Around the time of the Spring Equinox, when the days and nights are equal, I start to feel urges. I look around through my windows and see the beginnings of buds on the trees. I hear birds in the morning, when it had been only sirens or silence. I ventured outside on an unusually warm day for the first time in months, double masked and timid. All I wanted to see were flowers in bloom, but not yet. In a taxi ride through Central Park, there was some green, and the forsythia (a yellow flowering shrub) was starting to bloom. Yes, the cab sped past a clump of daffodils, before I could point and tell my husband, “Look!”
I have no shame in this. I have a deep, compelling urge to see color. I want it everywhere. I have a lot of color in my small apartment, but I want new color! Color connects us to nature. I am stunned into paralysis by the sight of a sweeping cloud of orange tulips, when they suddenly appear at the corner of 72nd and Fifth Avenue, as they do every year. Color calms me. I stare at a small aqua stone, or wear it, when I need to focus and let the noise around me be ignored. But I also want color everywhere else: Post-it notes, pens, book covers, red felt coasters. Everywhere I can place it, color exists.
When I have run out of new color in the things around me, I look elsewhere. I look at other people’s rooms, and their choices of color. What do I love here? Yes, the orange cup and saucer. Absolutely, the teal striped chair, But then, look! The pen holder on the table is holding pens, but it could easily hold colored pencils. The book on the table has text, but it could easily be a sketchbook for drawing.
Now I am lost in a plan for this imaginary room. Sketchbook, watercolor pencils, something in the cup (Good heavens! Some coffee, please!) and cookies. Why sit there, at that beautiful window, in that charming corner, with coffee and no cookies? And there is something else I would change. The backyard would be full of tulips!