I am typing this post during what I refer to as gray season in Southeastern Ohio. Gray season is marked by a stretch of several cold, dank weeks that fall at the cusp of spring. Gray dominates this time of year. The soggy ground, my mood and the puffs of cloud that hide the shy sun, share the same dismal shade.
Gray is vast.
Gray is sticky.
Gray is heavy.
Gray permeates through flesh, muscle and bone to coat and weight the soul.
My body aches for warmth.
My eyes and my heart crave…no, they thirst… for color. To smell it. Taste it. Drink it.
To be replenished by the vibrant hues of amber, lavender, emerald and cobalt.
I squint…searching the gray-draped scenery, and the the corners of my mouth rise when I finally spot splashes of color.
I see apricot tail feathers on a bird and hear gold in her tweeted melody.
Green stems capped with mauve buds sprout through the rich, tawny earth.
The dainty scents of turquoise, yellow and pink wisp around me as I am reminded that hope is alive.
Hope is awake.
Hope will conquer the gray.
As weary-making as the gray season can be, I am thankful for its purpose as an agent of transition. My heart rejoices as I embrace gray as an allegory of Christ’s betrayal, death and triumph.
Gray is dark and heavy, but Hope lifts the grime and washes it white.
By Angela Nazworth, Becoming MeLeave a Comment