The color grey

If you mix all the colors in the spectrum and mix and mix, you get grey! It's like what happens in the bottom of your mineral spirit jar from washing your oil paint brushes. In the beginning it's green or blue or something like that depending on the picture, but in the end, it's gray. It's a rich grey made of colors that loose their identity, but not their character.
So winter has washed my brush and my being.
In spring, I'm pink or yellow: bright happy colors that seek for their soulmates in the flowers and skies. Willing to brave a chilly morning or a cool rain to work, watch or just refresh. My philosophy is that the earth will find a way to grow. I will work with it for fulfillment of us both.
In summer I'm green: tough, thick, persistant. Even when things get dry, I find the water source and keep my color going. The sun gives heat, I grow. The sky give rain, it's okay. I swim and garden and work and worship. I meet the day early with a prayer and remembrance and then I'm ready to tackle it. I know what it's made of and if I am surprised, I find my balance pretty fast.
In the fall, I'm golden, flame, sienna. I am surprised with the strong effort of nature to get my attention. I am ready for what comes even if it means dormancy. The bugs will die. The earth will rest and will come back strong in the spring. I am busy preparing myself and my world to face the cold, the loneliness and yet right over that next hill, around that next bend is the most awe inspiring color I've ever seen and I give myself to its glow.
Winter never truly comes until after the holiday business has dribbled off into forever. The red and green and gold and silver inspire. The lights and presents are accompanied with a little snow, a little cold; yet the heart stays warm. Then the light fades, the purpose wanes. We walk through a grey land, a virtual colorless purgatory. Turn up the music, turn on the lights. Busy yourself with the vestiges of life. Good food. . I'm not really that hungry. I feel cold. I light a fire and sit in it's golden glow. One or two days a week I get out while it's still light, but it's cold and rainy or icy and my heart runs back to the light of the fire. My spirit has turned grey. The individual parts of my life which normally bring brilliant contrast fade to a dull mixture in this sludge. I see a cardinal with its deep winter color flitting in the baren branches. It's a reminder of the past and the future. It's hope. But for now, we endure the grey together and huddle by what fire we can.