THE COLORS OF CHANGE

Why I can’t recall the context of such a life-altering revelation is baffling. I was in my mid-20s, that period of deep exploration of myself and of the world, a time of profound introspection and discovery, now half a lifetime ago. I can still see it in my mind’s eye as if I had physically rendered it—a three dimensional series of floating, concentric discs, stacked horizontally yet not touching, coexisting in space, as if I could leap vertically in slow motion between them and back again, unaffected by gravity. I had been visited by a sudden epiphany, a knowing, that time was not linear, not left-to-right on a timeline as my culture would have me perceive. That feeling of time remains anchored to my core. Still, the tug of the influence of linear time is surprisingly strong, like paddling against the current with the wind at my face; it’s most intense when summer begins its fade to autumn. Once autumn arrives, I do revel in it, but it’s that saying goodbye to what I love most about having such a visceral connection to the earth that I don’t want to let go of. Not just yet.

While my soul knows to live in the cyclical movement of time and seasons, my modern mortal self still has a schedule to abide by. I didn’t even realize its incessant pull on me until talking with a dear friend who is living in perpetual summer. I too, know what that’s like. I, too, once longed for the dreamy depth of cumulous clouds on bluebird southern California days, and longed to catch the first dancing flakes of snow on the hills of the tropical cloud forest. She, too, was born in and has lived that change, but now that she’s been away from it, she’s hungry for it again: those seemingly endless silent, frigid, monochrome days become appetizing again, the ones that provide the contrast that makes these green summer symphonies just so delectable. These are the days that those who have never left can never imagine ever being longed for.

Hopping from one disc to another is cathartic as I prepare for the shift from the lush, melodious, balmy summer to the soon-to-arrive autumn. Fast forwarding myself there in linear time, amidst the crunchy leaves, crisp air, and the impending physical disconnect from the soon-to-be frozen earth, feels like relinquishing the gift of today, like getting out of the water too soon: “I don’t wanna get out!” I want to stay in until I’m covered in goose bumps with pruned fingers and toes. To a fault, I err on the side of making the most of things, not wanting to waste a second or a drop or a crumb, so thinking ahead to my fall obligations in the summer somehow feels insincere, traitorous. But to preserve my sanity later, I know I have to shift gears now. To make it more palatable, I prioritize being present from where I’ve felt the elasticity of time: on and by the water, feeling the current move me, watching the branches sway and the vibrant leaves dance in the breeze that refreshes me under the still-summer sun, feeling the silky smooth, sweet water surround me. The unexpected calculation that summer is indeed not yet over energizes me and moves me to make the necessary plans for the next season: regardless of what the advertisers say about an upcoming federal holiday marking summer’s end, by the moon and the stars, summer is not yet half over.

Revisiting time through these discs makes it feel less like reminiscing or living in the past and more like listening to my once-self. I revisit a time from a place where I had worked for countless hours in front of a screen, tracking and processing seemingly endless details, listening to others’ hopes and overwhelm, suddenly looking at myself looking back at me. While I was the one who had hung my father’s watercolor there, I had never before noticed how it was bearing witness to my now-self. Anyone without context would see a winter hat on a young girl, wrapped in a blanket: “Warm Eyes”, in soft, colorful hues. In reality, I return to a moment my father had captured with his artful eye and hands through his 35mm camera, later printed on a black and white photo. It’s a very fond childhood memory: escaping from the icebox of winter to an indoor hotel pool—in reality not bundled for winter, but gleefully dripping and fresh from the warm water, wrapped in a burnt orange and black paisley beach towel, vintage 70s, one that would go on to last for decades and age into a reliable rag. While that moment is captured in time in the photograph, all those joyful long weekends are preserved through my father’s daring nature to play with time and capture the moment not just as he saw it, but as he felt it. Most importantly, he found something beautiful and chose to share it, chose to take action and translate it from his feeling into the painting now gracing my office wall. Next to it sits the tissue box I’ve grabbed for my students as they’ve reluctantly sobbed through their struggles and uncertainties. As I gaze back at my own eyes, innocent and content from across the room, I realize my younger being is bearing witness to my words and actions, offering silent guidance, a nudge in a better direction. It’s much more effective than guilt or shoulds or supposed tos: that love-filled, artful rendition of myself watching my every move. What would my younger self say through the glass to the woman, mother, professor, writer, I am now?

My place in time and my memories linked to it are timestamped by color:  it marks my place in the present and indicates the passing of time. The black and white photo becomes the watercolor. Green leaves flare to oranges, reds, and yellows. One baby’s blonde hair darkens with age, while the other turns from its golden auburn to teal to black and back again, while our own grays. What a gift to not want these seasons to end, but what a greater gift that the colors of change celebrate life’s continuation. Perhaps this letting go, season by season, helps me on my own journey of letting go of my own once-little ones, as the leaves will surely fall from the trees to float, themselves, on the glassy surface of the pond. Perhaps capturing my warm eyes, in color, has helped my father to do the same.

Photo by Naomi Hutchinson on Unsplash