How many shades of green do I see in a day at the beach. There is the dark forest of the mangrove, its roots in water, clustered in wet spots along the road.
There is the purplish-green of the sea grape, its leaves catching light, making tunnels of shade as I exit the strand.
There is the striated green of the palmetto, wagging in the wind.
And sometimes, in the morning, there is the green of the sea.
A winter walk is monochromatic, color drained by sun and shadow, leaving only form and contrast behind.
This was evident on my stroll yesterday through D.C., from Metro Center to Chinatown, then down Seventh to the Sculpture Garden, where I watched ice skaters fly by. They were a study in black and white, too.
From there I made my way to the Mall and the Monument, where I finally found color … in the sky. It seemed like an afterthought, though, as if it were crayoned onto an already printed page.
It’s a broad, bare expanse I see when I look out an upstairs window now. Tall, straight trunks sprouting tangles of limbs and branches — all brown or gray or a shade yet unnamed that is their pairing( (bray?).
If it’s a sunny day, add a splash of blue for the sky. If it’s not, then a lighter shade of gray for the firmament.
The eye, in this case, is drawn to the standouts, the few trees yet to lose their leaves. There’s only one of those left in the backyard — a shrub of some indeterminate breed. But what a thrill it is to spy its rich crimson.
“Here I am,” it seems to shout. “All is not lost.”
The late-turning trees are giving us a final burst of color. In the front yard, the Kwanzan cherry has burst into a sunny yellow that matches its spring bloom for brightness and intensity.
In the backyard, the volunteer Japanese maple is outdoing itself: its bright scarlet hue shining in the sun that is just now touching the back fence.
Closer to the house, the black gum’s final leaves flutter like tiny, opalescent flags. Their color is a magnet, drawing the eye. As I look more closely, I see two young upstart black gums right behind the tall one. How is it that I’d never noticed this before, never used the fall color not just as inspiration but as information, another clue to naming names in the natural world?
I walked outside today into a world of green, all shades of green. Dark firs, emerald hedges and verdant lawns, lush and mower-striped. Weeds are greening too, but I chose to ignore them this morning.
The lawn is an English invention, and it rains all the time in England. So said a gardening expert we talked to in early March before purchasing lime and seed. The message was, don’t worry too much about your lawn; it will never look good.
But this year the weather has been English and lawns are greening accordingly. Ah, but it does a soul good to see a lawn stretching from house to street — a greensward, a tribute, an invitation to doff shoes and run through it.
I see the point of a cottage garden, of a wild and natural look. But there’s something about a lawn, too. And there especially seemed to be something about it this brilliant green morning.
Who would think it possible that in this typically dry and dusty time of year we would have such a bounty of green?
On today’s walk I tried to revel in it, appreciate it. I tried to ignore the light rain that was falling even as I ambled.
It’s not the kind of summer I’m used to, but it’s the kind of summer we’ve got.
And so are the August greens.
With apologies to those expecting a more salacious post … this one’s about my wardrobe. It’s about the gray skirts and the gray pants, the gray dress and the gray sweater. It’s about the sweatshirts, all three of them, all gray.
And then there are there are the gray turtlenecks; I have a few of those, too, one dark, one light, one striped and one emblazoned with “U.K.” Dad sent the latter one to Claire in hopes she would go to the University of Kentucky for college. She went to George Mason instead — and I kept the turtleneck.
I like the color gray; it’s soft and neutral, a worthy alternative to black. But I’m starting to feel … a little grayed out. Pinks and purples and fuchsias are looking good these days.
Maybe it’s a midwinter thing, or a midlife thing. … But I could use some color!
While I was gone the azaleas popped and trees reached a critical leafing point. Now when I look out the back windows, I see green.
I didn’t see green at the beach. I saw light blue skies and delicate, cream-colored sea foam. I saw pale brown eel grass dried and husky. I saw the occasional flash of scarlet from cardinals and red-winged blackbirds. But in general the beach palette was decidedly pastel.
Today’s still rain-drenched backyard is anything but. In fact, it’s edging toward primary color intensity. What a nice view to come home to!
A light snow, easily cleared, meant a long walk yesterday — and a chance to contemplate how much better winter looks when it’s wearing white.
There is a time in late November when bleakness is becoming — bare trees, barren fields, a monochromatic palette. A soothing contrast to summer greens and autumn golds.
But by mid-February, bleakness is boring. The eye craves contrast, softness. It looks for shelter, for cover.
In the language of fashion, winter white is that which is worn after Labor Day — creams and oysters and parchments. But in the language of weather, winter white is the mantle only snow can bring. And finally, it’s here.
Yesterday on a walk I spotted chicory, daisy and buttercup growing in a clump beside the road. If I had planned a garden in that spot, those would not be the plants I’d choose. I notice this especially in spring: purples and yellows, pinks and blues. Colors I wouldn’t pair in my wardrobe or on my walls.
The most stunning bouquets are the accidental ones, the ones nature throws together randomly, the seeds floating to earth, bedding down together on a whim, finding beauty in their togetherness.
