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I Visited Grey For A Long Weekend

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Chartreuse green.  I used to be obsessed with it.

In my early twenties I painted a whole room full of canvases in shades of it.

I wanted to live in it.  Roll around in it.  Inject my veins with it even.

But I was much younger than.

Now-a-days its grey.  For years its been my sole devotion.

Altars, diaries, long drawn out stories.  Late night paintings.  Even my maternity clothes.

Grey is my religion, my solace, my bff, my maiden name.

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Recently I visited grey for a long weekend.  It resides at Harstine Island in Washington where it skips breakfast while patiently waiting for pilgrims to arrive to gather their sweet medicine.

I was blessed to be invited.  To have sisters standing at the door.

Big hugs and cocktails.  Long dinners.  Lazy naps.  Hiking in the rain.  A fire pit, but no fire.

Goddess cards and burial sites.

A bath that cleansed me from the inside out.

Lavender in all its disguises.

Pumpkin oatmeal. Cuban food.  Roasted red peppers with goat cheese.

I went there with a question that I kept stuffed inside my boot.

And I left there with clarity and bones in my suitcase.

I wish I could tell you more, that I discovered the words to explain.

But the answers that surfaced lack language and form.

Instead they float and drift as an entity.  And grey is the closest I get to defining it correctly.

So pardon me for being so cryptic.

For teasing you with my poetry.

Grey has a way of fooling us.

Tricking us into believing that we’re really awake.

When truthfully, we are all simply dreaming.

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