate, perhaps I should throw in the towel for the day. Thanks for grinding through this color with me. 



Happy Sunday and happy May! I hope it's been an uplifting day for you. If it has or if it hasn't, take a lesson from our friend the Random Hex Color Code Generator for giving us our color of the day which I am calling: Wine-derful? Ugh, my sincerest apologies.

So you can now guess where my mind went with this color. A deep, soulful Merlot. Or Syrah. Or any red wine. That's about the extent of my wine knowledge-a list of red wines. 

My mind is a little sleepy, so I don't have a lot of words for this color, but I have a lot of love for what I'm declaring it stands for. A generous pour of red wine: good for chatting at a wedding reception, good for clinking over dinner, good for sippin  while art-making. (I've had a lil side project going in advance of Mother's Day. Apparently I watercolor.)

So happy Sunday evenin', or whatever day you're reading this evenin'. Pour yourself a glass, generously. That's the family way at my house. Pair it with a bowl of ice cream, like I'm probably about to do. Cheers to you! Nazdravi! etc. etc.


Day twelve! Getting back into the groove of this project feels good. Exploring color feels good. Writing feels good. The past few months have been a time of exploration for me- emotionally, mentally, professionally, existentially, hobbily (of and pertaining to hobbies? I made this up). It's been overwhelming and challenging but diving into this project has helped ground a lot of that fear and given purpose and focus to my wandering mind. 

That being said, let's look at a color!


RGB: 166, 56, 44

This color is earthy and I love it. It's not brown, it's not copper, it's everything. This color is warm, so warm. It's the color of a luscious, maybe roughed up leather sofa that looks like a cowboy with some tales to tell. It's the richness of a hardwood floor, delicately patterned with intricacies and levels. Maybe it's a fall lipstick. It's Georgia red clay's wise grandfather, tilled and churned for generations. This color pulls me out of the delicate aspects of life and into the meaty, grinding, sweaty parts of life. It makes me think of work, real hard work, outside with the sun beating down. It's mud. Dry, gasping dirt that explodes with passion when a stream of water splits it, nourishes it. It's western. It juxtaposes with turquoise and enhances it. This color serves, like the earth, the dirt, the leather, the floor serve.


So it seems I could be further behind than I thought, because honestly I didn't try too hard to figure out how many days I had skipped. So let's call a spade a spade and move on? No idea if that phrase applies here. Today's color IS: #913c76! A purple!

So the first thing that immediately came to mind with this color takes us back in time like Ms. Frizzle's class to just a few years ago when a young Catherine was forced to take an 8am class across campus. Even today as an "adult" I can't make it anywhere on time that early. Forgive my flaws, please. But one particular morning, I believe of my sophomore year, I arose in sudden PANIC! It was 8am on the NOSE and I had a TEST that day! I stumbled quickly out of bed, put on the first pair of shorts I could reach to join my sleepy tshirt, threw on my shoes (probably the NERF shoes, may they rest in peace-another story for another time), and power-walked across campus. THAT'S RIGHT. I did NOT run because I made a deal with myself that I would never be that fool sprinting across the quad at ten minutes past the start of class. Now, most people would take that deal to mean that they would never be late; I took it to mean that I just had too much pride and not enough stamina for that kind of physical activity. So, I came streaming into the classroom under glares from my professor, took my test, was not the latest one to class that day, then headed back to my dorm to take a nap and change for the rest of the day. And that's when I looked down to survey what I had already donned that morning and realized I had been sleeping in a purple tshirt and put on purple shorts. I was a grape power-walking across campus. 

So I call this color: a power-walking grape. a grape with purpose. a grape with a punctuality problem.

2.5/100 Days of Verbal Color

Yeah I'm saying 2.5 because the first color for today was basically black. Given the delicate state of my emotions as a delicate lady, I didn't want to jump down that rabbit hole. Or for those of you that were looking forward to a basically black post, here you go: Black, like my soul. This color represents the darkness that surrounds us, day and night, night and day, day and night. Does that cover it? I'll call that the .5 of 2.5/100.

The actual 02/100: color #5d8c5c

RGB: 93, 140, 92

This is more like it! This is fresh herbs going on top of a pork tenderloin or in a delicious soup. Soft, silky lamb's ear in a bouquet, stroking it over and over, sitting in a field somehow? Did I just write a perfume ad? Regardless, this color is soft, gentle, and embracing.

And for our visual, it also reminds me of this photo I took in LA. Not an exact match, but the idea here is to make connections. This color is green at sundown on the west coast. Also succulents. Just because.

01/100 Days of Verbal Color

I'm going to keep it short and thereby restrain myself from setting the bar too high. 

Hex code: 3ffdff

RGB: 63, 253, 255

This color is roughly the same as the color of my room from age 11 to 18. That period of time is what I usually consider to be the family exile to south Florida for 7 years, but perhaps that's a bit dramatic. I don't really remember why I chose this color for my room. It's not calming. It does seem to have the energy of the beach, or maybe just of anxiety. It almost seems like an optimistic color, which is interesting, considering I was on such the extreme other side of the spectrum emotionally at that time. But it reminds me of innocence and youthful exuberance, at the risk of sounding more mature than I am. But the energy, the brightness, the very essence of this color is like the essence of a child, looking deep into things and seeing potential. Moving between activities with enthusiasm, not drudgery. This color points toward a greater hope maybe.

I think I'll call it: Celadon's Hyped Up Cousin