I love Fall colors in the Midwest. You know what I’m talking about if you’ve ever seen them. It is the autumn palette that grabs you by your lapels and dares you to look away. When you go out for a drive to look at the colors, and everyone does, you round a corner and there they are, as though the heavens had a paintball fight with the horizon. You cannot help yourself. At the very least you allow and ‘ooh’ to escape your lips.
Now I live in the desert. It’s mostly rocks and they are mostly red. As I walked my dog, Dixie, through the property near our home the other day, I reminisced about the colors in the Midwest and how much I missed them. Everything is a trade-off, I rationalized. I just need to accept the fact that I no longer live where…
Whoa! Wait a minute. In my reverie I’d nearly trampled a small, but defiant yellow flower. And not just any yellow flower. This flower was the yellow of a summer sunset. I wish I could tell you its name, but I don’t yet know my wildflowers here.
I raised my eyes, slowly, and panned across the landscape. As though the red-brown curtain had been drawn back, I began to behold color. Delicate greens, some blue-green like a rippling stream. Some mixed with honey, turning them the shade of freshly mowed grass. There were purples, lilacs, ambers, chocolates, cinnamons and expressos. And the shapes were as varied as the colors. Sharp, curved, flowing, abrupt.
The more I saw, the more I wanted to see. Dixie and I walked long that day. We stopped often to peak under bushes, and around the edges of stone outcroppings. We saw gorgeous color. It made me wish I could paint. Soon, I hope, I’ll know the names of these plants, but in the meantime, I’m just going to soak up their gorgeous, subtle shadings.
You really do just need to look.