Grey

Last night was our elementary school’s annual fall festival. I spent all day and into the night setting up, helping out, and taking down. I took pictures for yearbook, took payments for purchases, dodged kids and answered questions. It was a crazy, busy, crowded, exhausting, fun evening. I finally got home, got my kids to bed and then sat down. And reality hit me. I came home to no one. I didn’t have anyone there to hug me and tell me good job. I didn’t have anyone to talk to about the whole day’s successes and frustrations. No one to say, “wow, I’m really exhausted!” to and to have reply, “I bet!” And then I thought about how all the other women I worked with that night went home to their husbands and probably did those very things.

So, this morning I was in a funk. That hasn’t happened too often lately, but it did hard core this morning. My son was sick and stayed home, so I went back to bed after my other two kids went to school. And I really could have stayed there all day pretending that the world didn’t exist. But I knew I shouldn’t. But I really wanted to. Mid-morning I called my mom and told her to tell me to get out of bed. And she actually did, quite firmly. She reminded me that staying in bed was going to do nothing to help me move forward in my life. I will just feel worse. I was kind of okay with that though. But she continued to insist that I get out of bed and so I did.

She continued to direct me. She told me that I needed to be more…I guess purposeful in my days. I needed a detailed schedule of what I am going to do each day to keep me going. And she reminded me that when I am working towards my goal I am in a completely different mood – excited, happy, hopeful – and I needed to keep pushing forward. Then she shared a poem with me that she loves. She has always been a fan of a poet named Edgar Guest. I doubt too many people have heard of him. This is what she shared:

Sunshine and shadow and laughter and tears,
These are forever the paints of the years,
Splashed on the canvas of life day by day,
We are the artists, the colors are they.
We are the painters, the pigments we use
Never we’re wholly permitted to chose.
Grief with its gray tint and joy with its red
Come from life’s tubes to be blended and spread.

Here at the easel, the brushes at hand,
Each for a time is permitted to stand.
White was the canvas when first we began,
Ready to picture the life of a man.
Now we are splashing the pigments about,
Knowing the reds and blues must give out,
Soon we must turn to the dull hues and gray,
Painting the sorrows that darken the way.

Now with the sunshine and now with the shade
Slowly but surely the picture is made.
Even the gray tints with beauty may glow
Recalling the joy of the lost long ago.
Let me not daub it with doubt and despair,
Deeds that are hasty, unkind and unfair,
But when the last bit of pigment is dried
Let me look back at my canvas with pride.

At first, I thought, “well, that’s a nice poem.” But I didn’t process it too much – I was thinking I would rather just go back to bed! As the day went on, however, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I thought about art, an area that I am by no means an expert but can definitely appreciate. The most beautiful paintings have so much detail and have dimension.

Think about a child’s picture. They pick out the beautiful bright colors and draw flowers and trees, animals perhaps. And as cute as they may be, a child’s picture will never be considered a work of art to be hung in a museum. Why is that? There is no depth, no dimension. Children don’t add in shadows and shades of grey. I remember reading a book once, a work of fiction, whose main character worked for an artist. The artist explained that clouds aren’t white. They are all different colors – gray, blue, etc. And at that point she realized how complex and beautiful they were. And creating art like that adds not only depth, it shows detail, adds character, creates beauty and can leave us in awe.

I like how at the end of the poem he says to not “daub it with doubt and despair…” He is telling us that even though these things are hard and we don’t want to go through them and they cause us pain, they add to the beauty of who we are becoming so we can add them to our “canvas” knowing that they add to the picture of our life. If we didn’t have these experiences, we would remain flat, dull and uninspiring. Our character would have no chance to grow.

So, next time you look at a beautiful piece of art, notice the detail. Notice the shadows, the less beautiful colors that enhance the more vivid hues. And then compare that to your own life and the masterpiece you are creating out of all the good and bad, beautiful and ugly, joyful and sorrowful experiences you go through. It kind of makes bad more acceptable when you can see its purpose in a greater work of art. So today I added a little more grey to my picture. Tomorrow I am going to try to pick up one of those brighter paint brushes and work towards my goals for the future.