Gray

Everything seems gray to me right now. Not black; that communicates a different feeling altogether. For me, although there are many grays I like a great deal, and I have gray clothing I love, and I definitely do not discriminate on the basis of grayness, gray is the color of despair, disappointment, exhausted hopes, misery, and unexpressed anger.

Interesting the different things colors communicate. Pantone, a printing ink company, employs scientists to research what different colors mean to us and what reactions, emotions, and responses they elicit from us. They say that turquoise is associated with healing, for example. Could be - never really thought about it. Thinking about turquoise does, however, give me a sense of well-being.

You would think black would be despair - and maybe it is, but a different kind. It is the death of hope, the death of expectation, the death of maybe next time . . . It is despair in a locked room in which one is trapped. With gray, it is true one is wrapped in it as by a shroud, but should I miraculously muster the energy and find some scissors or just a nail to snag it on and hold it while I rotate it off, I can escape. It soesn't seem likely, and the mere thought of the energy necessary to act makes me want to take a nap, but with gray, not all the doors are locked. There is still life.

The Bratzlaver rebbe, of sainted memory

Usually the yiddish word Rebbe is translated as Grand Rabbi, and in a sense that is right. Either it means teacher, as when a boy in yeshivah talks about his rebbe, or it means Grand Rabbi, a Rabbi whose wisdom and purity and special connection to God have brought him devoted followers who come to his synagogue to pray, who come to his table to learn from him, and who count on him to tell them how to live. One such Rebbe of about two hundred years ago was the Bratzlaver Rebbe, who lived in Bratzlav. Usually when a Rebbe dies, his son or very close male relative becomes the next Rebbe. This did not happen with the Bratzlaver Rebbe, and yet he has followers even today, called by some Toyter Chassidim, "dead" chassidim, because their Rebbe died so long ago.

Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav was an exceptional person. He wrote mysterious, perplexing fairy tales to illuminate spiritual truths. He also seems to have struggled with depression, and this brings me to the reason I am writing about him. A few summers ago, in a period when I was supremely happy and the world seemed to promise so much, I picked up one of the small translations I have of some of his works, and there a phrase struck me powerfully, although I realize to others it may not seem particularly profound. "Do all manner of things to make yourself joyful."

For a Rebbe whose life was lived according to strict, strict rules and regulations, whose every moment was supposed to be a devotion to God, to be concerned that we make ourselves joyful seemed so humane, so full of love, and also, if you listen to the words carefully, full of acknowledgement and compassion that many of us have trouble feeling joyful.

Lately I have wondered, what could he have done to make himself joyful, back in the early 1800s, in a poverty-stricken village? I know he and his chassidim believed in prayer outdoors, walking in the woods and nature, and that is indeed a profound source of joy. I know they sang - and studies today confirm that singing out loud is a way to make oneself happy. They could have spent time with good friends, discussing worthwhile things, and they would even have joked and laughed. They would definitely have found joy in the company of their children. Chassidim also loved dancing, so they would have danced. (And I find satisfaction in thinking that those Chassidim who were artistically-inclined could have created silver ritual objects, or made elaborate papercuts, or painted decorative scenes.) One thing is certain, they did not go out to the mall to shop recreationally (although they would certainly have gone to a macher sefarim - someone who sold books). They didn't turn on a television set or sit, scrolling through the internet. They didn't text inane coded messages to each other, or "tweet," or any of the other superficial, short-cut types of communication so popular now. And I know that the answer to joy lies more in their solutions than in contemporary ideas of what makes one happy, and I hope I can learn from them.

I may have written before about the flashes of profound happiness and contentment I have gotten from the natural world - lilacs unexpectedly blooming in the shadows; a wisteria dripping with color-saturated bloom. I remember thinking when I saw the wisteria - if one has the essentials -why does one need more than this beauty in addition? But the human soul being what it is, our more specifically, my human soul being what it is, I still like to buy things for the visual pleasure and stimulation they afford me. But I do try to walk in my small, rather mangy garden daily for a reminder of the most important things in life, and I think of the Bratzlaver Rebbe with love and admiration, and a tinge of sadness that this great heart and mind should have suffered from such sadness.

Color

I love colors. While I admire the elegantly monochromatic, a really saturated color is what gives me a visceral thrill. I think of this because Twinerik is such an affirmative, appreciative audience for the colorful outfits I put together. Yellows; vibrant pinks; melon, apricot, peach, and all the other fruity shades; turquoise; lavender blues, lime green, jade green, forest green, acqua - they are all so juicy that they make my mouth water. At my dentist's office, the staff make a point of coming in when I have my teeth cleaned (four times a year - anything I can do to avoid less pleasant dental work!) to see what colors I am wearing that day.

I like vibrant colors in the garden, too, although my favorite two roses are pastel pinks - Eden and Heritage. I am not exaggerating when I say looking at a full-blown Heritage bloom against a blue sky is a religious experience to me. There is something so mysterious, so mystical about such beauty existing in the world - in my backyard! But I digress, as usual. This summer I have magenta petunias and geraniums next to orange and yellow marigolds, and I am really enjoying the battle of the colors I also bought a vibrating deep pink rose which blooms and blooms and is such a luscious deep-stained pink, luminous in the sunlight. I bought a lime-green leaved heuchera which is fantastic - a true chartreuse, as a matter of fact, and a bright coral double flowered impatiens. Going into the garden always givs me something to gasp in pleasure about.

Someday when I am more organized, I am going to rearrange and replant the beds for more color, both in flower and foliage. It makes my mouth water in anticipation just to think of it.

Savor Happiness While It Is Yours

Things change so quickly; the world changes so quickly. One day, we are drunk on happiness; the next, sunk into the deepest despair. If there is any way to make the most of your happiness when you encounter it, do. You never know when the rug will be pulled out from underneath you.

And now, for your habitational pleasure, the poetry shed-castle hybrid!

An e-mail from Twinerik the Thought-Provoking indeed provoked some thought, and some PhotoShop skullduggery, on my part last night.

If I were to have a modest castle in my backyard, what would become of my beloved rose-pink Poetry Shed? As I pondered, weak and weary, eyes both red and very bleary, I came up with the solution seen here: castle tower grafted on the poetry shed. Perhaps not the most harmonious architectural marriage ever proposed, but at least that way I would get a little bit of everything . . .

Never fear, I am still working on the project.

Bleary-eyed at 4 am

Last night, I got inspired to make art at an unfortunate hour - 2am. Finally, after painting and stamping and making decorative background papers, I decided that bed was the prudent course of action, but not, of course, until I had learned how to use my cell phone's camera. I took several photos of my cat Orange Boy, and several of myself. Please remember that at this point, it was nearly 4 am, my hair was what someone with an extremely charitable imagination would call tousled, and I had exuberant paint splodges various places on my face, generally not as appearance-enhancing as traditional makeup. I will include a few of these photos tomorrow (I haven't transferred them to my computer. Instead, for now I post this photo of myself with Orange Boy back on February 3, when I had the flu and was playing with my old cell phone's camera. The greenish yellow tinge, sick though I was, is from the camera's reaction to indoor incandescent light, not my complexion!

At long last, blog!

Having received a complaint from one of my loyal readers that I haven't been keeping up with the times, I have hereby resolved to add something - anything! at least three times a week. We'll see how long that noble notion lasts . . .

In the meantime, I continue to struggle with the sheer numbers of nifty doodads I have collected over half a century or so. My defacto sister-in-law, Jan, came over yesterday and we spent 45 productive minutes working on it, which instilled new hope in me.

Jan had gone to the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan over the weekend (yes, folks, she, at least, has a working brain and intellect. Mine have fallen into sad disrepair.) There she saw a show put together by a Japanese artist whose mother was a hoarder and barely had room to move in her little house. He finally persuaded her to let him clean out her house by suggesting he use her collections as the basis for an exhibit. This lofty purpose spoke to the importance of her possessions, so she acquiesced. The Museum of Art set aside a large gallery room in which he simply arranged every single item that had been in her house, along with either a replica of, or the original of, her tiny home. Jan e-mailed me this photo she took.



My stuff would make a great exhibit! I would just prefer to have it in my house, where I can enjoy it. And I would like to be so organized that I would know where to look for any particular type of item, so I could have revolving shows around different themes. Well, onward and upward.

I also include a manipulated photo of my backyard in winter, where I have substituted a castle tower for the rose-colored shed which stands in the back. I have often dreamed of having just a small castle in my backyard, nothing too showy or ostentatious . . .