WINTER BLUES

With the forecast of snow and colder temperatures on the way, I'm getting ready to hibernate for a day or two.  The following piece of non-fiction was a second place winner in a writing contest at the former Wired Monk Bistro in Murrayville, Langley, B.C., Canada in 2005.  It reminds me how much I need colour in winter.

WHAT MATTERS?

               What matters today, here and now, at this hour of 10:20 on an evening in September?  I really don’t know.  I’ve wasted this day, accomplishing so little.  I feel as though I have to force my energies into something productive.  I haven’t even been meditating, so that’s no excuse.  Hour after hour, I’ve just been hiding in my chair that swallows me in folds of sleep and lethargy.  And, of course, I numb my brain, allowing the television to program my thinking for me.  At 5:00 p.m. I’ll think of news.  At 7:00 it’s a game show.  At 8:00 I watch a decorating show, and at 9:00, a drama.  It’s been a good variety of someone else’s thinking, I suppose.  Mine is on hiatus.

               Do I want to write?  I don’t know.  I want to create something, but something more vibrant than black and white on a page.  I really feel the pull of fabrics and colours.  Tablecloths, slipcovers, cushions, quilts are endless possibilities, all in colour and texture.  My senses of sight and touch want to play, too.

               First day of autumn tomorrow and I gather colour around me to stave off the grey of west coast winter.  I’ve seen it advancing this past week, that inescapable wash of grey that shrouds reality dawn to dusk.  Clouds, fog, rain, showers, mist.  They are different shades of grey, but still blur the landscape and barricade all light and colour.  The gunmetal cast of winter is so pervasive, overshadowing everything.  Even the pine and fir and cedar mute to grey when autumn fades.

               In years past I would fight the slate of winter with the arrogance of youth.  Thumbing my nose at the eternal seasons, I would go out and buy a new car, or find a new lover, both guaranteed to shine the sun briefly through the dismal charcoal daytime.  Now knowing the relentless repetition of the seasons, I gather my colours for winter’s hibernation.  I have fabric, and paint, and embroidery floss, and thread, and yarn.  So when the grey descends, I will pull out my colours to light my way until spring.

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By Lisa A. Hatton