Yellow
With poetry of the gathering dark
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Catch me on your cusp, Fall. What am I to make of you? You were so benign and cheerful to begin with, bathing your changing colors in lovely, slanting light. Now you gather the clouds and turn down the temperatures.
Darkness is coming, not all of it comfortable.
Yellow
Outside my apartment, I see a wash of yellow where the leaves were many-colored just a few days ago. As reds and oranges fade, I start noticing yellow all around me.
Yellow is a schizoid color. On the one hand, it’s the hue of happiness and comfort, the warmth of the sun and the cuteness of baby chicks.
But yellow has a harsh side. It can be the color of cowardice, of jagged emotions, of journalism gone sour. Bright yellow is used in signs that warn us.
Whatever the connotation, yellow is made to be noticed, clear and bright.
I ventured out, looking for yellow. And I found it everywhere.
Yellow in passing
The wash of yellow As trees lose their color, Good for a week, Then barrenness. Say something trite About passing seasons The frailness of life Yes, autumn is death. While you walk on gold, Streets paved with yellow, Leaves crunch into dust— The black hole of fall. Line your den with fluff and feathers. Branches above, wet with lichen and lore. Flapping wings fade as the geese fly southward A vee in the distance, necks yearning toward warmth. Dead leaves at the waterfall, Rushed down the river. Leaving bare branches And stalwart Doug firs.
Noticing more and more
A tree in the middle distance, one I never noticed before, is glowing with a particular radiance. The patchy sun has picked it and its flaming orange leaves out from the background of green and brown and blue-gray sky.
The sun touches other living things. Passers-by chat amiably. There is no wind for once, so the scene is frozen. Breathe deeply, and the perfection may be marred. I could sit and watch this stasis all day.
Oh, look! There are clouds moving by, so some motion. Of course, the trees are respiring. There must be birds somewhere. Squirrels. More pedestrians.
Back home, the next day, the mist is rising. The morning shrugs off the chill and slips fully into the light. Sunlight is suddenly streaming into my room, pale with coming winter.
I am in love with this view.
I love the obliqueness of the geese’s flight, too. They fight the air currents and glide in formation, fierce in their mission.
And now I have found an image with oblique lines, the lines I love. What’s more, they are in yellow, the color I am celebrating today. More images follow.
The dark is rising
I chose that phrase for November because I had fond memories of a book.
Susan Cooper’s The Dark Is Rising was published in 1973, and it is a children’s book of that era. Gentle, a bit spooky, but not really frightening. Still, Cooper is one of those rare writers who can draw mystery out of the mundane. It’s a good read, even today.
On his eleventh birthday, young Will Stanton, the seventh son of a seventh son, discovers that he is the last of the Old Ones, Druidlike people who are engaged in a centuries-long fight against darkness. Other Old Ones come from the past to help Will prevail.
Will’s birthday is Midwinter Day, that is, the winter solstice, and the story includes warm Yuletide memories of English farm and village life: Christmas baking, yule logs, caroling for the neighbors. It is steeped in the traditions of the Anglican Church, familiar to me, as I was raised an Episcopalian.
Palatable suspense
The dark is there in this novel, lurking, but in an almost oblique way. There are suggestions of evil but nothing truly threatening. Will gathers signs that ward off the dark, and somehow he prevails against it. The dark forces use snow, of all things, as a weapon. Cooper makes the white stuff threatening.
There are four books in the series known as The Dark is Rising. Darkness is fought and vanquished over and over again. But the deepness of evil is suggested more than delineated.
That was then
Since The Dark is Rising there’s been a sea change in children’s lit. Harry Potter changed everything, of course. But there are also fantasy series by authors like Maggie Stiefvater, Margaret Whalen Turner, Cinda Williams China and Ann McCaffrey.
Books that are dark, deep, nuanced, satisfying.
Please, add your own favorites in the comments.
Yet I enjoyed rereading The Dark Is Rising. The large family, the holiday cheer, the brother who plays the flute. It’s all wrapped up in gingerbread.
And Will, the Old One, trained in a twinkling, always knows what to do. It’s a comfort, in cold November.
Plus, the kid has a lovely soprano voice.
Drunk with words
How much do I need this? Writing each day? Words at my beck and call, Mostly my beck. Lined up like soldiers In gold and red tunics. Ready to march. . . . Are all of them men? Muscular words, But feminine, too, Soothing and soft, Jagged and brittle. Heroes are changing, Like women who box. Women fight men now In ways that are new: Check out the TV shows, Watch some new movies. But back to my army Of willing words. A few dozen click past, then An oblique thought muscles in. Here’s how Spirit writes: Words tumble out, easily, Happy and free Till the snag surfaces, The idea that doesn’t fit The word that changes all. I birth these new words, Maybe by breech, The word bomb explodes, Warping the easy image. It’s okay, it’s okay! Ruffle my feathers, Make me uneasy, Rub my fur the wrong way. That makes the static That creates the spark That singes my fingers . . . And the idea takes flight.
Possessions
I wrote a few weeks ago about an abandoned pink purse. Did I want to own that pink purse? That’s a question I could not answer until I touched it, opened it. And I did not get that chance.
Why, how do we acquire things? Why do we hang onto them?
Today I am wearing a sweater I love, a gray cabled number from Old Navy. I found it in a cardboard box in Buckman, our Southeast Portland neighborhood. People do that here, leave things on the street for others to find.
I value it as much as if I had paid full price in a shopping mall. And I would far rather explore city streets than shop in a sterile big-box store.
Shedding
I’ve downsized, twice. Some things I just can’t shake off. Other things I’ve let go that I truly wish I had kept. How do we know? Why are we attached?
Possessions, Buddha knew, are a source of suffering. And yet, the tiny black owl Robert gave me several years ago is something I cherish. It has no use whatsoever except to bring me pleasure.
This week, I ordered another copy of a book I gave away some years ago. Color Style: How to Identify the Colors that Are Right for Your Home is about decorating with color. Each successive color scheme is a more intense version of the same palette. The interiors pass from pastels through strong medium colors to the jewellike tones of saturated pigment. I missed those photographs of rooms.
Library yellow
Here are some photos I took at the Hillsdale Library. More yellow things.
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Buttons
Several hundred people open Becoming every week. Many of you enjoy it. I know this because you tell me so.
But for some unknown reason, few of you “like” my postings, usually fewer than five per issue. This makes me sad—but only a little, as I know you are reading.
There’s a little heart icon, way up at the top of this posting. That’s what you click to indicate you liked what you read.
Many of you also comment on my postings by sending me personal email. That’s a fine idea (my address is fran @ hevanet.com). But you could also spread your approbation around by leaving a comment. I sprinkle comment buttons throughout the posting. Or you could click on the thought balloon icon, again at the top of this posting, to leave a comment.
Of course, I read and appreciate all comments. They help me to know what draws your attention.
But most of all, I’m just grateful that so many of you come back week after week to see what I’ve written.
I love sharing my thoughts with you.
A few final photos
More yellow things.
—30—
Loved this entire post, Fran. What a keen eye you have to noticing the world around you. A very rich life indeed.
I love the final two stanzas of this poem, connecting the cause and effect between life's little irritations with the energy to muster the words to vanquish the tension. Thank you.